Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect (12 page)

I ‘pull in’ for a while – rather like you would in a car, into a lay-by – I let everyone else rush past me; I look at my phone and study the tube app, so that I know exactly which line to head for. 

Circle Line (Eastbound) to Liverpool Street.  23 minutes, 9 stations, No changes
.  I’ve read this at least three times on the train already, but I want to be absolutely sure.  Yes, Eastbound, not Westbound.  I set off again and follow the signs to the Circle Line.

Miraculously, my Oyster card works; I could’ve checked it on one of their machines first, but decide to live dangerously.  Down the escalators, I stand to the left and let others go down quickly, while I study all the adverts, designed to make me feel even more an alien in a foreign land.

Following the signs to
Eastbound,
I go through onto the platform.  The rush of hot, stale air hits me in the lungs, as I watch the back end of a train disappear.  The maps on the walls indicate that I’ve at least come to the right place and indeed, Liverpool Street is on this line.  Two minutes till the next train – it’s incredible the frequency of the tubes.  You’re lucky if you can get to Cheltenham and back in a day on public transport, back home. 

The platform’s full of people – I notice how many are plugged into their phones.  What are they all listening to?  It’s as if everyone is blocking out the reality of their lives with loud rock music or soothing classical music (or maybe they just have their headphones in, to stop people like me talking to them?)  A lot of people are reading Kindles too, so their ears and eyes are occupied with something other than the thankless task of getting from A to B.

The train approaches with new stale air and we all surge forward to the white line which is designed to keep us back.  Crowds disembark and we all push forward.  I manage to get a seat, by studiously ignoring all old ladies and nursing mothers and put my case by my side.

The train pulls out and the rush and rattle soothes me as I look around me.  The girl opposite me gets out a mirror and proceeds to put on her make up.  How can you do that in a tube, with everyone watching?  Mind you, she’s beautiful, dark-skinned, with huge eyes; if I looked like that, I suppose I wouldn’t mind people watching me enhance my already stunning features.  I’m mesmerised by her and have to avert my eyes, before she thinks I’m weird.

I study the map above her head and count off the stations we stop at.  All these names that are so familiar … Baker Street, Great Portland Street … Barbican … Moorgate.  You have to be pretty stupid these days to miss your stop, as the recording keeps saying
The next stop is …
but for someone like me and foreign tourists, it’s reassuringly repetitive.

Suddenly, we’re at Liverpool Street and I struggle to get up and out, before the doors snap shut.  I stand on the platform looking for the Exit signs.  I’m meeting Holly at the Information Desk on the main concourse at 1 o’clock; I’ve made it in good time – ten minutes early.

When I get to the right place, I hang around, pretending not to be waiting, for fear of coming over as some elderly hooker looking for business.  I watch the mayhem around me and think my life in leafy Stowchester is incredibly dull.  Everyone here looks like they’re going somewhere exciting, doing important things and simply being more dynamic than me.

At last, I see Holly’s familiar face in a crowd of people coming down the escalators from outside the station.  I’m so relieved to see her, I feel quite emotional as she flings her arms round my neck and squeezes me hard.  Holly always cheers me up, just by being
her
.

“Well, I've made it!” I say, stating the obvious.

“Yes, you have Mum.  How was it?  The train, I mean?  Find the right tube okay?”

“Fine!  That app's a godsend.”

“I know – I've just discovered another one, called Citymapper which tells you all the possible options – it even shows you when the bus is coming and where the bus stop is.”

“Soon, you won't have to
think
at all.  There’ll be an app for that!”

Holly guffaws loudly and says, “Nice one, Mum … come on, let’s go.  Let me grab your case and we’ll head straight to the pub, for something to eat.  Then back to the flat for a quick relax, before going out to ‘War Horse’.  I can’t wait to see it.”

We spend a couple of hours in a trendy pub that seems more like a restaurant; the food is presented in such a way that it makes me feel ‘cutting-edge’ simply for eating it.  I choose a salad – baked avocado, nestling on a bed of rocket and baby spinach, with feta, roasted pine nuts, oven baked beetroot, pomegranate seeds and grilled lemon.  It’s all piled high, with a drizzle of this and that around it, served with a chewy brown, seeded roll.  It’s Masterchef meets gourmet pub grub – I can almost hear that woman presenter’s dulcet tones describing it and see John Torode’s mouth, opening to taste it.

How can a salad be so delicious?  It makes my attempt to eat healthily seem somewhat pathetic – at home, I fling together a tasteless tomato, some limp lettuce leaves, a few cucumber slices and a radish, with a slice of slimy ham, and call it a salad.  I vow to be more adventurous in the future, as I sink my third gin and tonic.

Being with Holly is always so much fun; I begin to feel more like a thirty year old, as we giggle through lunch, people-watching and gossiping.  I manage to persuade myself
not
to think of David and the fact that I’m on my own; I’m fed up of him entering my thoughts and refuse to let him in.  Holly has a theory that people make their own luck in life and that positive things happen, if you think positively.

“Honestly, Mum, it’s really true … this is just a small example, but it works.  Yesterday, I woke up late and realised I was going to be really late for work, unless a miracle happened.  So, I put out positive thoughts to the universe and instead of missing my bus, it was waiting for me and all the lights were green and when I got to the office, my boss was late herself, so didn’t even know about my tardy arrival.  So, all you’ve got to do is
think positive
about your situation and something good will happen.  I’ve already started on your behalf – every morning when I wake up, I think of you on a cloud of single happiness – I’m getting definite good vibes about your future.”

“That’s really sweet of you, Holly.  I’m glad someone has something good to say about me … I haven’t got past the dazed and confused stage yet.  I’m trying not to think too much about the future at all.  Your father and his paramour tend to stand on the sidelines in my imagination and laugh at me …”

“Don’t be daft, they’re too busy being ‘in love’ to laugh at you.  You’ve got to forget them, and think about yourself now.”

“I know … I do think I’ve come to a conclusion – I
will
hand in my notice at the beginning of term.  And I
will
email Jane when I get home tomorrow and ask about visiting her next year.  There … positive thoughts!  Did I tell you I got a message from Adam?”

“No – what did my wonderful brother say, then?”

“Well … not too much to be honest, but they’re staying in some amazing house, surfing, going out a lot and …”

“What?”

“Well, he ended the message by saying he hasn’t got time to write as he’s too busy drinking, taking drugs and having sex.”

“Ah … brilliant.  And I suppose you thought that was a double bluff and you’re now worried sick?”

“Yes …”

“Mum, don’t be ridiculous.  Do you honestly think if he was doing any of those things that he’d actually tell you in an email?”

“Yea, I suppose you’re right …”

“I
know
I’m right.  For all his faults, Adam can be quite sensible when he puts his mind to it, you know.  Jake’s the more likely one to do something stupid …”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  Come on, let’s get out of here and go and have a nice cup of tea back at the flat.”

We walk companionably along the streets of Shoreditch, past expensive shops and ultra-modern coffee shops.

Her flatmate is away for the weekend and so I have the use of her bedroom.  She isn’t the tidiest of people, Rosie – her clothes are strewn everywhere, there are piles of books on the floor, make-up is scattered on most surfaces and empty wine bottles line up by the waste paper basket, but it’s nice of her to lend me her room and to be honest, it makes me feel young again, as if I’m a student again.

No … no David memories, please.

*

‘War Horse’ turned out to be one of the best theatrical experiences either of us have ever had.  I never dreamt that puppets could be so hypnotic and entrancing; we were both mesmerised by them and the story they told.  It was all I could do to stop myself blubbering loudly at the end and Holly and I left our seats, clutching each other, eyes shining, trying to pull ourselves together, before we went out into the light of the theatre entrance and the real world.  We stopped at a bar on the way home and finished the evening off with some Prosecco, while reliving the previous two hours’ entertainment.  

When she walked me back to Liverpool Street the following day, I felt as if I’d put a wedge between me and my ‘other life’.  The weekend served to show me that I could venture out into the big wide world and enjoy myself … on my own.  I didn’t need a man to complete me; I was quite capable of enjoying another female’s company and tasting the London life, on my own.  Australia, at this stage, was a far-distant adventure, but I was beginning to think I could do it.

I was going to heed my daughter’s advice and think positive thoughts.  I’d loved David for nearly thirty-five years, but he had chosen to love someone else and I had to deal with that, whether I liked it or not. 

Is love, simply a state of mind
?
  David could have chosen to ignore the feelings he had for Suzie and decide to stay in love with me … but for some reason, which I can’t as yet understand, he chose to act on them. 

Maybe, in time, I’ll understand, but in the meantime, I choose to be positive.  We’ve got one life and if I choose to be miserable, I will be. 

I’m going to choose happiness.  Retire … move house … visit Australia.  That’s the plan.  Onward and upward.

Chapter Eleven

Gaz regards me with a certain amount of hurt, when I pick him up from the kennels.  He manages to convey his disgust – he curls up in a tight ball in his bed and ignores me all evening.  I try to tempt him out with a biscuit; he eats it, but with a look on his face as if to say,
I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not working
… and goes back to bed.

I decide to take action regarding Australia and, sitting on the sofa with my laptop and the television keeping me company gently in the background, I start an email to Jane. 

We were always close as children, with only two years between us; Jane was my ‘little sister’ and we did everything together.  We started drifting apart when I went to uni and then she went to art school; she’d always been talented with anything creative – I used to envy her ability to produce something out of nothing.  She got in with a group of artistic people who seemed outrageously bohemian to me and I was intimidated by her, and her friends – I didn’t have anything interesting to say to them.  I think Jane thought my choice of career was the ultimate in dreariness; I can always remember her saying to me, “But do you want to spend your life telling other people what to do?  Don’t you want to do it yourself?”  But the trouble with me was, I couldn’t work out what
it
was – what was that
thing
that I wanted to do?

So, I went down in her eyes and she went off, living her creative life, with her creative friends, leaving me feeling diminished by her ‘vision’.  She married Marcus, a graphic designer; he was very successful, ambitiously changing jobs every few years and she became a self-employed illustrator of children’s books.  They visited some friends in Australia one holiday and fell in love with the lifestyle; they just upped and left England, a year later.  He walked straight into a fantastic job in Sydney and she was snapped up by an ad agency.  Of course, we kept in touch, but over the years, we lost interest in each other; our lives were so different.  I know the fact that they never had any children was a huge issue for them both and even though we were no longer close, I felt sorry for her; I couldn’t imagine life without my two.

Now that there’s Facebook and FaceTime, it’s easier to keep up to date with each other.  They’ve moved to Adelaide – I see pictures of them on boats and on beaches; Marcus looks as if he’s put on a lot of weight, but Jane looks amazing – it’s as if she’s found the secret eternal youth.  Her girl-like figure is tanned and sinewy, unlike my more matronly one.

We only FaceTime at Christmas and on birthdays, so I start the email with trepidation – I haven't even told her my news yet.  There’s part of me that feels guilty for burdening her with my problems, but another part feels if she was in the same situation, I would want to help
her
– so I press on.