Chapter 39
39
THE NEXT ADVENTURE
The week sweeps by in a rush of Christmas preparations, work and a now very active group chat between Laura, Niamh and me. We have decided, for definite, that we will go to Amsterdam in the spring and we have already decided on a relatively small budget, and are building our itinerary of things to do and see – including eating a pot brownie. It’s no surprise to any of us that Niamh is already a weed connoisseur. She only smokes occasionally, she says, ‘when the thought of murdering Year 11 becomes increasingly tempting’.
Truth be told, I feel quite reassured to know someone with experience will be with us. If nothing else she will be able to stop me embarrassing the life out of myself by using the wrong terminology and sounding like the sad, drug-na?ve case that I am. Niamh has also been able to educate us on the danger of ‘taking a whitey’ which, from what I can tell, involves over-indulging to the point of needing to boke and possibly thinking you’ve entered a whole new dimension. I’ve assured her I’ll be grand. I’ve not met a brownie that could defeat me yet, but secretly I am nervous about trying something that has felt so illicit for my entire life.
The prospect of the holiday has put a much-needed spring in my step. It has distracted me from waiting to see if Grace will reply to me about my column idea. It feels like I have something tangible to look forward to – and I’ve realised that’s not something I’ve had in a very long time. I haven’t even minded trudging through the rain and sleet to take Daniel on his walks. I feel rejuvenated and not even my GP talking through the less pleasant symptoms of menopause is enough to bring my good mood down.
Both Niamh and I have had blood tests done to check our hormone levels, but given our age and our symptoms, our lovely GP has assured us that the perimenopause is very much upon us. Who knew it’s only official full-blown menopause when your periods actually disappear completely? I certainly didn’t. Just as I didn’t know you have to go a full twelve months without bleeding to be considered out the other side.
We have been given a bunch of leaflets to read – including information on tablets, gels and patches, as well as pessaries to prevent vaginal atrophy, which sounds like it comes straight out of a B movie. Attack of the Vaginal Atrophy wouldn’t look out of place on an illustrated movie poster of a woman running for her life, would it? Of course, when I said this to my doctor she looked at me as if I’m mentally ill, which only goes to prove it was a good call not to tell her about the Mayans and how I’m claiming my inner witch status.
Now though, I’m in my living room with my Christmas lights twinkling and I’m on my fourth cinnamon candle of the season. I’m dressed in a new frock, which Laura and Niamh helped me choose, and I’m feeling kind of into myself. It’s black and cut just low enough to be enticing, but not low enough to risk a wardrobe malfunction. It ticks off everything on my checklist for what I want in a dress. It has sleeves, is made from slinky material – the kind that swooshes around your legs when you spin – and looks amazing with my favourite pair of red boots. It’s not too formal but a step above casual. Teamed with my denim jacket I look age-appropriately hot. There is not a hoodie nor a pair of leggings in sight and my Crocs are tucked under my bed.
Niamh is a dab hand with a curling wand so she has managed to create a lovely tousled beach-wave look in my hair that I have never been able to achieve myself – no matter how many YouTube tutorials I have watched.
In the ten years since I last spent any decent amount of time with Robyn she has become very gifted at applying the kind of make-up usually only seen on celebrity faces at awards ceremonies. My lips are red. I have been contoured to within an inch of my life and my brows are, I’m told by Laura, ‘on fleek’, which garnered a groan of disapproval from my make-up artist.
‘Mu-um,’ Robyn says, ‘I’ve told you before about trying to sound cool! All your phrases are about three years out of date, bruh! You sound like such a try-hard.’
‘A try-hard who pays your pocket money and who is giving you money for that dress you want from Disturbia, bruh !’ Laura mimics back and while the words are different, and the years have passed, I am reminded of the same way Laura and Kitty used to banter in our teenage years. They could be sharp with each other and call each other out on every little thing but there was no doubt that behind it all was love – and buckets of it.
‘You’re a ride, you know,’ Niamh says, grinning at me. ‘You always were but you look more so tonight.’
‘Girls, I agree that Becca looks amazing but if we cannot talk about riding that would be super,’ Laura says, before taking a long sip from her gin and tonic.
‘God, sorry. I forgot what age Robyn is,’ I say.
‘I’m not worried about Robyn,’ Laura laughs. ‘I just don’t want to think about rides or riding when it’s my brother who’s taking you out. No thank you very much!’
I can see her point. I’d have similar feelings about Ruairi.
‘Fair enough,’ Niamh says. ‘Becca, you look beautiful and I’m so very happy to see you taking this step and going out on an actual date. You are far too gorgeous to be hiding from the world and you deserve to be loved…’
‘Awwww!’ Laura says, smiling. ‘That’s lovely!’
‘I wasn’t finished!’ Niamh declares, and as I watch my two longest and best friends existing and laughing in the same room together, I feel a fuzzy warm glow that I really don’t think is coming from the gin and tonic I’ve just downed to settle my nerves.
‘As I was saying,’ Niamh continues, ‘you are far too gorgeous to be hiding from the world and you deserve to be loved, and loved well and often.’
Robyn lets out a peal of laughter as loud and dirty as her mother’s used to be at the same age, while Laura cringes. ‘You’re on a warning, Cassidy!’ she scolds.
Before she can say any more, my doorbell rings and Daniel decides it’s his time to sing the song of his people loudly and ferociously as if warding away evil spirts, and potential love interests.
‘Go get your man,’ Niamh says. ‘We’ll tidy up and lock up here when we’re leaving.’
‘But you will be meeting us for breakfast in the morning to fill us in on all the gossip?’ Laura asks.
‘Unless she’s otherwise engaged,’ Niamh replies with a wink.
‘Girls, pack it in!’ I tell them, my heart beating at twice its usual rate. I’m so glad I put on an extra spray of deodorant as the nervous sweats are already on me. It has been more than twenty years since I have been on a first date. In fact, it’s closer to twenty-five.
It’s been at least a decade since I have been kissed – properly kissed. I can’t allow my brain to think about all the other things I haven’t done in at least a decade because I will freak out entirely if I do.
Kissing is enough to make my knees feel weak and my skin tingle and… what if I’ve forgotten how? What if I do it all wrong? Maybe it’s changed in the last decade?
With shaking hands, I open my front door and see him. Tall, handsome him.
His dark hair, speckled with the occasional grey, is just long enough to fall in soft curls across his forehead. It’s the perfect length of hair for running my fingers through when I pull him close for a kiss, I think before blinking and doing my best to focus on what is happening now and not just what I very much want to happen later.
‘This isn’t at all really weird and awkward,’ Conal says, with a slight grimace and I freeze, wondering if I’m about to get dumped before we’ve even got going. ‘Picking my wee sister’s friend up for a date,’ he continues. ‘Who’d have thought it would happen?’ He smiles and the way his eyes crinkle and how he tilts his head makes me weak with relief and longing.
‘Not weird or awkward at all,’ I say, with the same faux grimace. ‘The big brother who was always telling us to get out from under his feet and to turn our music down.’
‘In fairness, you three had the worst taste in music,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Excuse me, but how very dare you!’ I mock. ‘Every single Take That song was an absolute banger.’
‘The constant replaying of “Deep” by East 17 was something I could’ve lived without though,’ he says, and his eyes meet mine. Who knew this chemistry between us was fizzing away deep under the surface all this time?
‘Will we go?’ he asks before nodding his head towards the currently closed living room door. ‘I know my sister, and probably Niamh too, are in there and most likely listening in to every word…’
‘ Hi, Conal! ’ they call in unison and he rolls his eyes.
‘We’re leaving now,’ I call to my friends and they call their goodbyes back as Conal O’Hagan takes my hand in his and leads me out of my front door and on to my next adventure.
Sixteen-year-old Becki Burnside would be so delighted.