Alphabet Weekends - Elizabeth Noble [23]
The women in the café talked about their bodies, and their men, and they talked about holidays, and work, and they talked about cancer. They seemed, if not to ignore him completely, then not to mind that he was there. It’s true, Nicholas thought, you do become invisible when you’re old. It was a funny thing all round. It wasn’t you who decided you were old. Okay, your body poked the finger at you once in a while – you felt the aches and strains of time rampaging, but they were nothing serious and, anyway, you fought them because you had the feeling that if you didn’t it was the beginning of the end, and you weren’t ready, not yet, for that. The rest of the world decided you were old. They retired you. Consigned you. Nicholas remembered the first time he’d offered his seat on the bus to a young woman and been rejected – on the ground that he needed it more. She’d been polite, and not unkind, but her smiling refusal, her you-old-boys-won-the-war-for-us-the-least-you-can-do-is-sit-down-on-the-bus-in-your-dotage face, had horrified him. He wasn’t seventy yet. It was a bloody insult.
Although he knew, too, that last year had taken a greater toll on him than most. And the confusion he felt about what had happened – that was the nearest thing to old about him. He didn’t understand it. He had thought he was going to lose Anna, and then he had found out he wasn’t, and then he’d lost her anyway. Not her body, but his Anna. She felt lost to him and he didn’t know how to reach her. And he didn’t know why.
And it wasn’t fair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He’d been a good man, he knew he had. A good husband, a good father. He’d been faithful – utterly faithful – since they had first met. He’d provided. He’d worked hard at the bank and at home. And then he’d stopped. And it wasn’t supposed to be like this. They owned their home outright, he had a pretty good pension, they were fit, their children were launched successfully into the world and didn’t need them any more – this was their time.
And they’d never been further apart.
B for Ballet
‘Okay. Ready for your instructions?’
‘I can hardly wait! Bring it on.’ She could hear the dimple in Tom’s voice. In a minute he’d be laughing on the other side of his smug face. All she’d told him was to keep Friday night free. Now it was Friday afternoon, and he hadn’t a clue what he was in for. ‘Be outside the Hippodrome in Bristol at seven. I’m taking you to the ballet. Tchaikovsky, Romeo and Juliet. There!’
Tom kept his voice steady. ‘The ballet. Very good. Nice to see you entering into the spirit. I might have gone for Barcelona, myself.’
‘On my salary, mate? You jest. Besides, it isn’t up to you. B is mine. And I’ve chosen ballet.’
‘Absolutely. I’ll see you there.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it. ’Bye.’
Tom pushed the button with the receiver still in his hand. Speed dial button three, the one Rob used five times a day.
‘Serena!’
‘Hiya, Tom.’
‘I need your help… What do you know about ballet?’
Three rows of people turned and stared at Natalie in irritation as the text-received noise pealed through the theatre. She fumbled in her bag, which was suddenly bottomless, then picked it up and tipped its contents into Tom’s lap. The phone came out last, and she grabbed it, leaving him to put back the wallet, hairbrush, Filofax, makeup bag, mints and, yes, thank you, Lord, the obligatory Tampax that had landed on him without warning.
She pressed the read button: ‘Need you at the hospital. Karl.’ Only he hadn’t bothered with any capitals or punctuation. ‘I need to go,’ she hissed at Tom, who nodded and stood up.
The tutting and obstructive knees in their row took some negotiating, and Natalie felt irrationally