Chapter Twenty The Sprinkler
I’ve been playing back my encounter with Alan over and over again. Did I look confident or cocky? Did I look like a woman who wanted her ex back or one who’d moved on completely? Should I have invited him to join us and been friendlier? Who knows? It’s done now, but I know that not even meeting the girls for practice will distract me enough to forget about it.
Anyway, off to Patty’s. As I drive up to her house, I’m astonished to see she’s cleared her garage out to form our rehearsal ‘studio’. It’s huge, has a concrete floor to absorb the dancing and is far enough away from anyone to risk disturbing the spring birdsong. It’s also freezing cold, so I don’t care how much I’m mocked today, this cardigan does not come off.
Patty’s hubby died four years ago of cancer. He was diagnosed in the January and gone by summer. He was older than Patty but you wouldn’t know it — jogging, tennis, golf — he did it all. Larger than life, people used to say. That’s probably why the gap he left was so huge. Patty and Nige would feed off each other constantly — like Morecambe and Wise or Ginger and Fred.
Patty hasn’t touched this place since then. She moved into the spare room and time stood still in the rest of the colossal house. So, clearing out the garage is quite a big step for her and I’ve also noticed that she’s moved his old stereo equipment out of the den.
‘You set this up yourself?’ I ask, nodding at the stereo.
‘The sound system?’ she says.
(Blimey, it’s not just a garage and a CD player, we have a studio and a sound system now.)
‘I moved it but got the lads next door to show me where all the cables went. I’m convinced cable sockets are taught to boys in secret school lessons.’
‘Along with advanced TV programming and leaving clothes on the bathroom floor,’ I add.
I don’t know when it happened but at some point in Alan’s affair, he started picking up after himself. Every morning for the past twenty years, I’d find last night’s undies discarded on the bathroom floor. Then suddenly, there was nothing. At first I thought he must finally be taking notice of my nagging, but later I realized that he was tidying them up himself because they were new. Otherwise, it would stand out too much. Stupidly he thought he could still bury them in the washing basket and I wouldn’t notice them there.
It’s funny the things that really anger you when you find out your husband has been unfaithful.
He took her to dinner — that was annoying.
He slept with her — that was hurtful.
He bought new underwear to impress her — quite frankly astounding.
He left me to wash his FILTHY WHORING PANTS — INFURIATING.
Remembering this puts all thoughts of being nice to him out of my head.
Come on, let’s rehearse.
* * *
Blimey, they’re good. Sheila and Kath can sing and Patty has real stage presence — she’s funny without being ridiculous.
I’ve been trying out the classic 1980s dance moves. Moonwalking is far too hard and the Robot is for men who really don’t have any rhythm, but there are a couple I can suggest.
‘This one’s called the Cabbage Patch.’ I do the move — circling my rib cage in one direction and arms in the other. I get a round of applause from the girls.
‘And this one’s the Electric Slide,’ I say. Stepping from side to side and dipping forward – I feel a lot less rhythmic now than when I was practising in front of the mirror. I soon stop and move on to another.
‘The Clone made famous by Molly Ringwald, a classic 1980s combination,’ I continue, getting into the moves.
‘From The Breakfast Club. I know this one,’ says Kath as she joins in.
We’re all gasping for breath as I reach the finale.
‘And of course, finally, the one and only, Flashdance.’
Patty flicks on the music and the rehearsal becomes a free-for-all. The title track belts out and Irene Cara-style moves are attempted randomly and badly. No one tries the knee slide on the concrete floor but we’re all exhausted by the end of the track.
‘Someone should put together an eighties aerobics class, it would be brilliant,’ suggests Sheila.
‘As long as it’s in the upstairs room of a pub, I’m knackered.’ Patty is a lovely shade of pink. ‘Energy drink anyone?’
I hadn’t realized that a large Chardonnay counted as an energy drink, but it must be true as it certainly perks all of us up.
As I get older and try new experiences, I like to think I am gathering wisdom to pass on to my dearest daughter. The first lesson I must bestow is that one should not drink wine in the afternoon before any food. (I think I knew this but must have been testing it out.)
The second lesson is that attempting The Sprinkler (it’s a real dance move — honestly) after said copious amount of wine can only lead to trouble. I will probably have a scab on my knee from falling over. How awful, getting a scab on your knee at the age of fifty-three.
My dearest daughter is already far wiser than me.