Turning Thirty Page 10

  Unfortunately, when I got home I had another reminder of the old days waiting for me as I came in through the door.

  ‘Is that you, Matthew?’

  My mum was standing at the top of the stairs wearing her nightie, her dressing-gown and an uncompromising frown.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ I replied. My mum knew it was me.

  ‘Where have you been all night? You didn’t say anything to me about staying out all night. You didn’t ring. You didn’t do anything. I can’t believe you would be so inconsiderate.’

  I found myself breathing deeply – always a sign that I’m trying to be patient. My first instinct, of course, was to explain to my mother that at nearly thirty years of age I’d earned the right to come in at six o’clock in the morning, but that wouldn’t have achieved anything. Then it occurred to me that she was right: it had been selfish not to tell her. It wasn’t her fault that she worried about me. She worried about me whether I was in New York or right under her roof.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said, and tried to placate her by heading upstairs to plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re right, I should’ve called you. There’s no excuse. You haven’t been awake all night waiting for me, have you?’

  ‘You must be joking,’ said my mum. ‘I’m just a light sleeper, that’s all. You’d better get off to bed,’ she said. ‘You look absolutely terrible.’

  thirty

  To:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  From:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  Subject:

  Your last several million e-mails . . .

  Dear Matt

  When I logged on at work today I got all of your ‘I miss you’ e-mails and I ended up crying so much I had to go and hide in the ladies’ restroom. You should’ve seen me – my mascara had run so much I looked like a panda. I’m such a wuss.

  love

  Elaine

  PS No more miss yous allowed. Okay?

  To:

  crazedelaine@hotpr.com

  From:

  mattb@c-tec.national.com

  Subject:

  Sorry

  E, I didn’t mean to make you cry.

  I’m sorry.

  Matt xxx

  thirty-one

  ‘Matthew, it’s the phone for you,’ said a voice in my dreams. ‘Matthew, it’s the phone for you,’ it repeated. It wasn’t until the third ‘Matthew, it’s the phone for you,’ and my mum banged on the door that I woke up and realised that indeed there was a phone call for me. I looked at my watch, lying on the floor next to the slippers my mum had bought me which I had no intention of wearing. It was one o’clock in the afternoon.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ I called back to my mum. ‘Get them to call back at a decent hour.’

  ‘I’m not your skivvy, you know,’ said my mum, teasing me. ‘If you will go out until all hours then you get what you deserve.’

  Grappling with a dressing-gown, I groped my way downstairs to the phone in the hall. ‘Who is it?’ I mumbled, picking up the phone while scratching anywhere that itched.

  ‘I’m sorry, Matt, I know it’s a bit early.’

  It was Ginny.

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ I said, concentrating on a patch of hair just below my navel. ‘I was just about to get up and go for a jog anyway. A few laps of the park and I’d have been right as rain.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ She laughed. ‘I’d like to see that.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘At home,’ she said, guiltily.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work or something?’ I said, sitting down on the bottom stair. ‘I know a lot of things have changed about the education system since I was last at school but surely teachers aren’t allowed to stroll into school as late as the kids.’

  ‘I’ve pulled a sickie,’ she admitted. ‘I feel dead guilty but I wouldn’t have been any good to them today, the way I’m feeling.’

  ‘You were flat out when I left and that must’ve been about six.’

  ‘I think I woke up when I heard the sound of the front door. That must have been you going, and I think I even thought about getting up, but I was so comfortable that I must’ve fallen back to sleep. By the time I’d woken up properly at about seven fifteen I just couldn’t be arsed to go in.’

  ‘You art-teacher rebel, you,’ I said. ‘How are Gershwin and Zoë?’

  ‘Fine. Zoë went off to work about seven thirty this morning and Gershwin’s still half asleep on the sofa. Which brings me to my point. Have you seen the sky today? It’s absolutely bloody gorgeous!’

  ‘I haven’t as it happens. It’s pretty hard to see when you’re in bed, under a duvet and the curtains are closed.’

  ‘Never mind all that. Go and take a look out of a window.’

  I partially opened the front door and peered upwards. The sun was bright, the sky near perfect and it looked warm even though it was only January.

  ‘You’re right. It looks like it’s going to be great. Is this what you get for going out with a meteorologist?’

  ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘Listen. Gershwin and I were just talking and as we both appear to have taken the day off, and as you’re not doing whatever it is you’re not doing, and as it’s a nice day – the sort of day that three old friends should spend together – we thought we should do exactly that. Are you in?’

  I looked at my watch again and wondered if I was still tired. I was. Very. But I still found myself saying, ‘Give me time to have a shave and I’ll be raring to go.’

  thirty-two

  ‘Do you know what this reminds me of?’ said Gershwin, passing the bottle of Thunderbird to me.

  ‘The summer we finished our A levels?’ I enquired.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I was thinking exactly the same thing.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Ginny. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’

  By the time I’d got round to Ginny’s a little after two o’clock, she and Gershwin had made a plan for what was left of the day. First, we drove to a Little Chef near Halesowen and partook of a satisfying all-day English breakfast and unlimited toast. Next we stopped at a nearby off-licence to buy a bottle of Thunderbird, for old times’ sake, and finally we drove to the nearby Clent Hills, and armed with jackets and coats we climbed a hill, opened the Thunderbird, lay down on the grass and did nothing but talk and stare at the sky.

  2.52 pm

  ‘Do you know what I was doing this time last year?’

  ‘What?’ asked Ginny.

  ‘I was locked in my office in Manhattan for a month training new recruits. Me, Matt Beckford, from King’s Heath, in Manhattan. I was working from five thirty in the morning until ten o’clock at night. I even cultivated a nice stress-related stomach ulcer into the bargain. And now here I am lying in a park, one year later, with beer, fags, friends. What more does a man need?’

  ‘I’ve often thought about downsizing,’ said Ginny. ‘Y’know, going part-time and doing something interesting with my life. I mean, what use is money if your life’s too busy?’ She stopped suddenly, belched, took another sip of the Thunderbird and passed it to me. ‘That was a big one.’ She giggled, then sighed while gesturing to the air. ‘How did we let all of this drift away?’

  ‘It just happens, doesn’t it?’ said Gershwin. ‘Life gets busy. Priorities change. We have only ourselves to blame, really.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Ginny. ‘We’re mad for letting it happen. We get older and don’t realise what’s happening and it’s only when—’

  ‘—you get to our age—’ I chipped in.

  ‘—that you realise how important stuff like this is,’ said Gershwin.

  3.05 pm

  ‘Until I turned twenty-nine I was quite into the idea of thirty,’ I said, rolling over on to my front. ‘I knew I wasn’t about to start swapping vodka shots for Horlicks and, all right, I started to be as interested in the fluctuations of the interest rate as I was in the football results back home but I
never wanted to be one of those people who are scared of growing older.’ I paused, feeling my mind go off at a tangent. ‘D’you know how some people in their thirties feel exactly like they did when they were twenty-four?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ginny nodded vigorously, as if this was a self-knowledge quiz in a women’s mag. ‘I don’t think I’ve changed since I was about twenty-six. Old enough to feel mature but young enough to still be stupid.’ She laughed. ‘How about you, Gershwin?’

  Gershwin scratched his head vigorously. ‘When Charlotte’s around I feel about thirty-five. I feel like a dad. It’s a nice feeling, though. When she’s not around I could be anything from fourteen to twenty-six.’

  ‘I think I’ve always felt thirty inside,’ I said. ‘I’ve always felt that life takes a bit more effort than I’ve actually got.’

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Ginny to Gershwin. ‘Matt’s always been the old fart of our gang. Judgemental. Inflexible. Mr Dad.’

  ‘Thank you both kindly,’ I said sarcastically. ‘It’s true, though. I am a bit of a dad sometimes.’ I framed a question, then posed it. ‘When did you feel that you were actually a fully fledged grown-up?’

  ‘When Charlotte was born,’ said Gershwin.

  ‘When Mum died,’ said Ginny. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I dunno. I think I’m still waiting.’

  3.23 pm

  ‘When you think about it, thirty’s not a big deal these days, is it?’ said Ginny. ‘It’s like a whole generation got together and decided to delay real life just that little bit longer. These days, you can’t really tell the thirty-year-olds from the twenty-year-olds, except that we’ve usually got more money . . .’

  ‘ . . . and less hair . . .’ I added.

  ‘ . . . and fewer clothes in our wardrobes that we regret buying . . .’ said Gershwin.

  ‘Thirty is just like being twenty, probably more so,’ said Ginny. ‘Forty is the new thirty.’ She nudged me with her elbow. ‘You’ve got another ten years before you really have to worry.’

  ‘By which time hopefully forty will be the new something else,’ I replied.

  ‘Ahhh,’ said Gershwin. ‘But what does that make twentysomethings? The new teenagers?’

  None of us could come up with an answer to that one.

  3.37 pm

  ‘Hands up, who’s got any grey hairs?’ said Ginny.

  Gershwin and I waved our hands in the air.

  ‘I’ve only got one,’ said Gershwin. ‘It’s just by my temple. Zoë was going to pluck it out but I told her not to in the vain hope it might make me look distinguished.’

  ‘I haven’t got any,’ said Ginny. ‘But I’ve been dyeing my hair for so long I have no idea what my real colour is any more. What about you, Matt?’

  ‘Two,’ I revealed reluctantly. ‘One that pops up every now and again on my chest and one that’s . . . well, for the sake of any delicate stomachs round here, let’s just say it’s one that makes its appearance lower down.’

  ‘Lower than your navel?’ said Ginny inquisitively.

  ‘Lower.’

  ‘But higher than, say, your knees?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said dolefully.

  Ginny let out a scream of laughter.

  ‘No,’ said Gershwin incredulously. ‘You’re having me on?’

  ‘I kid you not,’ I replied.

  ‘Can we see it?’ asked Ginny, sniggering wildly. ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘Never,’ I said, trying to maintain my dignity while the others creased up. ‘Never in a million years.’

  3.55 pm

  ‘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.’

  4.02 pm

  ‘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 co
dgers 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.’

  thirty-three

  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.’