Page 60 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club
‘How… how do you know about that?’ I ask.
‘I have spies everywhere, Rebecca. Or maybe I just bumped into Niamh at the library. She was herding a group of rather boisterous school children. Fair play to her though, she kept them under control. She’s a lovely girl, that Niamh. I’ve always liked her.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell her,’ I say, also making a mental note to tell ‘lovely Niamh’ not to divulge any of my secrets to my mother in the future.
‘How’s your bum anyway?’ she asks.
‘Some lovely shades of black, purple and blue,’ I tell her.
‘Come over later. I’ll give you your Arnica cream back. That will help.’
My mother – ever practical and always good in a crisis.
‘I love you, Mum,’ I tell her and I feel it in my very bones. So many times we say ‘love you’ out of habit but there are times, like today, when it’s the truest thing we could ever hope to feel. I love my mum. All her quirks and annoyances too. I think of how she still has a kind word and a warm smile for everyone – even Daniel, begrudgingly – when her heart has been shattered by the loss of her life partner. She is a powerhouse. A woman who has been through hell with little to no complaining. A woman who went through the menopause before it was socially acceptable to talk about it. A woman who raised both me and my brother to be fairly decent human beings. Obviously, I’m more decent than Ruairi, but I can acknowledge he’s actually done quite well for himself and he’s not the worst. Even if he is a first-class tout.
‘I love you too, Rebecca,’ my mother says and I feel as coddled and loved as I did as a child.
‘Now if you are coming over later to the get the Arnica, would you mind picking up a few things for me from the shops? And for Mrs Bishop too? Hang on, I’ll get my list…’
39
THE NEXT ADVENTURE
The week sweeps by in a rush of Christmas preparations, work and a now very active group chat between Laura, Niamh and me. We have decided, for definite, that we will go to Amsterdam in the spring and we have already decided on a relatively small budget, and are building our itinerary of things to do and see – including eating a pot brownie. It’s no surprise to any of us that Niamh is already a weed connoisseur. She only smokes occasionally, she says, ‘when the thought of murdering Year 11 becomes increasingly tempting’.
Truth be told, I feel quite reassured to know someone with experience will be with us. If nothing else she will be able to stop me embarrassing the life out of myself by using the wrong terminology and sounding like the sad, drug-naïve case that I am. Niamh has also been able to educate us on the danger of ‘taking a whitey’ which, from what I can tell, involves over-indulging to the point of needing to boke and possibly thinking you’ve entered a whole new dimension. I’ve assured her I’ll be grand. I’ve not met a brownie that could defeat me yet, but secretly I am nervous about trying something that has felt so illicit for my entire life.
The prospect of the holiday has put a much-needed spring in my step. It has distracted me from waiting to see if Grace will reply to me about my column idea. It feels like I have something tangible to look forward to – and I’ve realised that’s not something I’ve had in a very long time. I haven’t even minded trudging through the rain and sleet to take Daniel on his walks. I feel rejuvenated and not even my GP talking through the less pleasant symptoms of menopause is enough to bring my good mood down.
Both Niamh and I have had blood tests done to check our hormone levels, but given our age and our symptoms, our lovely GP has assured us that the perimenopause is very much upon us. Who knew it’s only official full-blown menopause when your periods actually disappear completely? I certainly didn’t. Just as I didn’t know you have to go a full twelve months without bleeding to be considered out the other side.
We have been given a bunch of leaflets to read – including information on tablets, gels and patches, as well as pessaries to prevent vaginal atrophy, which sounds like it comes straight out of a B movie. Attack of the Vaginal Atrophy wouldn’t look out of place on an illustrated movie poster of a woman running for her life, would it? Of course, when I said this to my doctor she looked at me as if I’m mentally ill, which only goes to prove it was a good call not to tell her about the Mayans and how I’m claiming my inner witch status.
Now though, I’m in my living room with my Christmas lights twinkling and I’m on my fourth cinnamon candle of the season. I’m dressed in a new frock, which Laura and Niamh helped me choose, and I’m feeling kind of into myself. It’s black and cut just low enough to be enticing, but not low enough to risk a wardrobe malfunction. It ticks off everything on my checklist for what I want in a dress. It has sleeves, is made from slinky material – the kind that swooshes around your legs when you spin – and looks amazing with my favourite pair of red boots. It’s not too formal but a step above casual. Teamed with my denim jacket I look age-appropriately hot. There is not a hoodie nor a pair of leggings in sight and my Crocs are tucked under my bed.
Niamh is a dab hand with a curling wand so she has managed to create a lovely tousled beach-wave look in my hair that I have never been able to achieve myself – no matter how many YouTube tutorials I have watched.
In the ten years since I last spent any decent amount of time with Robyn she has become very gifted at applying the kind of make-up usually only seen on celebrity faces at awards ceremonies. My lips are red. I have been contoured to within an inch of my life and my brows are, I’m told by Laura, ‘on fleek’, which garnered a groan of disapproval from my make-up artist.
‘Mu-um,’ Robyn says, ‘I’ve told you before about trying to sound cool! All your phrases are about three years out of date, bruh! You sound like such a try-hard.’
‘A try-hard who pays your pocket money and who is giving you money for that dress you want from Disturbia, bruh!’ Laura mimics back and while the words are different, and the years have passed, I am reminded of the same way Laura and Kitty used to banter in our teenage years. They could be sharp with each other and call each other out on every little thing but there was no doubt that behind it all was love – and buckets of it.
‘You’re a ride, you know,’ Niamh says, grinning at me. ‘You always were but you look more so tonight.’
‘Girls, I agree that Becca looks amazing but if we cannot talk about riding that would be super,’ Laura says, before taking a long sip from her gin and tonic.
‘God, sorry. I forgot what age Robyn is,’ I say.
‘I’m not worried about Robyn,’ Laura laughs. ‘I just don’t want to think about rides or riding when it’s my brother who’s taking you out. No thank you very much!’
I can see her point. I’d have similar feelings about Ruairi.
‘Fair enough,’ Niamh says. ‘Becca, you look beautiful and I’m so very happy to see you taking this step and going out on an actual date. You are far too gorgeous to be hiding from the world and you deserve to be loved…’
‘Awwww!’ Laura says, smiling. ‘That’s lovely!’
‘I wasn’t finished!’ Niamh declares, and as I watch my two longest and best friends existing and laughing in the same room together, I feel a fuzzy warm glow that I really don’t think is coming from the gin and tonic I’ve just downed to settle my nerves.