The Secret to Falling in Love Page 4

  ‘Old. I will be old!’ I cut in, tightly. Of course I’d already run those calculations myself, though I generally used a six-month figure to actually meet someone. I knew that I’d be old; I just didn’t need reminding, especially by my mother, who was supposed to love me unconditionally and not judge me.

  There was short silence before she continued. She reached her hand across to mine. ‘I’m sorry, love. I just don’t want you to be . . . well, disappointed if you don’t get what you want.’ She softened her tone, the same soft tone she’d used when I was a poorly child. ‘Your dad and I, we’ve had such a wonderful marriage.’ Dad raised his eyebrow in mini protest but ensured that only I saw. I winked back. I knew he was joking, but Mum would’ve held a seven-day grudge if she’d caught him.

  ‘I know. For your information, I actually went on a date on Thursday with a lovely man.’ As soon as I said it I regretted it; I knew that a barrage of questions would ensue.

  ‘Oh that’s wonderful news, love! Tell me what he’s like. Will you be seeing him again?’ She struggled to conceal the eagerness in her voice and even did a mini clap, but this I could deal with, since it was nice that she was actually listening to me. I was just glad she didn’t ask if she needed a new hat for the wedding or if my widowed Uncle Bernard could bring a plus-one.

  ‘He was nice, pleasant enough, but I doubt I’ll see him again. I just thought you’d like to know that I am not avoiding men. I just want to meet the right one for me.’ My skin prickled uncomfortably; I hated having these conversations with my parents, but if divulging details helped to get me through the conversation quicker, then I was all in. Well, nearly all in – certain details were better left private.

  ‘Okay, well that’s good news . . . You know, Jean next door has a son who is just going through a divorce. A nice young man, he is. I’ve not asked Jean why he’s getting a divorce yet, but I’m sure she said something about an affair on his wife’s part. Luckily there are no children involved – break-ups can be so hard for kiddies. No doubt he’ll be looking for female companionship soon.’

  Mum’s attempt at sounding nonchalant failed miserably. Her eyes glowed with eagerness, and my cheeks start to burn; I could feel the warm pink searing through my earlier, largely abandoned, attempt at contouring. The notion that my mother, thinking I was such a hopeless lost cause, felt the need to set me up with her neighbours’ divorcee son was, quite frankly, horrifying.

  ‘Mel, love, don’t you want to open your presents?’ my dad cut in before I had a chance to answer. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if he was being insightful, or if he had just got bored with the din of female gabble; either way I was relieved.

  The boyfriend conversation was soon forgotten – for the moment, at least – as I opened floral gift bags and unwrapped delicate pink tissue paper to reveal some truly wonderful presents. Mum and Dad had booked me a spa day, which couldn’t have come at a better time. My merriment was subdued when my mum handed me a card from my gran. A tear pricked my eyes. ‘You know how organised your gran was. She’d got this in November.’ Mum smiled; tears were pooling in her eyes too.

  I opened the card, and in it was a gift card for Selfridges. She knew me so well. Mum patted my hand.

  ‘She was organised. It’s perfect,’ I said, breathing in hard to stop any stray tears.

  The last gift bag was from Lizzie. Inside was a gorgeous chunky gold Marc Jacobs watch. A warm feeling gushed over me. I felt blessed to have such a generous and caring family.

  As Mum and Dad left, I heard a high-pitched shrill coming from my tablet, indicating someone was trying to Skype me. The sound seemed to be coming from my bedroom; as I dashed in, it grew louder, but I couldn’t find it. I rummaged through drawers and under piles of clothes, the sound and vibration making me feel stressed, until I spotted it, hiding underneath a discarded blouse. Of course – where else? I dashed over and pressed the answer button to connect the call without even noticing who it was.

  ‘Hey, sis, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ Lizzie shouted excitedly. In the background, a chorus of toddlers was also yelling for ‘Anti Lissa’ to have a happy ‘birfday’. It was too loud for me to answer so I animatedly stuck my fingers in my ears in mock-revulsion. The children fell into fits of giggles and then screamed higher and louder until my sister encouraged a more appropriate noise level, presumably through bribery. I giggled.

  Lizzie has two-year-old twin boys and a three- – and a half, because I have to say that – year-old girl, who are all boisterous and scrumptious in equal measure. I didn’t see my sister much as she had a busy family life and ran an eBay shop selling craft items she made between nursery runs and grocery shopping, so we tended to catch up via Skype when we could, which had the added bonus of volume control. The image of a winky emoticon popped into my mind – too much time spent online!

  After twelve minutes and thirty-four seconds of mainly noise, one of the twins announced that he needed a poo, and my sister hastily announced that she had to go, as his warnings were about as useful as a fire alarm is at detecting an oncoming flood. I began to ask her if she could make it into town for a few birthday drinks tonight, but halfway through, everything went silent and I realised I was just shouting at my own face. I half considered calling back or sending a text, but I knew she wouldn’t come out; she never did.

  I decided I might as well spend the afternoon having a good old-fashioned pamper session, with a glass of wine thrown in for good measure. In the corner of my room were some ‘so last season’ (literally) gift bags covered with festive imagery: a jolly red Father Christmas placing a brightly coloured present under a traditionally decorated tree, a silver glittery bag with a gold pop-out tree and another that simply said Joyeux Noël.

  I’d completely forgotten about them but was sure there would be some pamper-worthy smellies in one of them. I rummaged through and unloaded the spoils of Christmas: face masks, scrubs, bath soaks – perfect! A feeling of excitement washed over me as I gathered everything up and headed to my bathroom.

  The quietness of the bathroom and the feel of the soft bubbles completely relaxed me. Laying my head back on the cool surface of the bath, I felt as if I hadn’t a care in the world. Except I had. A huge sinking feeling hit the bottom of my stomach. Mum was right; I did need to start thinking about a future. I wasn’t getting any younger. I lived alone and partied too much, while most of my friends seemed to be settling down, getting married and having babies.

  I had thought that the real toughie in life would have been the career; get that right and everything else would fall into place, I’d thought. I’d gone to university, worked (and played) hard. I’d secured a low-paid admin job at a magazine, and genuinely fought for several years to get to the point where I wrote my own column. After that I’d scored some regular copywriting work for an agency.

  Would I have got that far if I had been distracted by a partner? I doubted it. By the time I’d achieved my goal, I’d been so excited at becoming financially secure I focused on the joys that could bring: my own city-centre apartment, the odd splurge on Mulberry handbags, Jimmy Choo shoes, holidays. I hadn’t even cared about being single.

  A couple of my friends were married in their mid-twenties, and I’d thought why? Why would they settle down when they were still so young? Now they had children and had been married for seven or eight years, and I was there sitting on the proverbial shelf with little more than Selfridges swag and a frown line to show for it.

  It’s not that I was suddenly unhappy being alone; I wasn’t, but I couldn’t help but feel like the clock was starting to tick. Apart from meeting someone through an online dating site, I had no idea how to meet The One – that sounded so cheesy, even in my head – but I’d be damned before I let my mother matchmake.

  I opened my eyes and examined my fingertips. They were all wrinkly, indicating I’d spent long enough in the bath – I definitely didn’t need any more wrinkles.

  Grabbing a towel, I hopped out of the bat
h and headed over to my bed, snatching a notebook and pen on my way. If I really wanted a man in my life, I needed to think about the kind of man I was looking for. I sat down and started to write.

  He must:

  1. Look after himself/take pride in his appearance

  2. Have a good job/be financially secure

  That was a very short list. What more did I want? It was ridiculous; Gavin would have been one hundred per cent perfect for me based on those criteria. There had to be more, something else that I needed in a man. My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. I am popular today! Gemma and Amanda had arrived early. ‘Hello, ladies, come on up,’ I chirped, quickly stashing away my notebook on my bookshelf.

  ‘Hi there, gorgeous birthday girl.’ Amanda walked in and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Happy birthday, beautiful,’ Gemma said and pulled me into a hug.

  ‘Hi, girls, thank you!’

  As they walked to the sofa, I noticed they were already dressed for our night out. Amanda looked fabulous in a tartan swing dress and black tights – it set off her pale skin and long wavy red hair nicely. Gemma always sported the trendiest looks and today was no exception; she looked hot in a risqué black body-con dress teamed with a leather biker jacket and chunky platforms.

  ‘We thought we would make an afternoon of it.’ Amanda grinned as she produced two bottles of pink champagne.

  ‘Ooh! Happy birthday to me indeed.’ I beamed at her.

  ‘I’ll get the glasses.’ Gemma clapped with excitement as she hopped up and headed to the kitchen.

  ‘So, how do you feel about turning thirty-five?’ Amanda asked quietly once Gemma was out of earshot; she too envied Gemma’s youth.

  ‘To be honest, I thought I felt fine, but last night it hit me. Well, last night, plus my bloody mother stating the obvious about me being old and single earlier today. I do feel like time might be running out for the whole nuclear family thing.’

  ‘Wow, that’s a bit of a gloomy proclamation on your birthday,’ Amanda said before softening her tone when she caught sight of my expression. ‘Aww, Mel, don’t feel that way. You’re only as old as you feel. It means nothing nowadays.’

  ‘I know, but deep down I feel like I’ve wasted time a bit, having fun but not actually doing anything, y’know, meaningful, I guess.’

  ‘Don’t you have any champagne flutes?’ Gemma yelled from the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry, no. And I only have one wine glass left so we’re going to have to use mugs.’

  ‘What a heathen!’ she shouted back.

  ‘A mug of champers is the new flute, don’t you know?’ I retorted, and she giggled. ‘In fact, there’s probably an edgy bar in the Northern Quarter serving it that way. It’s the new cocktails-in-jam-jars.’

  Amanda giggled too before switching her attention back to me. ‘Age doesn’t bring class then, hon?’ she joked before her expression became concerned. ‘Seriously though, you’ve achieved loads in your work; we all love you – you’ve got plenty of time to meet someone. People have kids in their mid-forties nowadays.’

  ‘I know, but there’s the whole other issue of age rules. I read that at thirty-five, you’re perceived to be too old for certain things, like piercings. If I want my belly button or nose pierced, the general population would think I was mutton dressed as lamb. And, apparently, I have only five bikini-wearing years left in me.’ I was slightly mocking the research findings, but the thought genuinely depressed me. ‘I mean, can I still shop at Topshop and go clubbing? Or should I be arranging dinner parties after spending a day at the M&S sale?’ My shoulders flopped, and I realised Amanda was grinning. ‘What?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘You’re beautiful, you look as though you never left your twenties, you’re wrinkle-free—’ I scrunched up my nose in disagreement ‘—okay, except when you do that. You have no cellulite, and your hair shines like you’re on a bloody Pantene advert. You can wear and do what you like. Look at Elle Macpherson; she’s over fifty and still looks amazing.’ She cheerfully flung an arm around me and pulled me into a hug. ‘Come on. We’re having fun tonight, celebrating you and your Zimmer frame.’

  Gemma walked in holding three mugs full of pink champagne above her head, pumping her arms to some imaginary beat. Champagne splashed out and landed on her hair. Amanda nudged me and whispered, ‘See, youth is wasted on the young!’

  ‘What are you two old bags whispering about?’ Gemma asked.

  Amanda winked. ‘Just envying your youth.’

  ‘I was just saying how great it was to be seventeen and a half for the second time. I didn’t really appreciate it the first time around as I couldn’t handle my cider, nor could I afford this fab pink champers. Thank you, ladies.’ I smiled, grabbing them both in a big bear hug. ‘Time for a pre-night-out selfie, I think!’

  I stood to the right of Amanda, and Gemma stood on her left. Amanda put her arms around our necks, and I held my phone at arm’s length and snapped a picture of us, our faces squashed together and smiling. I instantly uploaded it to all my social media accounts with the caption ‘Birthday fun’ despite the fact I was still in my dressing gown.

  ***

  The cocktail bar was heaving, busy with groups of mixed-sex friends happily ignoring the other patrons, groups of single-sex friends who were – judging by their actions – aiming to change that fact, and us. I wasn’t sure about us. My mojito was just coming to its sugary end when Amanda appeared with a bottle of wine. ‘Thought we would try this. I’m assured it’s good stuff; 2010 was a good year, or so I’m told.’ The girls had really spoilt me tonight. I was lucky to have such wonderful friends.

  Gemma was busy messaging someone on her phone and didn’t acknowledge the wine, which I thought was a bit rude, and out of character. I wondered if everything was okay.

  ‘Aww, thank you, Amanda,’ I gushed, overcompensating for Gemma’s indifference. As Amanda sat down, stumbling slightly on her heels, Gemma stood and wandered off without saying a word.

  ‘Where’s she going?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘Not sure, toilet probably?’ I guessed. ‘Let’s get cracking on this wine. You brought it just in time.’ I smiled, holding up my empty mojito glass.

  By the time Gemma came back I felt too drunk to ask her where she had been. Instead I pointed at the wine bottle, which had about a quarter of the wine left in. ‘Get a drink,’ I slurred. I looked at my empty glass. ‘It must be very hot in here, as my wine appears to have evaporated!’ There was no way I’d drunk that much.

  I excused myself and staggered into the cramped and clammy ladies’ toilet. I stumbled as the room began to spin. Clutching the sink for stability, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The unflattering neon lights highlighted the dark bags under my eyes and faint lines on the sides of my nose that had secretly etched their way across the bridge without me noticing. My blonde hair looked lank and yellow, but I was too drunk to care.

  As I let go of the sink, the room spun by in a whoosh. It was too much for me. My stomach lurched. I ran into the toilet cubicle just in time to throw up before everything went dark.

  Chapter Four

  Horizontal lines of red and white lights from the passing traffic streaked slowly past the window, distorted by blobs of rain. Every drop made a light thud when it hit the glass. The evening sky had deepened to an inky black; passers-by were warmly wrapped, dashing to escape the wet winter weather.

  Yawning, I’d decided it was time that I too made a move to brave the elements, but I was having motivational issues since that meant leaving the snug and cosy little Piccadilly coffee shop. Staring at my laptop, I realised I’d done very little work, which was what I’d gone there to do in the first place. I was due to get some freelance work over to a client the following morning, which I’d put off in light of my birthday.

  Instead, I’d been distracted by a ‘flash sale’ email and treated myself to a couple of new going out tops, which I’d probably s
end back. I glanced around, looking at the other patrons; a trendy young couple sat opposite one another, engrossed not in each other but by whatever they were independently glaring at on their phones.

  I’d only noticed because I’d been avoiding my own phone, which was excruciatingly difficult but Amanda and Gemma had taken great pleasure in uploading some embarrassing pictures of me onto all kinds of social media after the previous night’s foray into the realms of good wine. It did make me think, though, how lucky the couple sitting nearby were to have each other – yet they didn’t seem to notice or care. I wondered if I’d be like that if I fell in love. I hoped not.

  On the next table sat a handsome man, probably a similar age to me, wearing a dark suit and sporting a head of admirably thick chestnut-brown hair. He was staring intensely at a laptop. His eyes followed every line, his brow furrowing every now and then, and I wondered if I’d looked the same moments earlier scouring half-price clothes.

  The rest of my coffee shop reconnaissance produced similar results: parents talking on their phones with their children pacified by cartoons administered via tablet; lone patrons on laptops or smartphones; friends texting other people whilst ignoring their actual company. It was actually quite astounding, even though I knew I was just as guilty of the same things – the number of times I’d sat with friends failing to acknowledge a word they’d said because I was checking my retweets or likes.

  I wondered what people did before we could take the internet everywhere with us. Maybe I’d been stuck in a rut for so long – observing people through technology, watching happy families develop through the window of social media, focusing so hard on developing my own online profile – that I’d forgotten to focus on my real self. I made a mental note to be more present.

  After a windswept journey home, I collapsed on the sofa and switched on the TV with the intention of having some downtime. Keanu Reeves greeted me in a long black trench coat, gun in each hand, dodging bullets in slow motion. The Matrix; gosh, I’d not seen that film in a while. It was cutting-edge back in the day.