Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (16 page)

• • •

Sally, wife of Nick of the crinkly eyes, has asked me to meet her for a chat. I suggest the Coffee Cup. This is partly a test
for me, to see if I can resist the raisin toast and butter.

Out of her walking gear, I hardly recognize Sally. Her hair, no longer hidden under a baseball cap, is honey-blond, shoulder-length,
and swingy. She’s wearing tight beige corduroys with a creamy-colored silk shirt tucked in and a funky knee-length embroidered
coat. It’s Sloane meets Boho, and it really works. Mid-forties, I guess, but she could easily pass for thirty-five.

“Gosh, you look great in mufti,” I say.

“You scrub up pretty well yourself,” replies Sally, dropping elegantly into the chair opposite me and crossing her long, tapered
legs. “Have you ordered?”

“Not yet, but I’m just having a coffee. You?”

“I’ll have tea and some of that raisin toast. I hear it’s the best.”

I wince slightly, but when the waitress comes, I hold firm: “One cappuccino, one tea, and one round of raisin toast, please.”

“Look,” says Sally, “I have a meeting at the site at eleven, so shall we get straight down to business?”

“Business? I didn’t know we were going to be talking business, but fire away.”

“First here’s the form for you to fill in.”

Between that first walk on Hampstead Heath and now, a mere two weeks later, I appear to have agreed to go trekking in the
Atlas Mountains in Morocco in late November, sleeping under canvas and with absolutely no possibility of plugging in a hair
dryer.
Plus,
no plumbing for over a week! I have also promised, apparently, to put down a deposit of five hundred pounds and raise at
least two grand in sponsorship money. I can’t recall a moment when I actually agreed to do this, but Nick and Sally are two
of the most persuasive people I’ve ever met. And just thinking about Sally—her courage, her commitment, her grace—fills me
with guilt. I hope I’m going to be up to this and not make an almighty fool of myself.

“Okay, hand it over,” I say.

“We’re going to have such fun,” says Sally. “And think of all that lovely money we’re going to raise.”

I smile back weakly, envisioning myself at the bottom of a ravine having broken practically every bone in my body, waiting
for the emergency helicopters to airlift me to a filthy hospital in downtown Casablanca where I’ll probably die of blood poisoning
caused by unsterilized instruments.

“But now for business.”

“Oh, you mean that wasn’t business?”

“Look, Hope, I know you’re not working at the moment, and I don’t want to twist your arm or anything . . .”
Not much,
I think, wondering if Sally is about to take too much advantage of my guilty conscience. “But I wondered if you might write
a few press releases for us in your spare time.”

“Press releases? I can do press releases with my eyes closed. I’d be delighted to help.”

“. . . and I thought maybe you’d like to join our committee . . .”

I hate committees. In fact, I’ve just resigned from the Neighborhood Watch committee, I hate them—and Vanessa—so much. On
committees, everyone has to pretend to be democratic and agree on everything, but in my experience they’re all petty in-fighters
and fifth columnists.

“I’ve never really been one for committees, but I suppose . . . Yes, of course, in this case it would be an honor.”

“Terrific. And there’s one more thing.”

There can’t be one more thing, this is what’s called seriously taking the mickey. I can’t let myself be manipulated like this.

Sally hesitates. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I was just wondering if you would give me your husband’s work number.
My back is killing me, and I need a physio to look me over.”

Why am I always so suspicious? She’s as good as she looks, and it is uncharitable of me to think otherwise.

“Jack would be delighted to help you, I’m sure.”

“Thanks for everything, Hope. I’m so glad we’ve met.”

“I’m glad to have met you, too.”

J
asmine
is about to be relaunched. Tanya, my former assistant who is now working for Mark, is being admirably discreet, which is
exactly how I would expect her to behave if she were still my secretary. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have thought any less
of her if she’d let slip one
tiny
morsel of gossip by way of demonstrating her loyalty to her old boss. But that’s not Tanya’s way. Fortunately, Megan, my
former deputy, who has been kept on by Mark but is convinced he’s conniving to get rid of her—and who will, in any case, be
off the second a decent opportunity comes along—is my personal fly on the wall, my very own Google news alert. Not everything
I know about Mark is of enormous interest, but I want to know it anyway. For example, I have become aware that Mark is wheat-intolerant
and that his poor little tummy blows up to enormous proportions if he so much as looks at a grain of flour. On the rare occasions
when Mark doesn’t have a four-hour lunch date Tanya has apparently been commissioned to make his sandwiches from a menu of
ingredients that Mark has provided.

I am reliably informed that Mark has split up with the boyfriend who designs wallpapers for Colefax and Fowler, and has started
dating a young Royal College of Art fashion graduate whose degree show was an S&M fantasy entirely in rubber. I also know
that Mark thinks I was a rubbish editor who should have been fired five years earlier. He refers to me as Hope-
less
and laughs helplessly at his audacious originality. Meanwhile, the incredible, exquisite, creative powerhouse that is Mark
has replaced features such as “How to Grab a Little Me-time” with “Eight Ingenious Ways to Fold a Napkin.” “Thirty-minute
Suppers” have been mangled in the waste-disposal unit, to be substituted with “The Return of Elegant Dining—Why Shopbought
Pastry Won’t Do in the Noughties.” “Sex Tip of the Month” (tongue-in-cheek and very funny and, at one stage in my life, even
rather useful) has been dumped in favor of “Out Damn Spot,” which focuses on one especially recalcitrant stain per issue (
very
useful but not exactly entertaining). All the columnists and most of the freelance writers have left—“I want the pictures
to
brrrrrreathe
,” has become, according to Megan, Mark’s favorite phrase. This means there is no room for intelligently written features,
only captions.
Jasmine
’s last cover under the old order featured Kristin Scott Thomas. Mark has decided that all celebrities are chav (he’s probably
right there) and, for the relaunch issue, has gone for a still life of Cath Kidston’s latest aprons and matching biscuit tins.
But aprons and biscuit tins don’t do marriage, divorce, wear shoes you’d kill for, or go into rehab. Which does make me wonder
if there is as much mileage to be had from a Cath Kidston apron as from even the most chav of celebrities. I have to keep
reminding myself that it’s no longer my problem.

I wouldn’t mind seeing a video of the relaunch party. All the waitresses will be wearing Nigella wigs and Nigella padding
if their breasts don’t naturally make the grade. Canapés will be served in cupcake holders. Mark calls this “postmodern irony”
and thinks the advertisers will lap it up. He is wrong. The men who buy space do not know what postmodern irony is, but they
do like large breasts, so Mark may yet be seen to be onto a winner. Instead of making a speech, Mark is going to auction himself
as a prize. The money will go to a monkey sanctuary in Cornwall, and the winner will get to take Mark home, where he will
do a Trinny & Susannah on their interiors. The going-home goody bag is more ironing than irony—a DVD of
Pillow Talk
starring Rock Hudson and Doris Day, a tea towel (Cath Kidston again), a lemon drizzle cake, and a stick of Disappear.

• • •

The atmosphere at home is horrible. Whoever came up with the idea that the family that eats together, stays together, obviously
hasn’t been dining with Hope Lyndhurst-Steele and her jolly brood lately. There are no complaints about the food; in fact,
my culinary imagination knows no bounds since I’ve been unemployed. But once we’ve exhausted talking about the brilliance
of my lentils with the herb, red onion, and mustard dressing, and the sheer deliciousness of my panfried cod in ground almond
batter served on a broad bean puree, the conversation grinds to a halt. This is because there are so many taboo subjects that
even opening one’s mouth other than for the purpose of popping food into it is fraught with danger.

Subjects not up for discussion when Jack, Olly, and I are all present at the table:

Vanessa the Undresser

Revision

Exam timetable

Gap-year arrangements

State of Olly’s room

State of Olly’s wardrobe—i.e., number of socks with holes, number of T-shirts in threads, jackets with no visible fastenings,
buttons, or zips

Recent acquisition of tongue stud (not Olly, Jack)

My next job

My mother—other than to inquire about her health

Who might be the father of Maddy’s baby

What I do all day long

Subjects not up for discussion when Jack and I are alone:

All of the above, plus

Our nonexistent sex life

Why all conversations end in an argument

Life after Olly leaves

Allowable topics:

The war—this is possible only because all three of us agree it never should have happened. But because we all agree, it’s
not much fun as a topic for discussion. Everyone just nods.

Computers—not a bad one, this, as Jack and Olly can exchange companionable glances every time I say something that demonstrates
my profound ignorance of anything remotely technical. A perfect opportunity for ganging up on me.

Football—I don’t even try.

So my sitting here announcing that I fancy going to Paris for a few days—on my own—is the best thing that has happened to
conversation in this household for months. At the moment of saying it, I haven’t even considered it as a serious proposition.
It’s just a vague thought that I’ve aired to try to lighten up the atmosphere. But the second it’s out there in the public
domain, so to speak, it starts to feel real, and I begin to feel excited.

“Cool,” says Olly.

“Great idea,” echoes Jack.

“I can hardly believe it, but apart from work-related trips, when there have always been people to meet up with day and night,
I’ve never been away on my own in my life.” So much for the independent woman.

“It’s not something I’d ever have thought about,” says Jack. “But if that’s the case, it will do you good, and Paris is an
ideal place to start. We wouldn’t want to drop you solo in the middle of the Gobi Desert, or deep inside a rain forest in
South America, but Rue Saint-Honoré, I reckon you can handle.” When Jack smiles, he gets a tiny dimple on his left cheek.
I fell in love with that dimple, among other things.

“How long you going for, Hopey?” This is the first bit of enthusiasm I’ve seen from Olly in relation to me for some time.
Calling me Hopey rather than Mum is what he does when he feels relaxed and well disposed toward me. If I tell him I’ll be
gone for a month, I think he might hug me. I’m tempted.

“Just about three nights, I should think. Unless you’d like me to stay longer.”

I say this with what I hope sounds like good humor, but it could be the cue for an Olly-hates-Hope fest. Instead, Olly looks
at his watch.

“Thanks, Mum, that was delicious. See ya.”

“Just put your plate—” Too late, he’s gone.

Jack seems to genuinely approve of the idea. I suppose it will be a relief to have me and my mean spirits out of the house,
but he has always been generous in the sense of wanting other people to enjoy themselves. By midnight I’ve booked the Eurostar,
phoned a little hotel in the Marais that we wrote up in
Jasmine
, and ordered my
Time Out
guide to Paris on Amazon.

• • •

I pick up the first edition of the new-look
Jasmine
at Waterloo, in the Eurostar terminal. Refusing on principle to buy a copy, I waste five minutes flicking. I nick the free
gift on the cover, which is a stick of Disappear in a chic black container that could easily be mistaken for a Bobbi Brown
lipstick. Other than in name, the magazine is in every respect brand-new. A brand-new throwback to the 1950s. The tagline
“for women who live life to the full” has been replaced with “celebrating the new domesticity.”
Fuck domesticity
, I think,
what about equal pay and maternity rights and part-time jobs for working mothers and supermarket pizza and putting your feet
up and saying, “Sod the housework”?
Who wants a life reduced to reducing sauces? Or to start stenciling one’s husband’s ties rather than buying him one that
already has a perfectly acceptable pattern printed on it? I will not even consider drying pomegranate seeds and fashioning
them into a necklace.

As a final act of defiance, I pick up three copies of
Vogue
and place them on top of the pile of
Jasmine
. So even if there does exist a woman foolish enough to want to buy a magazine with stains on the brain, she won’t be able
to find it at Waterloo.

• • •

I spend the whole of the journey from London to Paris planning my schedule and poring over a map. It’s one of those nifty
gloss-coated origami maps that folds into an oblong no bigger than the surface of a cigarette pack but opens out in different
ways to reveal the various districts of Paris in manageable chunks. Except however many times I practice, I can’t seem to
fold it back the right way. Just as we enter the tunnel, I hurl it at the window in frustration, knocking over the paper cup
in front of me, which splashes hot liquid and a soggy tea bag onto my lap. Bugger! It was wise to have ignored the collective
sneers of Jack and Olly and to have brought with me a wheelie suitcase containing at least eight changes of clothing. As the
train draws into Gare du Nord, I am slightly damp. So are my spirits.