Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word (35 page)

“Like . . .”

“Like ‘Oh, I bumped into Jack yesterday, and we had a bite for lunch’ or ‘I’m going to have an early supper with Jack to talk
about some of the alternative therapies we’re thinking of offering at the center.’ The more she insists on telling me, the
more I think it might be a smokescreen. But up here in the mountains, in this incredible place, it doesn’t seem to matter.
Nothing does.”

“That’s what I love about this place, too. I’ve spent so much of the year going over the mistakes I’ve made, and worrying
about the ones I’m about to make, that this feeling of being in the here and now is totally liberating.”

“Hope, you do know that you’re quite a special person, don’t you? You’re always so down on yourself, which, considering how
talented and funny and attractive—”

“You’re only saying that because I look so sexy in my thermals and my woolly hat and because my miner’s lamp is the last word
in chic,” I interrupt before he can finish. There’s a kind of longing in Nick’s tone that I can’t deal with right now. “Now,
would you mind shutting up while I contemplate the wonders of the universe.” I shift my head into a more comfortable position.

“Here, you take this for a moment,” says Nick, raising himself up again and moving the pillow to a position where I can lie
back against it.

“But what about you?” I lower my head and snuggle still farther down into my sleeping bag.

“Sshh, I’m on the case,” whispers Nick. In the next instant he has rolled onto his side and half on top of me. His hands are
cupping my face, and his lips are on mine before I’m even aware of what’s happening. I’m straitjacketed inside my bag, my
arms effectively pinned to my sides. The only thing I can move is my head, and I attempt to shake it vigorously, like a dog
with itchy ears. As I try to get my lips away from his and Nick refuses to give up, our noses rub together as though we’re
overexcited Eskimos.

“No, Nick, no,” I splutter as loud as I dare. “Have you gone mad?”

“I can’t help it, Hope,” he says, drawing back a couple of inches from my face, looking at me with an intensity that shocks
me. “Aren’t you feeling it, too?”

“If you mean the cold, yes. But this isn’t a sensible way to warm up. Just how drunk are you?”

“I didn’t mean the cold, and I’m not drunk at all,” says Nick forlornly, rolling off me and onto his back. “Shit!” Without
my pillow as a buffer, Nick’s head has hit something stony.

“Nick, are you all right? You’d better not be bleeding.” It’s my turn to roll onto my side, releasing an arm from my sleeping
bag so I can prop myself up on my elbow, head on hand.

Nick runs his hand across the back of his head. “Doesn’t feel wet. No blood. So I guess I’ll survive. Hurts like hell, though.”

“What came over you? Aren’t our lives complicated enough already?”

“I’m an oaf. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not an oaf, and don’t be sorry, just don’t do it again.”

“I guess that up here under the stars, anything seems possible. Ever since I saved you from falling flat on your face on Hampstead
Heath, you’ve been featuring in my fantasies. What happened just happened. It wasn’t premeditated. If I hadn’t needed a piss,
I’d never have known you were out here.”

I stifle a laugh. “Oh, Nick, you are so adorable. In other circumstances, I know I could fancy you, too. And I’m grateful
for the fact that you fancy me. But I simply won’t allow myself to have sexual feelings for you. You’ve become a friend, and
I want it to stay that way. In any case, how can I possibly feature in your fantasies looking like this?”

Nick isn’t playing along with my taking it lightly. “Sally and I haven’t slept together since Cat died,” he announces. It’s
a statement delivered deadpan, without emotion.

“Since Cat died!” I’m shocked. “That’s six years, isn’t it? I knew she wouldn’t have another child. But are you telling me
that in six years you haven’t once made love?”

“Not once.”

“But that’s horrible for you. For both of you, I suspect.”

“Exactly. And you’re the first person I’ve tried to—”

“In six years? That’s the kind of loyalty that deserves a medal.”

“To be honest, I know my marriage to Sally is over. And a bit of me even wants her to be having an affair with Jack, since
it would give me the excuse to leave. But that would hurt you, and I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I had no idea. You seem so connected, so committed.”

“Committed to Cat’s Place, yes. But without that, there’d be nothing. Nothing at all.”

“And if you separate?”

“Cat’s Place will still happen. It’s always been more Sally’s baby than mine, and if she didn’t want me to be involved, we
could always find someone else to look after the business side. We’ve fulfilled our unspoken bargain, and now seems the right
time to part.”

“I’m so sorry, Nick, but I’m really not your answer.”

“I think you could be.”

“You’re going to have to take my word for it. What I’d really like to do is put my head on your chest again.”

“Be my guest. But no funny business, I promise. The brandy’s making me sleepy.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you think we should go back to our tents?”

They’re the last words I hear Nick say before I fall asleep.

When Sally emerges from our tent at six-thirty a.m., her first sight is of the two of us lying on the ground together, fast
asleep, rolled on our sides facing each other, noses touching. I’ve no idea what went through her mind when she saw us there,
but she’s her cool-as-usual self, as though my sleeping all night curled up with her husband isn’t even worth commenting on.
“Hey, you two reprobates, time to get up if you don’t want to miss breakfast.”

It takes me a moment to remember where I am and what went on last night. “Hi, Sally,” I say, trying to sound equally casual.
“I think the altitude is having the opposite effect on Nick’s snoring. He didn’t wake me once.”

“Glad to hear it. See you in a few minutes.” With an elegant wave, she steps daintily over us in the direction of the already
gathering group at the far end of our encampment.

Nick gives me a sheepish, sleepy grin. “Morning, sexy.”

My mouth is dry. The tip of my nose is freezing. I have a nasty hangover, and the last thing I’m in the mood for is an eight-hour
walk uphill. I could do with a hot shower and a hair wash. For some unaccountable reason, I feel ridiculously optimistic.

• • •

It’s the fourth night of our trek, and we are camped on a flat, almost circular tract of land, like the stage of an amphitheater.
Instead of being on tiered seating, we are surrounded by pink pitons, or needles, natural rock formations that stand guard,
upright and austere, arranged like soldiers encircling an enemy encampment. As we arrived at our resting place, it was already
a hive of activity, with some of the team of Berbers unloading the mules and erecting tents for us, others baking bread in
makeshift ovens inside clumps of rocks. Relieved of their burdens of equipment, tents, and rucksacks, the mules were eating
their supper, while the muleteers lay resting on colorful rugs spread out on the gentle slopes leading toward the pitons.

We have feasted on meat stew cooked in huge metal pots with fresh tomatoes, peppers, and onions. There is fresh-baked flat
bread, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs. Our gentle Berber guides have lit a spectacular fire and are circling it, playing their
drums and tamborines. Fortified by generous gulps of brandy and whiskey, which have appeared from yet more hip flasks secreted
deep in anorak pockets, we join the Berbers in their dancing.

Sally continues to be her cool, enigmatic self, even after discovering Nick and me sleeping nose to nose. Sally, I’m depressed
to discover, is one of those people who wake up looking wonderful. Hair not matted, eyes not puffy, thoroughly refreshed,
and acting as though the dawning of a new day is a gift. It’s enough to make you hate a person. If you were Jack, on the other
hand, I suppose it could be almost enough to make you fall in love. It can’t be much fun to wake up to me with my eyelids
blown up like balloons, my hair knotted and sticking out at odd angles like Worzel Gummidge’s, the nearest thing to the spoken
word a grumpy grunt.

Sharing a tent with Sally has revealed nothing about her relationship with Jack. We are too tired to talk by the time we wriggle
into our sleeping bags, and during the day, we are split into separate walking groups. Tonight, however, when I awake around
two a.m. and need a pee, Sally is woken, too, by a sharp yelp as I hit my head on one of the tent’s metal struts.

“I’m coming with you,” she says sleepily, slithering out of her sleeping bag. “You’ve no idea the creatures you could bump
into alone out there. Like my husband, for example.” I’m grateful for her instinctive acknowledgment of my nervousness.

As we stumble around the campsite, tripping over stones and crashing into each other, we break into giggles that start quietly
and grow louder and louder until the entire campsite reverberates with the sound of shushing.

“Shut the fuck up,” roars a basso profundo voice.

“Shut the fuck up yourself,” responds another.

“It’s not funny, mate,” counters the basso profundo.

But it is, and the laughs can be heard inside other tents, too, and soon more bodies emerge eerily into the darkness, looking,
now that they’ve been woken, for a suitable spot to relieve themselves. Sally is weak from laughter and breathlessly clinging
to me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her really loosen up, and my first glimpse of the girl within the woman. Despite my doubts
about her and Jack, I find a huge surge of sympathy welling up inside me, and a warmth toward her that takes me by surprise.

Finally back in our tent, Sally whispers, “Are you in the mood to talk?”

“Sure, if you want to,” I reply.

“Has Nick said anything about us?”

Not wanting to betray any confidences, I reply, “Not much. But long-term relationships are hard enough when they haven’t been
touched by tragedy. I guess it must be even tougher when they have been.”

“To be honest, Hope, it’s over. Nick and I are finished.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“We never discuss us. We never even refer to us. It’s just a business relationship—we’re running a charity, and we happen
to live under the same roof. We’re unfailingly polite, we never row, we try never to hurt each other’s feelings, we’re barely
human.”

“And if Cat hadn’t died?”

“If Cat hadn’t died, we would have been divorced years ago.”

“Oh, I hadn’t realized,” I reply. “I’m not sure I understand. I’d assumed, if anything, that it was Cat’s death that put pressure
on the marriage but also made it strong.” I’m at a loss about what to say that might possibly be helpful.

“That’s because, like so many others, you have this romantic view of loss. Loss is crap. It doesn’t make you a better person—it
makes you angry and vengeful and envious.”

“I don’t get it. I can see why you might have pulled together for the sake of Cat while she was alive. But she died six years
ago, and you’re still together.”

“Guilt, I suppose. We’ve been staying together to punish each other for Cat’s death.”

“That’s an awful thing to do. Cat’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t. But that doesn’t stop me thinking every day that I should have done more to help her. That it should
have been me, not her, who died. Only the charity has given us a united sense of purpose. Now that we’ve almost achieved our
goals, I can’t see the point of our staying together any longer.”

“That’s so sad, Sally. But maybe it’s also for the best. If opening Cat’s Place lifts the burden of guilt and you go your
separate ways, maybe you’ll both be able to find some happiness again.”

“So now you know why I wanted to share with you rather than Nick. I couldn’t bear to be in such close proximity.”

On the one hand, I want to take Sally in my arms and comfort her; on the other, I want to grab hold of her roughly and demand
to be told the truth. I can’t work Sally out at all. Neither can I bring myself to ask the Jack question. Not up here, where
there’s nowhere to run to.

“Sally, you’re going to have to talk to Nick. You both seem to have reached the same conclusion. What’s the point in delaying
any longer?”

“The mountains do seem to bring everything into sharper focus, don’t they?”

“Try to sleep,” I say, more gently than I feel. “Tomorrow’s our last—and longest—trekking day.”

No wonder Sally has turned to Jack. I get the feeling she wants me to understand, to forgive her for a crime I’m supposed
to guess she has committed. I sleep fitfully, dreaming that I’m climbing the tallest peak and Jack’s standing at the top waiting
for me. When I’m about to reach him, another figure emerges from behind the summit. A woman with blond hair that glints in
the sunlight.

• • •

There’s been no mountaintop epiphany. No “Aha” moment when everything I need to do about my life has become clear. Still,
I can feel a shift. And it has something to do with size and scale. The bigger the landscape, the larger the sky, the taller
the mountains we see in the distance, the deeper the gorges we pass through, the brighter the sunlight during the day and
the stars at night, the greater the kindness and sensitivity of our Berber guides, the more affecting the life stories of
our fellow trekkers, so many of whom are supporting the charity because their own lives have been touched by personal loss,
the more insignificant I feel. And the more lacking in importance and smaller I feel, the more I realize that it’s this very
insignificance that should be my spur. In a landscape that’s been here for millions of years before I came tramping over it
in my trendy trekking boots—and is likely to remain here for millions more—fifty and fed up seems a pretty feeble excuse for
not getting on with life. If I’ve got only this nanosecond of allotted time, I’d better start making something of it before
it’s over.

The Jebel Sahro has put a glint in everyone’s eye. We are going home with a new sense of purpose, with the thought that decisions
have to be made, problems faced, changes considered. In my more cynical moments, I suppose it’s a bit like going on one of
those intensive group-brainwashing courses with a guru who promises you enlightenment in a single weekend. A kind of updated
est training for the twenty-first century, but instead of a hotel ballroom with flocked wallpaper and someone standing on
a stage telling you you’re an asshole, you get the unspoiled beauty of a rugged wilderness and work out your asshole rating
for yourself.