toned flesh scattered with strategically placed piercings. I shall look like an ageing fish out of water, and Josh will probably mention that no years back for your birthday thing again.
‘What do you think I should wear?’ I say to Max – without much optimism, if I’m honest, but you never know.
‘Oh, anything, darling,’ he says. ‘You always look nice.’
This feels like shorthand for I can’t be bothered to think about it , and is no help whatsoever, so there’s nothing for it but a trying-on session. Also known as a triumph of hope over experience, like all Dad’s marriages so far.
The first outfit I try is too dated, even for me; and the next causes mutton and lamb to spring to mind – simultaneously, which takes some doing – and that’s just the start of the horror. My knees seem to have become baggy overnight, so that rules out most of my dresses; half of which are also too low-cut. When did my chest develop wrinkles?
I keep going in the face of adversity, until I have ruled out almost everything I own, by which time all my clothes are in a heap on the bed, and we are already late. So I cobble together an outfit designed primarily for invisibility, and then slap some make-up on my face. Never experiment when you’re under pressure. A sample sachet of foundation that I found in one of Connie’s magazines causes hundreds of new wrinkles to erupt, so then I wash it off again.
Connie phones, Dad phones, and Mum phones. One eye is still without make-up, and now it’s almost 9:30pm.
‘How does this look?’ I ask Max.
He doesn’t move his eyes from the television. ‘Fine, darling.’
Oh, honestly ! I have a large gin, and then Max looks at his watch, says, ‘Christ!’ and rushes upstairs, shouting, ‘What do you think I should wear?’
‘Anything will do,’ I say, as innocently as I can. ‘You always look fine to me.’
This is rapidly revealed to be untrue. Max puts on everything that happens to be clean, which results in a strange, multi-seasonal mix of linen, denim and wool – all in completely different shades of washed-out black and navy. He looks almost as bad as me.
It takes him a further ten minutes to find his shoes under a pile of smelly laundry. By now, it’s 10:30pm, and I decide to lie on the couch and watch television instead. I suspect my partying days are over.
SUNDAY, 30 MAY
I want to be a teenager again, especially since last night’s disaster. They have so much more fun than adults, despite their superficial angst. And it’s not just the constant sex and the taut bodies that I envy, but also the things that they think of to do – and have the nerve to carry out. Josh can create anarchy from the most mundane of tasks.
He decides to join me and Max when we go food shopping today and asks if his best friend Robbie can come along, too – presumably because they’re both intent upon what they apparently call ‘Shopping for Others’.
Max and I watch in disbelief as the boys spend the next hour or so happily putting things into the shopping trolleys of complete strangers when the latter aren’t looking. We don’t know what to do with ourselves when an elderly spinster heads for the checkouts with twenty packets of condoms and some Durex Play gel in hers; and a butch body-builder type looks puzzled at finding lipstick, eye shadow and tampons amidst his other purchases.
The most stressful moment comes when I notice a large leg of pork being covertly added to the contents of a trolley belonging to a hijab-clad middle-aged woman, at which point Max decides enough is enough and calls a halt. I think he secretly enjoys the whole experience as much as I do, though, because he’s still laughing when we reach the car park.
‘That’s what we need,’ I say. ‘More excitement in our lives.’
Max nods in agreement, rather too vigorously for my liking, but doesn’t make any suggestions as to how this laudable aim might be achieved. Then, once we’ve unpacked the
Dorothy Johnston, Port Campbell Press