Cait
- Chin hairs plucked: 1
- Nose hairs trimmed: 3
- Items lost: my space
3 a.m. Bedroom. Yoda, our cat, decided he needed to declare his undying love. He’s a honey-coloured Persian chinchilla, named because he resembles Yoda from the Star Wars movie, only furrier. He jumped on the bed, onto my chest and began kneading and purring loudly. I got out of bed and put him outside the door.
3.05 a.m. Banshee howling loud enough to wake the dead. Desperate scratching at the door. Not a spirit from beyond the grave, it was Yoda again. Got up and let him back in.
3.10 a.m. After more chest-kneading, Yoda wrapped himself around my head and fell asleep, but my mind was wide awake, thinking about our future. It had been almost ten days since Matt lost his job. What if we ran out of money? Should we sell the house? Stay? Should Matt try and find another job? What? Anything? Should I try to go back into teaching? It paid better than the temporary part-time jobs I’d been doing for the last five years.
Dad. He’s lonely. Care home? Not necessary. He doesn’t need care, just company. Maybe he’d consider sheltered accommodation for that. He wouldn’t be alone there. Maybe he’d like Yoda.
4.07 a.m. Matt was snoring away.
I gave him a nudge and he obediently turned over, and after five minutes resumed his snoring.
Nudged him again.
Finally started drifting off to sleep when Matt did one of his spectacular snort-snores. Very loud. Almost leapt out of my skin. Nudged him and he turned over and continued snoring softly.
Debated whether to thump him in the kidneys, suffocate him with a pillow or nudge him again. Grrr.
Got up and climbed into the bed in the spare room. Peace at last, but sleep still escaped me as it has done for the past year or so.
Finally dozed off. Zzzzz.
5 a.m. Yoda found me. He patted my cheek gently with his paw. I ignored him. More gentle patting, which I ignored.
5.05 a.m. Yoda inserted a claw into my nostril and pulled. Ow! That hurt. Wide awake now. Where has he learnt to do that? Do cats come with a built-in manual of instructions on how to wake your owner? Advanced technique no. 3: locate hole in middle of human’s face. Flick out claw. Insert into hole and pull.
5.10 a.m. Got out of bed, went downstairs and fed Yoda, who was now purring like an old bus. Back to bed in spare room. Can hear Matt still sleeping and snoring in our bedroom. Grrr.
6 a.m. Finally drifted off. Zzz.
8 a.m. Matt came into the room and nudged me awake.
‘Cup of tea, Cait?’
I turned over and opened my eyes. ‘Uh. No. I’m fine, thanks. I’ll get one when I’m up.’
He put a mug on the bedside cabinet. ‘Made you one anyway.’
8.05 a.m. Drifting back off to sleep, just for another half-hour …
Matt came back into the room. ‘I’ve fed Yoda so you don’t need to.’
‘Mmm. Right. Thanks.’
‘Are you getting up?’
‘No. Yes. Didn’t sleep too well. You were snoring.’
‘Sorry. You should have nudged me.’
Kitchen. 9 a.m. ‘What shall we have for breakfast?’ asked Matt. He was still in his blue towelling dressing gown.
‘We? Uh. Oh. Right. I don’t usually have much in the week. I usually just grabbed something quick after you’d gone to work. A Nutribullet or something.’
‘Oh. What’s in that then?’
‘Kale, seeds, fruit.’
Matt pulled a face. ‘OK. I’ll fix my own.’
He seemed miffed.
10 a.m. Top floor. Study. Stared at screen which was blank apart from two words. New ideas.
Clicked on Facebook. Watched a clip of a panda with no eyes that is befriended by a puppy. Aw.
Must start work, but I see someone’s posted a clip of a baby elephant playing in the sea for the first time. Crucial viewing I’d say.
Stared out of the window at the fields at the back of the house. It’s misty out there.
Back to blank screen.
Matt, still in his dressing gown, popped his head round the door. ‘Cup of coffee, Caitlin?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Did I hear the phone go earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Dad.’
Matt came in and settled himself on the chair opposite my desk. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘He must have said something.’
‘Usual stuff. How my brother’s doing. How his dentist appointment went. He’s lonely, I think.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘Fine.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to work.’
Matt got up. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m interrupting you.’
He seemed miffed.
10.30 a.m. Sent email to my friend Lizzie, a retired literary agent in London, asking her to call.
Post arrived. I went downstairs to pick it up.
Into kitchen to open post. Matt was sitting on a stool at the island.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Post.’
He got up and hovered behind my shoulder. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?
‘Well yes, but it’s addressed to me.’
‘Since when has your mail been private?’
‘It’s not. Junk mail,’ I said as I opened the first envelope. ‘See, nothing important.’
Matt looked out of the French doors to the garden. He seemed miffed.
10.45 a.m. Matt appeared at the study door.
‘Anyone call for me? I thought I heard the phone go.’
‘Dad again. He forgot to tell me to listen to something on the radio.’
‘Oh. What was that?’
‘Some programme about children’s writers.’
‘Anything else in the mail?’
I picked it out of the bin and handed it to him. ‘Here. Only catalogues we don’t really want. You can take them if you like.’
He did.
He seemed miffed.
11 a.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, where are you?’ Matt called.
‘On the loo.’
I heard footsteps in the corridor. ‘Where do you keep the Sellotape?’
‘Desk drawer in my study, second one down.’
‘Righto.’
11.15 a.m. Hall. Matt appeared on the stairs, still in his dressing gown. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘I can see that. Where?’
‘Supermarket.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Car keys. Have you seen them?
‘No. What time will you be back?’
‘Not sure. I might go for coffee afterwards.’
‘Oh. Who with?’
‘Matt, when have you ever taken an interest in who I go for coffee with? And when are you going to get dressed?’
‘No need to be prickly.’
‘Sorry. Sorry. I’m going for coffee with Carol from my yoga class.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘No. She’s new to the group.’
‘What time will you be back?’
‘About one.’
1 p.m. Home. Hall. ‘How was the supermarket?’ asked Matt. He’d dressed but not shaved.
‘Same as ever.’
‘Good. Good. So. What’s for lunch?’
‘Lunch? I …’
Matt sighed. ‘I get it. You just grab something quick. Don’t worry. I’ll fix myself something.’
He seemed miffed.
2 p.m. Study. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Matt from the corridor.
‘Lizzie.’
‘Anything interesting to say?’
‘Not really. Just chatting over whether I’d got any new ideas. She promised she’d look over anything I write.’
‘And have you got new ideas?’
‘No. That’s what I’m trying to do now, so that Lizzie and I have something to discuss next time I see her.’
‘Right. OK. I’ll let you get on.’
Back to new ideas, but first a quick look at Facebook. Oo. Someone had posted a new clip demonstrating The Art of Mongolian Flute Singing. Felt compelling need to watch all four minutes of it.
4 p.m. Study. Deleted all the rubbish I’d written after the words ‘New Ideas’.
Opened new page. Wrote ‘Options’.
- Write brilliant, mind-blowing and original children’s book.
- Sell our house, downsize, have some money in the bank.
It’s a no-brainer. Called two estate agents to come and value the house.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ Matt called up the stairs.
‘Sure, but I’ll make it. I need a break.’
I went down into the kitchen, where Matt had parked himself again, on the stool at the island, looking at his laptop. I put the kettle on. He got off the stool and came up behind me and reached into the bread bin.
I stepped back as he stepped forward.
‘Oops, sorry,’ we both said.
I found the teabags, then moved cups onto the island at the same time he opened the fridge door, which banged my knee. We stepped into each other again. ‘Oops, sorry.’
I reached into the bread bin and got out crackers.
‘Oh, what are you having?’ he asked.
‘Snack. Bit of cheese on a cracker.’
‘Make me one, will you?’
‘What do you want on it?’
He sighed. ‘I’m getting in your way, aren’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ I lied.
5 p.m. Bathroom. I could hear shuffling outside the door. ‘Where are you?’ called Matt.
‘Loo. What do you want?’
‘What’s for supper?’
‘Supper? Oh, I hadn’t thought about it yet. Sea bass, green beans OK?’
‘We had fish last night.’
‘Can we talk about this when I’m out of the bathroom?’
‘Oh. Course.’
I finished what I was doing then opened the door. Matt was leaning against the wall.
‘OK. Supper,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you want. I tended to eat light in the week when you were away. Something healthy.’
‘Light? OK. No, don’t bother about me then. I’ll see what’s there and sort myself out.’
5.45 p.m. Bathroom. ‘Caitlin, are you in there again?’
‘Yes. I’m having a shower.’
‘I’ve just found a good website about downsizing. I’ll send you the link.’
‘Right. OK. Thanks.’ A minute later. ‘Are you still out there Matt?’
‘Erm yes, just—’
‘Go away.’
6 p.m. Bedroom. ‘Cait?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘My mindfulness exercises. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.’
‘Right. Just I can’t find the frying pan.’
‘It’s where it always is. Left cupboard by the sink.’
‘Right.’
And breathe in, one two three. Out one two three. Let go of tension. Stop grinding teeth.
6.10 p.m. Sitting room. Must make an effort, it can’t be easy for him, I thought as I went and sat on the chair opposite Matt, who was stretched out on the sofa watching the TV.
‘How’s your day been?’ I asked.
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Fine.’
‘Maybe we could have a chat about what we’re going to do, you know, finances; maybe do a budget.’
Matt sighed. ‘Can we do it another time?’
‘Sure. You OK? You know I’m here if you want to talk about what happened.’
‘Happened when?’
‘You lost your job.’
‘Do I want to talk about it? Relive it? Let me think. No. No, I don’t. Erm …’ He glanced over at the TV. ‘Just want to catch the news.’
‘News. Right. Of course. OK. Good. And, just to let you know, I’ll probably be going to the loo in another half-hour. Just so you know where I am.’
He gave me a puzzled look.
I felt miffed.
8.00 p.m. Opened my laptop to look for emails. None.
Quick look on Facebook to see if there are any new compelling clips that I must watch as part of my essential education on life and all its aspects.
‘Want to know who you were in a past life?’ Well, yes, I think I do, Mr Facebook. Did the questionnaire. Ah. Apparently I was a Turkish fortune-teller in the fifteenth century. Well, I never saw that coming. Must tell Debs. She’ll believe it.
I was about to exit Facebook to go down to prepare supper when I remembered that I’d had a friend request from a Tom Lewis. In all the drama of Matt losing his job and me adjusting to being followed around the house, I’d forgotten about it.
I noted that whoever this Tom Lewis was, he’d also sent a private message. Hmm, the spam requests don’t usually do that, I thought, my curiosity aroused as I clicked to see what I’d been sent.
‘Hey Caitlin. Found you! Would love to see you, remember old times, plot new times and check we’re both still on track re. our promise to never give in and grow old, to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled. Never forget, you were always one of the cool ones. Tom X’
I clicked his profile photo up. Christ! It is. TOM Lewis. THE Tom Lewis.
Cue violins, time slowing down, a flock of white doves being released into the air, rose petals falling from the sky. TOM LEWIS. I took a deep breath and reread the message, then reread it again. He’d gone abroad. I thought we’d lost each other forever, but there he was in the photo on my laptop screen, older, still handsome as hell, still got his hair though no longer black, still capable of making my post-menopausal heart skip a beat.
I remembered the first time I saw him. I was twenty years old, in my second year at university in Manchester, and he was post grad at the art college. Ours was the love and peace generation. John Lennon had released ‘Imagine’. Joni Mitchell’s version of ‘Woodstock’ played on the radio. I knew all the words by heart. The Pyramid Stage was built at Glastonbury. There was a rush of gurus to choose from: Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Maharishi, Sathya Sai Baba, Sri Chinmoy, Ram Dass – to name but a handful. Friends in the know swapped their cornflakes for muesli, potatoes for brown rice; green was a buzzword. My head was full of dreams: we were going to change the world and I was going to be a part of it.
I’d heard of Tom’s bad-boy reputation and the trail of broken hearts, though I’d never met him. One night, Eve and I had gone to see a band at a pub in town, a place where all the students went. I knew as soon as I saw him that it was him. In a time when the other men we encountered were about as sexy as an Old English sheepdog, with their open-toed sandals, duffel coats and pale, hairy legs, Tom stood out a mile. He was leaning against the bar, elbows back on the counter, his body turned to the room, hips slightly thrust out. He was wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a leather aviator jacket. His mane of shaggy dark hair reached to his shoulders, and those crinkly eyes, navy blue, surveyed the territory with that look he always had back then, as though he knew more than the rest of us and the whole world amused him. I was coming down the stairs and could feel him watching me. I descended slowly, my hand on the banister, trying to appear cool, not looking at him, missed the bottom step and landed in a heap. He had come over to help me to my feet, asked if I was OK. I’d nodded, said I liked to make an entrance and he laughed, so easily. I could always make him laugh.
I felt a rush as I looked at his photo on my computer screen and remembered afternoons and nights we’d spent on his mattress on the floor in his room at his digs. I even remembered the bedspread; it was from India and had a green and red paisley pattern. We’d spent a lot of time on it or under it, a whole week just after we met, locked away in a fusion of lust. There was a poster of Che Guevara on the wall, the scent of patchouli oil and sandalwood joss sticks in the air, the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash on the record player. He used to play their track, ‘Guinnevere’, over and over to me, the one where they sing about her green eyes. I had green eyes. Still have them. He said they were beautiful, that I was beautiful. I was his lady with my long hair, ankle-length dresses and velvet cape.
We prided ourselves on being open-minded about other cultures and beliefs. We read Buddhist scriptures, tried transcendental meditation, did yoga, went to meetings where we chanted Hare Krishna, ate curry and rice and listened to readings from the Bhagavad Gita, then would go home, get stoned and talk about our newfound discoveries until the early hours of the morning. Some nights we’d put on ‘Hot Rats’ by Frank Zappa and dance like mad things before bed, love and sleep. Other nights, we would lie on the floor in Tom’s room in the dark and listen to music: The Grateful Dead, Hendrix, Van Morrison, The Eagles, The Stones, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, Joni Mitchell, Miles Davis. We floated around in a haze of marijuana, and the world felt full of hope and the promise of new experience. ‘We must never grow old, Cait,’ he’d said. ‘We must stay curious. Promise me that, whatever happens, we’ll always stay in touch and remind each other to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled.’
It had been a magical, mystical time that had ended just after he’d finished his degree and Chloe Porter, a Jean Shrimpton-lookalike in a micro-skirt had arrived on the scene. She was attending her brother’s degree ceremony and, two weeks later, Tom left Manchester and went to be with her in London. All I got was a note left on our bed. ‘Adventure calling, Cait. I know you’ll understand.’ I didn’t. I was gutted, heartbroken. I’d thought we were soul mates, that he was The One. He was supposed to have been my knight in shining armour but he rode off into the sunset with another lady, leaving me the damsel in distress. I threw out my Crosby, Stills & Nash LP and played ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’ by Leonard Cohen over and over again until Eve, who shared the student house where I lived, called it ‘music to slash your wrists to’ and threatened to smash all my records.
A month later, I’d received a letter from Tom. ‘Dearest Cait. Timing. You know we were too young to have found each other when we did. There’s too much experience still to have on this journey through life for both of us. But we’ll meet again. You know we will, we are meant to be in each other’s lives. Get out there. Have love affairs. Travel. Give your heart. I miss you but that’s how it is for now. Seek adventures. Remember the promise. I will be in touch from time to time to check you haven’t taken the easy option. Love always, Tom.’
What a pile of crap, I’d thought, and ripped up the letter. I’d known what he was like and cursed myself for falling for his easy charm and honeyed words for so long. I should have known better. We hadn’t stayed in touch. After I’d finished university, I decided to give up on men and look for God instead, to seek a higher, unconditional love as opposed to romantic and limited. I joined the hippie trail and went to India, where I learnt to view life, its highs and lows, as a dream, a temporary illusion. I came to believe that attachment to worldly possessions and people was what caused pain. On my return from the East, I heard from an old university friend that Tom had gone to live in the States and settled in LA. I didn’t take his address. No point. He hadn’t bothered to let me know himself where he was going, and any thoughts of him still hurt, despite my aspiration to detachment. I wasn’t going to chase him. I drifted for a few years, worked in a co-operative shop that sold organic food and vegetarian meals, did dance and drama classes and a bit of acting, sang in a band as a backing singer, but nothing that came to much. In my late twenties, I decided it was time to get real and put down some roots. I put my degree to use and got a job as an English and drama teacher. When I was thirty, I met, fell in love and married Matt and for the first time in years felt settled We set up house, Sam came along then, five years later, Jed, so I had a family to care for and no time to indulge in the youthful notion of taking the road less travelled. Bringing up two boys was enough of an adventure into uncharted territory.
And now, after all this time, Tom wants to be my friend on Facebook. Well …