This was it. I’d had my share of bad luck. After decades of caring for my ailing parents and alcoholic husband, then losing all of them, one by one, it was time to put myself first. Midlife, I decided, would be a new beginning. The mid-point of a novel, after all, isn’t the end of the story, but the moment the protagonist takes charge of their own destiny.
Where better to kick-start a change in fortune than Las Vegas?
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!” Nina slurred, and we all clinked glasses.
“Don’t look now,” she shout-whispered into my ear. “Hot guys, by the Blackjack table.”
I cringed. “We’re old enough to be their mothers!”
It is notoriously difficult to swim through pancake batter, so Emmie settled for floating on her back. Her eyes opened briefly after a staccato rattle, followed by a piercing whistle, a loud bang and a cascade of spitting bright star fragments. A war must have started. Emmie was dimly conscious of being shot in the middle somewhere; blood everywhere, lots of pain. Best get back to the pancake batter. She re-submerged.
Her eyes crept open again on hearing voices.
‘She’s coming round. Are you OK love? It’s Mum here. You had us worried’
Emmie was pleased to hear this because she too was starting to be worried.
‘What’s the fighting about out there? I think there’s a bullet in my belly. It really hurts a lot and I keep falling into a thick lake. And…’
The storm clouds are gathered just to starboard, forcing us further and further west. The sun, lurking around the horizon and casting golden and amber hues, hasn’t set in what feels like eleven hundred days, although it’s tough to tell. We’ve given up counting, after the crude marks we’d scratched into the deck mysteriously vanished.
Time hasn’t frozen, so much as slowed to a crawl. The fluttering and rustling of the sails proves there’s still a tailwind; the creaks and groans of wood as waves lap around us, and the swells of the waves we ride, are enough to evidence that. Our crew, fractious at the best of times, had initially turned on each other, tensions increasing until it spilled to violence. Men were thrown overboard, beaten, and blades drawn. It had only stopped after a voice had cut across the melee, singing; pure, clean, and melodious.
He seemed nervous. ‘Good to meet you after the messaging, Cassie.’
After that, he Cassied her at the end of practically every sentence. Put him at his ease, butter him up, she thought. ‘You’re even nicer than your profile!’ she told him, and was chuffed when he blushed. No big ego then.
‘I’m more of a listener than a talker,’ he said. She smiled sweetly at this, holding his gaze with lingering craft. She hadn’t forgotten how to flirt.
‘You won’t replace me – not unless it’s somebody frigging desperate!’ Those were the words of Bill, ex-husband number two, on his departure. His words had nagged at her for a while, but here she was back on the dating game. Her confidence was breaking out again.
She’d chosen the café upstairs in Tesco. A late morning cup of tea before she went to work. Malcolm was a compact guy, a few years older than her, a couple of inches shorter . He was barrel-chested, making her think of a bullfrog. A gentle froggy: tender, a nice nature. She’d made mistakes with men before, but this one appealed to her. He was courteous and it was odd how she felt at ease talking with him, once he’d broken the shackles of silence.
‘I was brought up by my gran,’ he said, when she’d mentioned her three adult children in Blackburn. His mother had done drugs and had mental health problems.
Message to herself: Malcolm might need a mother figure. It could be arranged.
‘You’re local, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘Belper.’
‘Handy.’ And she gave him a little come-on look. A sheepish expression on Malcolm’s face. She did like his shyness.
‘What do you think of me, Malcom?’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Smitten?’
‘Well I… you know…’
‘You soon will be,’ and she gave a dirty laugh. No point beating about the bush. She was fifty-one, of large build, and she knew she’d never win a beauty contest. She wanted a man for love, friendship, and nookie. Malcolm would do her nicely.
‘So…?’ he said.
‘You’re sweet,’ she said standing up. ‘Fancy popping over to South Normanton to see me?’
‘Well I… yes…’
She gave him a peck on the cheek, and tapped his bum for good measure. That ought to get the message across. ‘Got to go to work, love. I’m in the next couple of evenings. Okay?’ He nodded, the same mix of embarrassment and interest. She was driving the show, and he didn’t seem to mind.
‘Soon then,’ she said, about to depart. ‘Hey, are you OK?’
Malcom was shaking, then he slid to the floor. For a nanosecond she thought of a frog slipping into a pond. Then her nurse’s instincts kicked in. She used her jacket to cushion his head, loosened his collar and tie to aid breathing, then turned him on his side when the convulsions stopped. She stayed with him until the ambulance came. Needs occasional nursing as well as mothering, she noted, as she drove to work.
Just afterwards, we managed to leave the event with some aplomb, a modicum of dignity intact-or at least faked. Torn between hooting with laughter over council-man’s trifle covered shoes and lower trouser legs, and seriously thinking over the consequences of the action, we rested languidly in the warm evening light of the nearby park to consider the position.
I have known my good friend Alice for years. We’ve shared holidays and secrets as well as heartbreaks and terrible times. I’d say she’s a pretty good humoured person, except for her occasional explosive outbursts. I’m not saying she’s bad tempered, not at all, and rarely has a bad word for anyone.
Roscoe Manning’s rounded Devon drawl faltered. He gasped as burning sand trickled down his windpipe. Standard issue military full -face visor was powerless against the inexorable seepage of desert dust.
Not a good idea this open- air presentation, he thought.
Hawking an ochre flume of spittle, he re-placed his face- mask and resumed.
“Imagine….. I didn’t know what a Hesco was before this deployment and now I’m training you.”
Experience had taught Roscoe that modelling his own learning curve built trust with the trainees. So necessary in the field where operational success and minimum casualties depended on orders being instantly obeyed.
You’ll think it’s killing you at first. You’ll want to stay in bed, picking apart everything you’ve said and done (and not said and done) in the last year. What if you’d listened more, moaned less, worn lipstick…?
The last thing you’ll want to do is clad yourself in Lycra and gasp for breath in the gym. You’ll think the place is full of self-obsessed freaks, like that airhead he left you for. But Helen will drag you along.
A routine will form. Those new trainers, the neon pink ones Helen said you should splash out on, will beckon to you every morning before dawn. You’ll sweat a little more and cry a little less. Five rounds of squats, eight reps each. Increase the weight by five kilograms. Go to work. Go to bed. Repeat.
There will be nights when the pain will wind itself around your neck and burrow into your heart. On your anniversary. When his favourite song comes on the radio. When you’ll be at a party and your friends will study the floor and shift their feet when you ask if they’ve seen him. If they’ve met her. Yes, they’ll say, then change the subject.
He’d told them no publicity. But the news had leaked out.
Leaked? Gushed more like it. Three phone calls this morning. ‘My wife needs a
lung transplant and fifty thousand will enable her to…’ ‘Our donkey sanctuary
desperately wants funding to the tune of…’ ‘Good morning Mr York, I’m calling
on behalf of the local women’s refuge and if you can find your way to donating…’
How long
before they began calling round? And if he opened the door, how many would put
a foot between door and doorstep and craftily intrude into the house, one pace
at a time along the hall, until daily callers were lasering walls and nooks,
and shining searchlights into hollows and corners?
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