Chapter Twenty
Nothing grows there anymore
Party dress appropriate for an eightieth birthday: CHECK.
Clean Girl make-up: CHECK. Blue Ikea bag containing carefully wrapped presents for Mother Pells, including the Lakeland heated poncho (plus a couple of freebies for Auntie Viv and Alannah): CHECK.
I am nothing if not prepared with peace offerings and distractions, and determined that this reveal will go well, or at least better than the others.
As I set off, a dusting of snow on the pavements makes me immediately regret my kitten heels, although I have it on authority (Grace magazine) that they are – were – the ‘It’ Shoes Of The Winter!
It’s only a twenty-minute walk to the house, but I normally do it with either trainers or FitFlops on, carrying not very much, and today I’m beginning to feel I didn’t think this through.
However, there isn’t really an alternative, as there are never many Ubers on a Sunday here and I’m not using the local cab company again after Josie told me what happened with Weird Steve and the wheelie bin.
And I can’t ask Josie if I can borrow her Kia because, well, things are still a little strained, plus I don’t want to drive as I’m going to need all the Dutch courage/room temperature Chardonnay I can get my hands on when I finally show my new appearance to my family.
My phone pings, so I take a welcome break in a gateway, resting the bag of presents on a wall for a minute to read the message. It’s Keith.
When are you coming out of hiding, duckie?
I’m not hiding…
Well, I haven’t seen you for weeks.
Assuming you heard I have a new look?
Josie told me, yes.
Well, it’s not going down that well.
I heard that too.
Who from? Josie?
Never you mind. The point is, Erica, I’m your friend, which means I’m here for you, whatever misguided choices you might have made.
Thanks a lot.
That was a joke.
I’m on my way to my mum’s right now. It’s a family party.
Have they seen the new you?
No. Anyway, have to go.
I don’t need this right now. Snow is seeping into my kitten heels so I put my phone away and pick the Ikea bag up.
It’s really coming down now. Snow when it’s nearly March is the worst kind because a) it’s decidedly un-festive (remember the Beast from the East?
If that had been at Christmas it would have been called something much more fun, like ‘Santa’s Snowstorm’) and b) nobody dresses appropriately for it as everyone by this point is thinking about their Coquette Core spring wardrobe. Or maybe that’s just me.
After another couple of streets, I can see Mother Pells’ house in the distance: a cream-coloured detached bungalow at the far end of the cul-de-sac, backed by a field with a stream.
It has an immaculate gravel drive and a trellis next to the front door that Father Pells put up when they moved in.
It used to have a honeysuckle climbing up it, but nothing grows there anymore.
I slow down as I get closer, which is partly to do with my increasingly numb feet, and partly due to my concerns about the reception I’ll receive.
I’ve run over the plan in my head a few times – keep it light, make it part of the celebrations, don’t let anyone get bogged down with details (i.e.
being unrecognisable/looking barely older than my own nephews).
They’ll know it’s me once I start talking and get the presents out, and after a G&T and some blinis everyone will either be really impressed (unlikely, but you never know) or be asking Simon about his wind turbine to change the subject.
But as the gravel driveway comes into view, and I can see the outline of Eartha, my mum’s cat, keeping watch at one of the windows, I wonder if this is the right thing to do.
Why didn’t I double bag the presents? You should always double bag, Josie says.
But I didn’t, and now they are covered in snow and the wrapping paper is going soggy.
I’m close enough now to see Auntie Viv in the front room, laughing and hugging one of the boys.
Is that Sam? He’s really grown. And there’s Mum with a plate of something – probably those little salmon mousse bite things that are swallowed as quickly as a paracetamol.
She’s passing one to Uncle Tony. They’re probably all wondering where I’ve got to…
‘Hello dear! Are you lost?’ I look up to see my mum’s neighbour Dinah, dressed as though she works on the railways in a high visibility waterproof jacket and trousers, and carrying a large shovel.
Dinah is slightly scary and refers to the local council as the ‘Clowncil’.
Before I can reply, she continues, ‘Clear it as it falls – that’s the key!
You never know when you might need to get the car out to go to the hospital. ’
What has she got planned, I wonder, watching her scrape the driveway, making a sound with the shovel that’s like nails on a blackboard but worse, and louder.
‘So, dear, are you looking for someone? That’s Sally Pells’ house.’
Of course, Dinah doesn’t recognise me. I was forgetting for a second, preoccupied with the mushy presents.
‘Um… no. I’m…’
‘She’s got the family over today for her eightieth. Much needed. So…’ She looks up from the shovelling, brushes snow from her eyes and gives me a look that says, ‘Off you pop.’
I look at her, then at the house. Much needed?
Maybe I – at least in my current form – am not.
Maybe they won’t be as impressed as I’m hoping.
Maybe after what happened with Father Pells, they’ll be suspicious of the technology – unnecessarily of course, as it’s worked its magic with no ill effects at all.
And then I think about what happened with Nandy, Josie and Gabe, and wonder if they will be as shocked as them, or as judgy.
The blizzard whirls, Dinah turns back to her shovelling, and I make my decision, reversing up the cul-de-sac, slipping and sliding as I walk faster. This whole thing has been a total waste of time – I thought I had psyched myself up for it but I’m not ready to face them all.
‘Bye, dear!’ shouts Dinah after me.
I mutter ‘bye’ over my shoulder in reply.
It feels like an even longer walk the other way. After a few minutes, I stop under a tree and message Mother Pells.
Hi Mum, sorry, not feeling well so won’t make it today. Happy birthday, x
I wait for the ticks to turn blue but they don’t. She hasn’t seen it.
I walk on. Just a couple of streets to go. I’ve already slipped twice, but thankfully didn’t completely fall over. I did at one point grab a fence though, which means my hand is now covered in a mix of snow and a weird green slimy stuff which I want to call algae but probably isn’t.
It’s a complete white-out now and I’m struggling to even walk straight. A car slows down alongside me. It’s Josie, windscreen wipers going at a pace. The window winds down, tipping snow onto the road.
‘Erica!’
‘Oh… hi Josie.’
‘Get in! You can’t be out in this!’
I peer into the car and see Hélo?se in the back. ‘Erm… I thought… you didn’t want me to…’
‘Oh, just get in.’ She sounds uncharacteristically impatient.
I am becoming a snowman in kitten heels so obey her, opening the door and plonking myself down in the passenger’s seat, bringing a whirling cloud of snowflakes into the car with me.
Once the door is shut, it seems very quiet.
‘I’ll have to wait here a minute for this to pass, I can’t see a thing,’ says Josie.
‘Okay.’
‘Why do you look so different Erica?’ says Hélo?se from the back seat.
‘I had a hi-tech beauty treatment,’ I reply.
There’s a pause.
‘The snow is spectangular,’ she says.
‘That’s not really a word, cherie,’ says Josie, who looks tense.
‘I know,’ says Hélo?se.
Another pause. I don’t say anything, and pretend to be preoccupied with brushing snow off my coat.
‘I don’t think you want to be young again, Erica.’
‘Don’t you?’ I say. Children are so annoying.
‘No. I think you don’t want to be old.’
I stay quiet.
‘Why not?’ Hélo?se keeps going.
‘Why not what?’
‘Why don’t you want to be old? I thought everyone would want to be old. Doesn’t that mean you’ve had a long life?’
Josie, who’s pretending to adjust the windscreen wipers, looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
My phone pings. It’s Simon.
Not impressed, Erica.
Oh great. Someone else who’s not happy with me. Honestly, you try to do something to make a positive change in your life, and what do you get? Grief from all sides. What’s the point?
‘I got you this.’ Hélo?se is persisting. She passes a small paper bag through the seats to me. Inside is a fridge magnet with a literary quote on it. I look at it but it doesn’t really make sense.
‘It’s from a book,’ she says. ‘Mum said you would like it.’
‘I do, Hélo?se. Thank you.’
‘The bag smells of parsnips.’
I sniff the bag, which doesn’t at all. ‘It does a bit,’ I say.
Josie turns the car engine back on and slowly drives the three streets to ours. I get out, thank her and hurry inside.
I dump the Ikea bag and kick off my shoes.
What a waste of time. This was supposed to be fun.
‘Make the most of it,’ Merlyn said. But what is there to make the most of, exactly?
Being young was better when I was… young.
This is just stressful. I might have a jowl-free face and a neck like Billie Eilish but what’s the point when everyone’s annoyed about it?
Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out my phone and tap numbly, then put it to my bright red ear.
‘Merlyn? It’s Erica. Have you got a minute?’
A week to the day later, and I’m standing on Devon’s balcony, looking out over London.
Below the orangey-pink glow of the sunrise, I can see the Shard, at least I think it is…
and further along, is that Canary Wharf?
I can’t really make it out, and also have a terrible sense of direction.
Who cares though – it looks bloody amazing.
It’s chilly but I’m wrapped in one of Devon’s expensive blankets.
I sit down on a stripy deckchair with my coffee – next to me on a small table is a wine glass with the remains of some red in it.
The yeasty smell reminds me of when I was a child and my parents had dinner parties with their aerospace colleagues.
In the morning, I’d examine the wreckage: cigars in ashtrays, glasses with the melted remains of Scotch on the Rocks, empty Babycham bottles… How debauched it all seemed.
My wreckage is just a single wine glass and a saucer with some bits of Stilton and cracker crumbs on it.
Lying next to them, a little worse for having been left outside all night, is Luscious magazine.
On the cover, behind the big (not punny enough) headline, is me, smiling and sparkling against the blue background.
I reach over, careful not to spill my coffee, and touch the image of my face.
Then I turn to my phone and open Instagram.
The WULT? Woman account has 12K followers already.
My phone pings.
Hope you’re feeling better. Love Mum. x
I feel a brief pang of guilt for lying about being ill.
Very brief though, because well, I’m away from all that crap now.
I could probably pass for twenty-five, I’m living in an amazing duplex flat in one of the coolest areas of London.
I’ve escaped, and I’m ready to start my new life. Maybe this is how Carol’s rabbit felt…