Turning Thirty (14 page)

‘So what does thirty mean to you?' said Ginny, addressing Gershwin.

‘Nothing much,' he said. ‘It means in another ten years I'll be forty, which seems ancient – but at the same time miles away.'

‘Good point,' said Ginny.

‘Same question back to you, Gin,' said Gershwin.

‘What does thirty mean to me? Thirty means feeling smug about the fact that when my mum was my age she had a kid and very briefly a husband. It also means that for the first time in my life I can feel like a woman and act like a girl.'

‘As opposed to?'

‘I dunno . . . feeling like a fake woman and acting like a prat. I still feel like a fake woman but sometimes I feel like a proper woman too. I mean, I'm head of the art department! Me, Ginny Pascoe! Every once in a while when I'm holding a departmental meeting I'm struck by the fact that people are listening to what I've got to say. Then, of course, I feel all self-conscious, but for a second or so, I really do feel like I've made it. That's what thirty means to me.'

Ginny and Gershwin both looked at me expectantly. ‘Come on then, Matt,' said Ginny. ‘Your turn.'

‘I dunno.'

‘Honestly, Matt, you're hopeless,' said Ginny.

‘Okay.' I took a long breath. ‘I'll tell you what thirty means to me. Thirty means only going to the pub if there's somewhere to sit down. Thirty means owning at least one classical CD, even if it's
Now That's What
I
Call Classical Vol 6
. Thirty means calling off the search for the perfect partner because now, after all these years in the wilderness, you've finally found what you've been looking for.' I hesitated. ‘Well, that's the way it was supposed to be, anyway.'

‘Getting older's nothing to be ashamed of,' I said comfortingly. ‘Who cares if the last time you went to a nightclub you had to shove cotton wool in your ears because it was too loud and then had to be taken to the local Accident and Emergency Department to have it surgically removed because you'd shoved it in too far?'

‘You're kidding, right?' said Gershwin, in amazement.

‘I wish I was.' I sighed. ‘Five hours I had to wait, just for some doctor barely out of short trousers to give me a disparaging look and yank it out with a pair of long tweezers. As I explained how it had happened I could see in his face that he was just dying to say, “Leave clubbing to the kids, Grandpa.” Elaine was mortified.'

‘Last winter I found myself in Marks and Spencer's lusting after a pair of the biggest pants you've ever seen,' said Ginny. ‘It was weird. I was surrounded by all these girls barely out of their teens holding up G-strings and thongs so small you needed a microscope to see them properly and there I was lusting longingly after a pair of neckies.'

‘Neckies?'

‘Pants so big they cover your navel.' She grabbed Gershwin's arm in mock shame. ‘My underwear drawer is no longer a personal armoury in the war of seduction. It is now a haven of peace, tranquillity and warmth. I love my big pants. I used to have an underwear drawer so sexy I got palpitations just opening it. Now I have the underwear drawer of a granny. Practical, practical, practical. Come on, Gershwin, tell us something that'll prove you're just as crap as us.'

Gershwin looked at us both nervously. ‘You'll never believe me if I tell you.'

‘Try us,' said Ginny.

‘I've taken up gardening.'

Ginny and I burst out laughing.

‘In case it has escaped your attention, Gershwin,' I began, ‘you haven't got a garden to do any gardening in. You live in a second floor flat.'

‘Shows what you know,' he replied, with mock petulance. ‘There's more to me than meets the eye, you know. I've got an allotment.'

‘Never!' exclaimed Ginny.

‘I kid you not,' said Gershwin. ‘I've had it for about a year and a half now.'

‘You, Gershwin Palmer, have an allotment?' I said incredulously. ‘You can't have an allotment. You're Gershwin.'

‘Still waters run deep,' replied Gershwin sagely.

‘How come you never mentioned it until now?'

‘Because I knew how you'd react. Which is to say exactly like this. It's great down there, really peaceful. I've got a shed for all my tools and I've even got a scarecrow – I made it with Charlotte. I go down there as often as I can. Granted, it's full of old codgers smoking Woodbines, but they're all right, y'know. They're a good laugh and they give me tips about where to get the right fertiliser and stuff.'

At around five o'clock it began to rain and we made our way back to the car. It was at this point that we realised that we were well over the limit and so, being the resourceful people that we are, we locked up Gershwin's car and called for a taxi.

Back in King's Heath, we dropped Ginny off first. She kissed Gershwin's cheek, then she kissed me and got out of the car.

‘Take it easy,' I said, and gave her a little wave.

‘Take it easy yourself,' she replied, and walked away.

That was it.

No promises to meet up in the future.

No promises to call soon.

Not even a promise to keep in touch.

All the way back to King's Heath I'd been wondering how we were going to part, and now that I knew, I was pleased, in an odd sort of way. This way we'd had a fantastic time that had just appeared out of nowhere. This way, with no false promises or clumsy lies, the last twenty-four hours had been one of those chance happenings that life throws your way once in a while to remind you how good things can be. As the taxi-driver pulled away from Ginny's house and headed along the Alcester Road, Gershwin turned to me and asked the question I knew he'd been dying to ask all day: ‘So, do you still fancy her, then, after all this time?'

Did I fancy her? I didn't know. But for Gershwin's benefit I smiled, gave him a knowing nod and said, ‘Maybe.'

Dear Matt

I'm sorry you're sorry. I shouldn't have sent that last e-mail about your last e-mail (????). You know sometimes it's all okay and then sometimes it's not. But I don't want you to be sorry. Okay? I've decided that I need to start going out more. Sara and I are going to some bars after work and are planning a real killer girl's night out and then to top it off we're going dancing! Listen to me, I sound like ‘Desperately Seeking Susan' era Madonna!

love Elaine xxx

Dear Elaine

Just had the maddest twenty-four hours with Gershwin. We bumped into Ginny, an old schoolfriend of ours (who we haven't seen in six years). To cut a long story short Gershwin and I ended up going to Ginny's for an ‘all back to mine' and then next day Gershwin and Ginny bunked off work and we ended up hanging out all day.

Hope you're well,

love

Matt xxx

Dear Matt

Looks like we've both been out on the town. Sara and I went to a bar uptown and had a great time. Sara's kind of semi moved into the apartment. The Sofa from Hell is all hers. She's been having major hassles with Johnny lately so I said she could crash here.

love

Elaine

PS I'm glad you're having a good time with your friends in England.

PPS Wish Gershwin a belated happy birthday for me when you see him next.

PPPS ‘ . . . an old schoolfriend of ours . . . who we haven't seen in six years . . .' Oh, please!!!!! Old high-school girlfriend alert! (Or the UK equivalent.) You are sooooooooo transparent it's quite adorable.

Dear Ms Psychic Hot-line

For your information, Ginny isn't an ex-girlfriend . . . not a proper one anyway. She was more of a friend that's a girl than anything. She has a boyfriend who she's very happy with. Okay?

love

Matt

Dear Matt

I love it when you get all defensive. What was it like seeing her after all this time? I only ask because when I saw one of my old high-school boyfriends, Vance Erdmann, a while back, I was well and truly disgusted with myself! He had the worst mullet haircut I've ever seen. He looked like he should've been a WWF wrestler called ‘The Disaster Zone.' I guess Ginny wasn't that bad if you and Gershwin hung out with her
all
night. Only kidding.

love Elaine

Dear E

It was good to see Ginny after all this time. But all that romance stuff felt like a million years ago. Put it this way, when the thing I had with Ginny was at its height you were fifteen – probably still ‘making out' with Vance whatshisname (who on earth would call their child Vance?!!!!). It's all history. But it's history that makes us who we are . . . which brings me to an idea I've had . . . Seeing Ginny reminded me of the old days when I lived here. Remember I told you there used to be a whole group of us? Well, since I've got time on my hands and nothing better to do with it I think I might look up my old friends Katrina, Bev, Elliot and Pete. I have no idea where they are or what they're up to but I think it would be a laugh to maybe speak to them on the phone or even see them. What do you think? Is this more thirty-people wonky behaviour?

love

Matt xxx

‘Oi, mate!' someone yelled. ‘Over here! Over here!'

‘Man on!' screamed another, at the top of his voice. ‘Man
on
!'

‘On my head!' shouted another, as if his life depended on it. ‘On my head!'

Despite the urgency in their voices, all I could think of in reaction to the verbal hounding of me was:

1) Why on earth did I let Gershwin persuade me to play five-a-side football at half past nine on a Sunday morning?

2) How long until half-time?

3) Oh, no, I think I'm going to vomit.

Gershwin, Tom (of Davina and Tom), Joel (of Christina and Joel), Dom (of Dom and Polly) and I were, apparently, the King's Heath Harriers. They'd been playing together as a team now for two years and were dedicated, if not particularly talented. Usually Neil (of Neil and Sarah) played as well, but he'd been called to the hospital at short notice and had had to cancel, which was why Gershwin had called me at a quarter to eight that morning. I really didn't want to play because the last time I'd tried to exercise – just before August, when Elaine managed to wangle a couple of free weekend passes to a new health club – it had taken me over a week and a half just to stop aching when I breathed in. Gershwin said that if they didn't have enough for a team they'd have to forfeit the match and would effectively lose their shot at winning the league that season. He'd said all of this with such unswerving conviction, as if it really was a matter of life and death, that I'd agreed to do it. How the equivalent of a kick-around in the park had become so serious I wasn't sure. But I soon found out.

The other team, the imaginatively titled Stirchley Wanderers, looked exactly the same as us – a thirty-people team built up of husbands, boyfriends, young fathers and middle managers all throwing themselves recklessly around a sports gym like the last ten years hadn't happened. Actually, Joel (who, it turned out, was only twenty-eight) was quite fit and zippy with the ball. Tom and Gershwin were hard working, if not exactly on tip-top form health and performance wise.

Dom and I, however, were our team's weak point, but even Dom wasn't half as bad as I was. After ten minutes of racing backwards and forwards I thought I was about to pass out through lack of oxygen and throw up from moving around too much. The rest of the team were used to the pace, because although they, too, looked as if they were about an inch and a half away from a coronary, they still managed to play a determined game of football. In the end we lost 2–1 (the Stirchley Wanderers, I suspect, were slightly younger than us) but we did put up a brave fight. And none braver than I, because when the whistle went for full-time, while the others were shaking hands and patting the backs of the Stirchley Wanderers, I was collapsed on the floor in a heap, sweating out of places that I hadn't realised had sweat glands.