Last year had been particularly memorable because, as she was tapping her watch face across the room, an indicator to Mario that she was ready to jump ship, Mr Maxwell suddenly stood very close to her, so close that she could smell his grassy cologne. He breathed down her neck, whispering, ‘Please call me Andrew.’ That was weird in itself, as they weren’t even talking, but what came next was even weirder. ‘Tonight, Bess’ – he paused, as if making sure he had her full attention – ‘you look absolutely fanfuckingtastic!’
Her breath came quickly and her heart raced. She turned to face him, their eyes locking briefly while a smile played about his mouth, his lips parted to reveal his beautiful teeth. He leant closer to her and she thought for one horrific moment that he might kiss her! Right there in the lounge within feet of Mr Draper! When he pulled back, she felt a strange and intoxicating mixture of relief and disappointment.
‘You know Helen and I have an open marriage?’ He was barely audible.
This she did not know and said the first thing that popped into her head, which was, ‘Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose!’ before marching forward to grab Mario by the arm and quickly saying their goodbyes. The strange thing was, no matter that she thought of Mr Maxwell as a pompous dick, there was a power in his wine-scented admission that sent a frisson of something uncomfortably like desire through her very core. She had forgotten what that felt like.
She kept this to herself, of course. She and Mario had walked back to their house, arm in arm and giggling, chiming, ‘Thank God that’s it for another year!’
They had slipped into bed to make love without locking up properly, cleaning their teeth or even making a fuss of Chutney. It had felt illicit, spontaneous and lovely, yet today it seemed an age ago. Once more the lump rose in her throat, as she thought sadly how she and her husband seemed to have slipped off course, left clinging to the wreckage – caring little that they might be heading in different directions and just grateful that their heads were still somehow above water.
‘I was saying, Mrs T – twenty-one again?’ Jim enunciated, staring at her intently, and she wondered how long she had stood in front of him, daydreaming.
‘Yep, something like that.’ She gave a forced smile.
‘Ah, many happy returns. How old are you?’
‘Most people don’t ask that.’
‘Well, I think it’s a lot like singing.’
‘How d’you mean?’ She shook her head, trying to keep up.
‘You know, when you’re a kid you sing loudly and wherever the fancy takes you because singing makes you feel good, opens your lungs, fills your heart, lifts your spirit!’ He leant back, opened his eyes wide and gazed towards the heavens, and just for a minute she thought he might actually burst into song and was overly thankful when he didn’t. His words had reminded her of that exact same feeling, the memory of waking with joy in her breast and energy in her limbs, ready to face the day and happy to be lying next to Mario.
Straightening, he smiled at her.
‘Think about it, Mrs T. You see a baby or a child or a teenager, and you ask, “How old?” We shout from the rooftops, “Happy sixteenth! Happy twenty-first!” We celebrate how many months or years someone has been on the planet, announce it all over social media, write it on banners. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out the age we’re not supposed to ask any more. When does it go from being polite and showing interest and quite rightly a celebration to something shrouded in mystery as you approach the decaying years . . . ?’
‘Fifty-three, Jim,’ she said to cut him short. ‘That age is fifty-three.’
‘Well, blow me down! All this time I have wondered, and you had the answer all along. Fifty-three.’ He shook his head and looked up again, as if she had enlightened him. ‘You don’t look too happy, considering it’s your special day.’
She leant on the doorframe and ogled the envelopes in his hand. ‘You know, I’m not too happy about it. I mean, I get feeling excited when you’re six, if it means cake at school and a party, and when you’re nine, of course, and about to go into double figures, but when you’ve got more years behind you than ahead’ – she pulled a face – ‘what is there to celebrate? Another couple of decades before I start properly losing my marbles, my remaining looks and my continence?’
I’m running out of time . . . I will never have the job of my dreams and take to the air like lucky Daniel . . . Gone is the prospect of great sex with someone who is yet to discover me and who in turn will help me discover myself . . . I’m running out of time to make amends . . . And with each year my kids slip further from my reach . . . falling into the arms of their life partners, who they put before me, and I know that’s how it should be, but I find it hard to be happy about it . . . because it leaves Mario and me on our own.
‘Wow, you’re even starting to make me wonder what’s to celebrate!’ Jim kicked his steel-toe-capped regulation boot under the lip of the step in her porch.
‘The thing is, Jim, everyone tells me that each year is a blessing, and sometimes I agree, but on other days I want to ask why. Why is getting older in an already over-populated world a blessing? Have you been to those old people’s homes? Good God, they are bloody awful! Rows and rows of plastic-covered chairs, crammed with people waiting for death. Wrinkly and stooped, supping on mashed food seasoned with regret. Gratefully drinking tepid milky tea with third-rate TV programmes on too loudly in the background and the smell of urine and lavender in the air – why would I look forward to that?’ She was aware this was probably more analysis than her friendly postman had bargained for, but once she had started it was hard to stop.
‘I don’t . . . I don’t know.’ He let out a deep sigh, seemingly at a loss for a more satisfactory response.
‘No, Jim, I don’t know either. I read once about an artist who, when she felt her life was slipping from brilliant to rubbish, went to live in Florida in an out-of-town community for senior citizens, with a big gate to keep out the riff-raff. She lived in a pink bungalow behind a low fence, and if so much as a bulb blew, a little man in coveralls came along to fix it. Easy living. As if that wasn’t fabulous enough, she drank wine with every meal, including breakfast, and had champagne on Saturday nights and gin on a Sunday. She sat in the sun crisping her skin and swam naked in the communal pool. I mean, I wouldn’t mind getting old if I could be like her and live like that. But the thought of another thirty years in Larkspur Close?’ She looked up and down the cul de sac, which was now coming to life, with curtains being drawn, car engines starting, and bikes being lifted from the back shed. Kids could be heard bickering and at least one dog was barking for its breakfast or commenting on Brexit – it was hard to tell from this distance.
‘Well, I hope she’s happy in her little bungalow,’ Jim said, staring at her. ‘I don’t drink, so . . .’
‘Probably not for you then, Jim.’
‘Probably not.’ He sniffed. ‘D’you know, I felt quite happy until I knocked on your door.’
‘Oh, that’s my particular talent. My daughter calls me the fun-sucker, my husband the joy hoover and apparently I even upset the dog.’ She gave a small laugh to counter the possibility of giving in to the tears gathering at the back of her throat. Bess did not want to be that person who pulled joy from the room.