Drowning not Waving

Dearest daughter calls me to say that the dinner with Alan and my mother has been arranged. He called to fix a date immediately after bumping into me at the pub. That can’t be a coincidence? I must start feeding some lines to Mum; I won’t tell her to be on her best behaviour, she can be as outrageous as she likes.

So my family and ex-family will shortly gather around another woman’s table. I can’t decide whether to shun alcohol and the inevitable maudlin chorus of ‘All By Myself’ or whether to get a crate in and succumb. The latter would save me a late-night trip to the corner shop in my jammies I suppose.

I was once in the supermarket buying one of their more upmarket ready meals (as well the obligatory bag of salad to prove that I’m no heathen in the kitchen, the one that eventually gets thrown away looking like a compost heap), when the cashier turned to me and said ‘Hmm that looks lovely, I bet you’ll enjoy that.’

I remember thinking at the time, ‘How does she know?’ but smiling politely anyway. Now I find myself doing exactly the same thing. Whenever a couple book a holiday, I stare at them while they’re not watching and work out whether I think they’re going to enjoy it. You can always tell if it’s one person’s dream and another’s nightmare.

It works better if they’re open about it and take turns in who chooses the break; I’ve just sold one couple a weekend break to Rome. He loves the sights, she hates walking; I suggested that she go for an upgrade to a rooftop spa hotel so that if she prefers not to trek to the Trevi, she can just absorb the ambience from the whirlpool. They were delighted and we put a few extra pennies in the Mercury pot.

I have to say, the spa looked wonderful; maybe not Rome but perhaps a little home-based luxury might just be in order.

At the end of a pretty busy day, I give Patty a call.

‘Aha, Bo, the very woman I wanted to speak to,’ she declares. ‘I’ve booked us a weekend away.’

‘You must be psychic,’ I say. ‘That’s just what I was about to suggest, maybe a nice spa break. No work, just us relaxing.’

‘I’ve got something even better.’ My warning lights have turned amber and I expect that red is a sentence away.

‘It’s an eighties night, tribute act, dancing; this hotel does them all the time.’

‘Oh Patty, please tell me we’re not singing.’

‘No – just enjoying ourselves and of course checking out the competition.’

I sigh but agree; there is no arguing with Patty when she’s on a mission.

‘And if you’re not doing anything tonight,’ she continues, ‘I’ve downloaded the whole series of Poldark.’

A rather tame suggestion from Ms P, but it will keep me off the wine for the evening, and one thing is certain, I won’t be thinking about Alan’s dinner party while I’m watching Ross Poldark sweeping Demelza off her feet on the windswept Cornish coast.

* * *

‘Are you still in bed?’

‘Morning, Mum, of course I am,’ I yawn. ‘Why aren’t you? I didn’t think you emerged before eleven?’

It’s 7 a.m. Sunday morning and I remember the dinner party was last night.

‘You need to call Zoe,’ Mum tells me.

‘Why what’s happened?’ I panic.

I hop out of bed pulling on my tracksuit in case a 999 visit is required.

‘She got a bit upset last night,’ says Mum.

The bastard, what did he say to my daughter? I put the phone down on Mum and call Zoe; I can tell from her voice that she’s weary.

‘Did I wake you?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she sighs, ‘I haven’t really slept.’

I tell her to stay where she is and that an emergency supply of croissants is on its way round.

When I get to her house, via local shop for as many pastries as I can find, she’s already up and brewing the coffee.

She looks sad and I am heartbroken to see it, my baby bird vulnerable and wounded. If I don’t do something, I will not be able to hold back the tears I feel forming.

‘I’m supposed to be looking after you,’ I smile, taking over the coffee pot. We can both tell the smile is fake, but it is holding back Niagara.

I busy myself pouring drinks, putting out pastries and jam and then we sit down to eat, silently. After the first cup, she looks up at me.

‘It was awful, Mum.’

I let her speak.

‘I don’t know what I was expecting; maybe that it would just be like old times. Four of us around the table, laughing at Gran. But there was no laughter, it was the wrong four,’ she sighs. ‘It was so polite. He even kissed me on both cheeks as if I were some business associate.’

She spits out the word ‘business’; I pour more coffee and sit waiting.

‘All she talked about was herself, her interior design, her cooking, her ballroom-dancing. I kept looking at Dad and thinking, “You gave us up for this?” Because he didn’t just leave you, I see that now, he left all of us and sold our home. I’m furious, Mum, I really am.’

And she is; that croissant has been shredded so efficiently, it wouldn’t feed a sparrow.

‘He didn’t leave you,’ I say trying to soothe her angst, ‘and although the meal was a bit awkward, this is his way of trying to tell you that.’

She just shakes her head, ‘No, he made the wrong decision; that was not the Dad I used to know.’

I don’t want Zoe hating her father so I try to change the subject.

‘Did Gran behave?’ I ask.

Despite herself she lets out a snort, ‘Oh yes, she was outrageous.’

‘Spill.’

‘There was one point when Amanda wouldn’t let Dad get any salt out; she said the food was perfect and didn’t need seasoning. This was like a red rag to Gran, so she gets out the condiment packets she steals from cafés and hands a few to Dad.

‘She nudges him so indiscreetly and says, “I’ve got a bit of ketchup as well if you want me to leave you some. It’s all a bit bland.”’

Hurrah for Mum.

‘And then when we leave, Amanda holds out this cake box and says to Gran, “I’m told that you love a doggy bag, so I’ve put in some of my cupcakes for you.” Gran grimaces like she’s being poisoned and actually turns it down.’

Blimey, now that is loyalty.

‘She’s entering the Great Cheshire Bake-Off later this year.’

It takes me a second to realise that she means Amanda not Mum.

‘She can’t win it, Mum, we can’t let her. I’ll show Dad anyone can bake.’

Zoe has decided to hit Amanda where it will hurt most, her ego, or make that her Aga.

To achieve this, she tells me, she wants us to do an intensive baking course and has found an evening class for us to do together. It promises to turn even the worst cooks into master chefs; I imagine she emphasised this part because of my famous close relationship with the smoke alarm.

I can’t say no, can I?

Charlie also has plans for me.

‘Sweetie, we need to really go for this travel club soon or it’ll be too late. Peter wants to take us through the finances later on today, is that OK with you?’

I nod and Charlie calls him to agree the time. That soft focus look falls over his face when he hears Peter’s voice; I hope he remembers why he’s calling.

My phone rings and Patty gushes the details for my other commitment – our tribute weekend.

I think there was a time shortly after my divorce when I wondered how I was going to fill the days; I remember looking at the empty calendar on the wall in dismay. Now it’s almost too full: a quick break checking out tribute bands, come back revitalised, meet with our business advisor to become an amazing holiday entrepreneur, somehow learn to cook, win baking competition, save friends and family from a life of drudgery and kick my ex’s butt, in the process making him regret his decisions and come crawling back.

How hard can it be?

Peter is going to meet us after work and in the meantime, I’m so hyped up, not wanting to drop any of the plates I’m spinning, that I don’t let anyone leave the shop without booking something. Later, we sit at Charlie’s dining table with coffee rather than wine and Peter takes us through an example business plan, explaining each section:

‘What I’d be looking for, if I were going to lend to a business, would be a very clear answer to each of these questions.’

I feel as if I’m going to get an exam at the end.

‘Who is the target audience?’

I look to Charlie to see if we should be answering but Peter continues. ‘You’re quite clear on this: older empty nesters, have a bit of disposable income, classic baby boomers.’

It’s odd to hear yourself classified and to learn that you’re a ‘valuable market segment’ but there you go, I’m worth something at last.

‘The key question is how you want to structure this business.’

I don’t understand at first; Charlie picks up the conversation.

‘Technically, Mercury Travel is my business and so this would just be an off-shoot if we kept things the way they are...’

How many emotions is it possible to feel in a single moment? Terror, fear, hurt, anxiety, humiliation; I can’t believe Charlie would use the idea without me?

‘So I was wondering...’ He continues to speak, although the nervous heartbeat pounding through my head makes it difficult to hear. ‘... would you be interested in becoming my business partner?’ His eyebrows rise hopefully.

It takes a while for this to sink in and eventually I give the same rubbish response as I gave when Alan asked me to marry him: ‘Who, me?’

* * *

Five days later, Patty and I book into our hotel mid-afternoon. It’s an unassuming place on the outskirts of town and whereas some hotels are set up for business, this one is set up for partying. The notice in reception shows there are tribute acts almost every weekend of the year, not just eighties nights but Rat Pack, Disco and Abba of course. You name it and there’s someone here pretending to be it, presumably making a decent living.

I’ve had the business plan clutched to my bosom since Tuesday. I don’t know why but it hadn’t hit home that in order to win Entrepreneur of the Year, I’d actually have to run a business. Otherwise I’ll have to aim for employee of the year, which doesn’t sound nearly as impressive.

I’m excited and scared. What if it doesn’t work? It’s a lot of money, most of what I have left over from the divorce. It’s more than money though, it’s me. Can I do it? Am I all talk? I couldn’t bear the gruesome twosome to know I’d failed.

I head to the spa and lie in the steam room soaking in the self-doubt. Within half an hour, I notice the place is really filling up. I’m knocked out of my thoughts by a group of women jostling for space on the tiled seating. I’ve probably cooked enough so get up and leave them to it.

Later, I meet Patty for a G&T before we head to the function room. It’s like a slow-motion scene from a movie: two women push open double doors into a ballroom filled with people who turn to stare at them. It’s crammed. They’re not actually staring at us just taking the measure of anyone who comes in: are we all surprised at just how many have turned up? A couple of people are in fancy dress but most are dressed for a night out; some would have definitely been wearing the same outfit in the eighties but others are far too young to remember, so it would just be a decade that they’ve heard about.

We eat a fairly standard meal but no one is here for the food. The music cranks up and for this mild-mannered throng, a switch flicks and they go back in time.

It’s great fun, just dancing the night away with people my own age; I didn’t even think this was still possible. The band is pretty good, going through all the classics. Of course Patty watches them with a critical eye.

‘Our set list is better,’ she concludes, ‘and we’ve thought more about the costumes.’

I don’t argue; I don’t get the chance because suddenly she squeals and runs off to give a full-force hug to a very-well-dressed guy standing quietly in the corner. Fortunately, he seems equally pleased to see her and reciprocates. She drags him over to meet me.

‘Meet Craig,’ she beams. ‘He was one of my absolute favourite stewards.’

Craig shakes my hand and tells me that Patty taught him everything he knows, poor chap.

Her former protégé explains that he is now a bookings agent for retro and tribute acts. Patty just about explodes with excitement.

‘You should see our act, Craig. We sing, you should check us out on YouTube.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he says, ‘good acts can work pretty much every week of the year all around the world.’

He swaps numbers with Patty and then disappears backstage.

‘Wow, fancy meeting him,’ declares Patty. ‘It must be fate; we are destined to be onstage, don’t you think?’

Alas, it seems as if we are. Craig didn’t take long to check the video and despite it, seems to be offering us the chance to appear at a gig next weekend. We’ll be supporting a tribute called Double Duran. It’s a charity event and they need people who will play for free, so I suppose I can claim to just be doing my bit.

I hope against hope that no one I know comes along.

The following week, I know I need to rehearse, rehearse and rehearse again. If I have to get on that stage (and I do now), I’m going to give it my best shot so I don’t look too ridiculous. Nothing can distract me, absolutely nothing.

No chance of that. Someone has decided to play silly beggars with the gnomes. They’re in a different place every time I come home; at first I think they’ve just fallen over and perhaps the postman has stood them back up but it’s more mischievous than that. When I get back this evening, I find a gerbera wedged between them as if Gnorman were courting Gnora. It looks ridiculously cute but I have to wonder who on earth has the energy to do this type of thing?

And what are they trying to say?

No time to think about it. Patty, on a mission to perfect this first gig, has us choreographed and word-perfect. We have time for four songs (or tracks as I’m told to call them now), so they’re all the crowd pleasers. Costumes are ready and inflatable Zimmer frames are tested for punctures.

Zoe hasn’t dropped her ambition either; she’s gone ahead and signed us up for ‘Baking like a Pro’. I can’t even bake like an amateur so I’m dreading this more than the stage appearance; at least there I can hide behind the others. I’ve tried to suggest that perhaps Zoe doesn’t need me with her, but she’s as bad as Patty, determined that I’m going to join in. When did all the women I know become so bossy?

One day to go: this time tomorrow night, the performance will be over, thank goodness. That’s the good news; the bad news is that Patty, Craig and Double Duran, in fact everyone I know, has been tweeting about this gig. Maybe it’ll rain tomorrow and no one will turn up. Oh Lord, that would be worse, wouldn’t it? Charity left destitute by failing Granny-Okes.

* * *

The day of reckoning and needless to say, I awake having not slept much at all. But there’s no turning back, we have to get on with it.

Costume – check; Zimmer frame – check; wig – check. I am ready.

We arrive and the club is heaving, although that isn’t much of an achievement as it is quite small. I am quietly relieved that it’s busy; empty would have been humiliating and the charity will make some money at least. Backstage, the girls are buzzing and soon it’s time to go on.

We go on in our big cardigans and Zimmer frames, thick support tights drooping around our ankles and spectacles draped around our necks. We look a bit fragile and puzzled by the audience as ‘There’s No One Quite Like Grandma’ plays in the background. The three singers line up behind the mikes; I sit down on a stool at the side of the stage and take up my knitting.

‘Ooh, look at all these lovely people,’ says Patty. ‘Shall we sing something for them?’

We Granny-Okes nod enthusiastically and pull our tights up.

The opening chords of ‘Like a Virgin’ start up; the girls bob up and down like little pistons then Kath shouts, ‘Ooh I think I know this one.’

They throw off their cardigans to reveal their outfits and launch into the first track of our first gig. I watch and am absurdly proud of my friends.

The audience get into the spirit; it’s a bit of fun and everyone can see that. I don’t do much to this track, just knit and bob my head.

The next track is another eighties classic with an intro that everyone knows, Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’.

This is Sheila’s big number; she lets it start, gets very animated, and as we reach the chorus, she lifts her Zimmer and starts playing it like an air guitar. The crowd love it, everyone is joining in and I can see mobile phones flashing away.

I’m supposed to get up and join her in a granny rock duet but quite frankly the act doesn’t need it, so I stand up and do a little twerk (as instructed by the video we watched). I then sit back down and mop my brow. I don’t think anyone even noticed me, thank God.

My heart is pounding; I got up and survived. I get out a bag of mint imperials and offer them to a couple of people in the front row. As I’m having a little look around, I see Charlie who smiles and waves at me. I give a quick wave back but my attention is drawn to the back of the room where Alan is standing with Amanda; he seems to be enjoying things and raises his glass to me, at which point Amanda walks away. He doesn’t follow; he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. I don’t know what this means and I don’t have time to react as the girls are on their final number. It’s ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ and all of us are swaying along with Granny Lauper taking the lead and enjoying her moment thoroughly. She’ll be back, I can tell.

We finish, take our bows and leave the stage buzzing. Craig is beaming as he embraces Patty. He suggests going to watch Duran and having a nightcap together. I don’t want to risk bumping into Alan so tell everyone that I’ve had enough excitement for one night.

And I have. As I lie in bed reliving the evening, I’m so relieved that it went well but would feel even better if I knew I never had to do it again.

There seems little chance of that; my phone hasn’t stopped buzzing with congratulatory text messages, including one from Alan which doesn’t have an x on the end, but I imagine he wouldn’t want something like that to be found out. I’ve deleted it anyway. Patty calls and is beside herself; Craig has told her he can definitely find us more gigs so I think she’s now planning festival domination.

Fortunately Zoe wasn’t there; unfortunately she’s still focused on baking domination.

What’s that expression? Out of the frying pan, into the fire?