Chapter Twenty-Eight
A pigeon dressed as Henry VIII
Simon is late. He has many, many annoying habits but tardiness is not usually one of them.
I fidget in a teal-coloured armchair which, with wooden arms and legs, is as uncomfortable as it looks.
The whole room – the communal lounge area of the retirement flats in Bristol – is pretty heavy on the teal.
I check the time on my phone again. Thankfully, Alison, the woman who is supposed to be showing us the flat, is late as well.
I look around, nervous about seeing Simon for the first time since the treatment.
I can see that on the five or six tables spread throughout the room are jigsaw puzzles in boxes, and the one nearest to me is called ‘Pigeons of Britain’.
I assume this will be an array of different species of said bird, but leaning to get a better look, it appears to be drawings of pigeons dressed as British icons such as Elton John, David Bowie and Del Boy.
Pretty sure my Gen Z friends wouldn’t be able to identify the latter bird.
Mind you, after my sharp exit from the pub the other night, I’m not sure they’re exactly my friends.
Although Zoe did message me saying that Aimee thought I was ‘so real’.
Is that good or bad? I am starting to feel like I don’t get this generation at all. And yet I’m now one of them…
The other thing that’s been preying on my mind is Kofi.
I’ve even been wondering if I should tell Simon about it, but that’s probably just due to a lack of options since my friends are not really there for me right now, and besides, I think we’ll have enough to talk about.
But I feel so stupid for letting what happened with Owen hang over me for so long, and for not even knowing that Kofi and I were about to break up anyway.
Maybe I’m not as good as I thought at reading people.
That quiz on the Glowgetter website that said I was ninety-six per cent emotionally intelligent was probably made up in about fifteen minutes by those twenty-five-year-olds I used to avoid in the magazine offices.
It’s really hot in here. July has marked its arrival with a three-week heatwave, and it feels like this room wasn’t designed for temperatures above eighteen degrees.
I, however, am very much designed for warm weather.
It’s so much easier to look cool – and feel cool – when you are young.
All I had to do was throw on a floral mini dress and sandals (Positano Core) this morning.
The old me, clutching one of those handheld fans and with make-up sliding down my face, would have probably melted into a pool of perimenopause and SPF50 on the floor by now.
I look at my phone again. The #whereswulty memes are still going strong.
Some people even think they’ve worked out where I live (they haven’t) and are planning a ‘rescue’.
And I’ve now hit 200K followers, passing @LuxeLooksWithLily at last. Yuvana will be delighted.
I must chase them up; I don’t think my last payment came through…
I scroll to Cassia’s account – I see she’s pretty grey on top now.
Her Stories show pics of her in Space NK fawning over Lisa Eldridge (although let’s be fair, who wouldn’t?).
Then there’s one of the #whereswulty meme, with a big sticker above it of the watching eyes emoji with the pupils moving from side to side.
Someone clearly isn’t happy with my follower count.
The door opens and some residents come in.
They’re all women, five of them, in their eighties I suppose, and deep in conversation.
Suddenly one of them lets out a hoot of laughter, and the others all join in.
Now they can’t stop laughing, and the more each one laughs, the more the others do.
One of them, wearing a sundress and a lilac shawl around her shoulders, looks like she’s going to fall off her chair, which has the other women howling even more.
I smile – it’s contagious. They look over and smile back.
I feel like I’m part of a heart-warming clip on YouTube – something about how brilliant it is to grow old with your best friends. Which would be brilliant but…
Oh wait, here he is. Through the door comes Simon, and (I was prepared for this) he doesn’t recognise me. Just as he is about to go back out, I stand up and call out his name, and he turns. Okay. Here we go. Now I do feel hot.
‘Simon. It’s me.’
He looks blank.
‘It’s me, Erica. Look, I know I look different but bear with me… I’ll explain.’ I’m more prepared now for these interactions, after what happened with Josie and Nandy – and Gabe.
He slowly walks towards me, and I shake off the strange pang I felt for a second when I thought about Gabe. Probably just a reaction to what happened with Kai.
‘Come and sit down,’ I say, pulling out one of the uncomfortable teal chairs. Thankfully, there’s still no sign of Alison (slightly unprofessional if you ask me), so it looks like we have a minute or two.
Simon, still silent, plonks himself in the chair, and I sit back down across the table from him. He looks at the ‘Pigeons of Britain’ jigsaw, and appears fixated on a pigeon dressed as Henry VIII. A confusing image indeed, but I would have thought that my appearance was more so.
I carry on regardless. ‘Simon, listen. I’ve had a new hi-tech beauty treatment, in the form of an implant in my brain.
It works by sending tiny nanobots to “restore the factory settings” of the stem cells that control the ageing process.
So, I appear to be twenty years younger than when you last saw me.
’ I feel quite pleased with how clear that sounds, and even more pleased that he didn’t interrupt.
He looks up from the jigsaw and stares at my face. I wait for the ridicule, judgement or annoyance or whatever it is Simon has for me today.
He continues to stare, then his mouth slowly changes shape. It’s forming a… what? Is that a smile?
‘That’s… that’s…’ He reaches out his hand and pokes my shoulder, as if he is testing to see if I am real. ‘…Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.’ By now his face is a broad grin of joyous amazement.
‘Okay…’ I am completely thrown.
He slumps back in his chair, shaking his head and laughing. ‘Nanobots. Bloody amazing nanobots. They’re everywhere, aren’t they? Just silently working behind the scenes, making everyone’s life better!’
‘Erm… are they?’
‘Of course they are Erica!’
‘Right…’ I have no idea what’s going on.
‘This is wonderful for you. I’m so pleased. If I had a drink, Erica, I’d be toasting…’ He holds up an imaginary glass in his hand. ‘Nanotechnology!’
It’s not until twenty minutes later, when Alison (who presumably thinks I am Simon’s daughter, but doesn’t ask) is showing us the walk-in shower in the flat (‘it has a very low threshold’), that the penny drops.
Mushrooms.
I shoot a glance at Simon as he nods enthusiastic approval at a grab rail on the bathroom wall. To someone who doesn’t know him, he appears completely normal. To me, he seems happier, more animated, less angry than usual. More… likeable, in fact.
Once the tour is finished, Simon and I go outside and sit on a bench. There are lawns with criss-cross paths and terracotta pots with plants in. It’s roasting in the sun and a couple of butterflies are busy on some lavender in a pot next to our bench. I think Mother Pells would really like it here.
I can’t think of a time when Simon and I have sat down together, just the two of us. But we are doing it now.
‘That it would always be summer!’ says Simon, leaning back and closing his eyes, the sun on his face.
‘Have you been taking mushrooms?’ I ask, watching him.
‘What makes you think that?’ he says, not looking at me.
‘Something I saw on your Facebook.’
‘Ah… social media. The great hive mind!’ He sits up, points to a bee and laughs. ‘It’s psilocybin, Erica. Very small quantities, microdosing – I have it in chocolate. It’s been a revelation. I’m just trying to get the amounts right. But I am indeed part of the “shroom boom”, as it’s called.’
‘Well – it seems to be working for you, Simon. You look happier.’
‘You don’t,’ he replies.
And there it is – I knew I couldn’t have a whole conversation with Simon without him being irritating.
I change the subject, and we talk about Mother Pells, and the flat, and when we should bring her to see it. I tell him I haven’t shown her my new appearance yet, and he says, ‘it’ll be fine’.
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘What d’you mean?’ he asks.
‘I mean that she thinks everything you do is brilliant. Me, not so much. It was the same with Dad, although slightly less so. You must have noticed.’
‘No, I hadn’t actually. She always sounds really proud when I hear her talking about you. Showing everyone her fancy skin creams and telling everyone you’re a top beauty writer.’
How weird. And there was me thinking the extent of her interest was procuring free lip balm. ‘Wonder why she never says anything like that to me?’
‘Different generation, Erica. They don’t like people getting “too big for their boots”. She never says anything particularly complimentary to me either…’
We sit in silence for a few minutes watching some birds on a feeder.
‘Simon,’ I say, eventually. ‘Do you remember that holiday on the Norfolk Broads when we were kids? When those ducks got on top of the boat and you fed them your Ringos?’
‘Yes! I haven’t thought about that for years.’
We’re both quiet again, then Simon says, ‘They looked after us, didn’t they? That’s why it’s time to return the favour.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
‘You should. They put down the deposit on your house. And remember when Mum bought all those horrible bracelets after you had that jewellery party nobody came to?’
I don’t say anything. I can’t.