A Vintage Friendship

When Philippa drove us home some time later, I recalled the last time I’d seen Michael. Last night. Of course, I hadn’t known then that I’d never see him alive again. That look he’d given me, so tender, so sad. Had he known it was the final time he’d see me? End of. Date of expiration Thursday 25th October, a day in the calendar unmarked for the sixty-eight years he’d lived. We’d passed over it so many times, never suspecting for a moment that it would become a date to remember.

Chapter Seven

Jo

Present day, October

‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked Mr Richard as I sat in his consulting room at our local hospital. I’d had to wait twelve weeks for the appointment with him, despite my GP chasing it up. It was a warm day for October and I felt clammy and slightly breathless, something I’d been feeling more and more frequently of late.

Is this going to be it? I wondered. Bad news? My friend Ally’s husband had died of a heart attack, just a few days ago. Big shock. He’d appeared so fit, played sport, didn’t smoke, yada, yada. If someone like him can pop his rugby boots, what hope is there for a lazy lard-arse like me? Naturally, Ally’s devastated. He was the love of her life, her best friend; they had a wonderful relationship, unlike my late husband and me. Doug died over seven years ago and, even after all these years, I haven’t admitted it out loud to anyone, but god, it was a relief when he went. What’s that song by Bette Midler? You are the wind beneath my wings. Not in Doug’s case. He was the weight around my neck. He was a miserable sod and a crap lover. Oh, we’d go through the motions and all that, but making love with Doug was like trying to get a nicotine hit from one of those ultra-light cigarettes after years of smoking full strength. It all looked the same but didn’t reach the spot.

Doug never hit the spot. I doubt if he even knew there was a spot. When I confided in Ally, she said we just needed some fire to fan the flame. More like a case of dynamite, I thought. According to some statistics, the average couple have sex two to three times a week; latterly with Doug, it was more like three times a year – if there was nothing on telly – and even those times faded to nothing. Neither of us could be bothered. ‘Blessed is she who has no expectations, for she is not disappointed’ became my motto.

I’d stayed because I felt sorry for him, he’d have been hopeless on his own. He was often ill and suffered from depression, and couldn’t keep a job down in the end. I was his north star. Quite a responsibility. He tried in his own way, and he was good with the kids, but I’d left it too late to leave. I couldn’t do it, and in the end I found a way to live with him, mainly by pursuing interests out of the house and keeping busy, volunteer work at the hospital, looking after my parents before they died, kids, grandkids, pets. All the same, I had to do the grieving widow bit in case people thought I was heartless. They didn’t have to live with him. As well as his ill-health, he was a moody bastard, and so critical when there was no one around but us. Mr Smarmy Charm in public, Mr Nit-Picker in private. He wore away at my self-esteem and he drained any joy from my life, like a Dyson vacuum on supersuck. Liberated, that was what I was when he went. I got my life back, my bed back and my space.

Anyway, back in the room. Test results.

‘The problem is obvious,’ said Mr Richard. ‘You’re fat.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Fat, obese. Severely overweight. Simple. Blood pressure’s high, cholesterol’s high, you’re a heart attack waiting to happen.’

‘OK, now tell me what you really think, doctor,’ I said. He didn’t laugh. ‘But can’t you give me medication?’

‘Certainly, pills, pills, the answer to everything. If you shifted a few stone, people like you might not need them and would save the NHS a lot of money.’

‘People like me?’

‘Fat people.’

‘Yes, I got that. But the breathlessness I’ve been feeling? This tight feeling across my chest …’

He looked me up and down in such a way that he didn’t need to say the ‘f’ word again.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I lied. I do. Socially. Every now and then. I have lots of friends who keep a sneaky pack in a drawer somewhere. I hide mine at the back of the cupboard, behind the organic coconut oil and decaffinated green tea.

‘Exercise?’

I nodded. Not a lie. ‘I walk the dogs every day. Miles.’

‘Good. So walk more. How many units do you drink a week?’

‘About ten,’ I lied again. I don’t know anyone who drinks within their units or even knows what the units are. Fourteen a week for women, according to the leaflet that I’d just read in the waiting room. One glass of wine is about one and a half units. Not the way I pour them, more like four units per glass, so three and a half glasses in an evening and that’s your lot for the week.

‘I’ll double that,’ said Mr Richard. ‘Everyone lies. I’m going to give you a prescription for tablets to try and regulate your blood pressure, which you need to take straight away. Come back in two weeks and for goodness’ sake lose some weight.’

‘I don’t think you’re very nice, Mr Richard.’

‘Cruel to be kind.’

‘That’s what my late husband used to say,’ I said as I stood to leave, ‘and it was never kind.’

‘I’ll put your name down for some tests, an ECG, stress test, possibly an angiogram, though I have to warn you, there’s a long waiting list. In the meantime—’

‘Don’t worry, doctor, I’ve got what you’re saying. Lose weight.’ I went to the door. I shall be dignified, I thought, and then I’ll show him, this Dr Smug, I’ll lose the weight. I can do it. I’ve done it before. There’s not a diet I don’t know about. Lean for Life. Slimming World. Zest4life. Food Doctor Diet. I have two bookshelves full of manuals on how to shift the pounds. And a cupboard packed with diet food and shakes. All work. Just have to stick to them.

I swept out of the room, along the corridor, and climbed the steps to the café where I’d arranged to meet my friend Jane. The cheek of the man, I thought as I felt the familiar tightness in my chest, took a deep breath and put a hand out to steady myself on the banister. Once in the café, I couldn’t see Jane, so I got a cup of green tea (new diet starts here) and texted her to let her know that I had finished. As I sat there, I was aware that the feeling across my chest wasn’t going away; in fact, it was getting worse, as though someone had put a rope around my ribcage and was tightening it, causing severe pain, like really bad indigestion. It began spreading up to my jaw, my left arm. Uh oh. I felt nauseous and dizzy. Deep breaths. Chill, I told myself. The pain still wasn’t going away, my back hurt. I felt myself starting to fall and reached out to grip the table. Jane, where the hell are you? Oh, here we go, I thought as I keeled over, taking the table, tea and saucer with me.

Next thing I knew, I heard a buzzing, a ringing in my ears, then I was floating, floating … out of my body. What? I felt as if I was a balloon, wafting gently, softly upwards. Hold on a moment. This is strange, I thought. Nice but weird.

I looked down. I could see myself on the floor. Uh? How can that be if I’m up here looking down? People in the café were staring at the body on the ground. They looked shocked. I saw a medic run towards my body. ‘Clear the space, give her some room,’ he said to the few onlookers who’d gathered around. Nosey sods. I felt like laughing and waving – woohoo, I’m up here. I’m fine.

Another medic came running, she was carrying a bag. She knelt beside me, or rather my body, not me because I was floating around up here in the air. Not sure how. My own version of the lyrics to The Snowman began to play in my mind. I’m floating in the air … I’m floating in the hospital sky, I’m also down below, oh bollocks am I go-ing to die? I wasn’t bothered if I was. Being out of my body didn’t feel uncomfortable; in fact, the pain in my chest had gone. I felt light, weightless. Oh! Am I actually dead? I asked myself. Have I died? I watched the medics work on me; loosen clothing, the woman calling someone on her phone. ‘Urgent.’

I wanted to tell them, it’s OK. I’m up here, perfectly fine, really. The woman was injecting something into my arm. I didn’t feel anything from my place as spectator. I wasn’t sure what to do, though. Did it matter? Didn’t seem to. But what next?

Suddenly I felt a jolt, a pull upwards, away from the hospital café, away from the area, and I found myself hurtling through a dark tunnel, top speed, a sort of shunting sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unusual. I was travelling very fast then I was out, like a ball out of a cannon, flying, expanding into a sea of light, white light and oh … what a beautiful feeling. Calm. Pure. Love. Warmth. Joy. I know this place, I thought as I felt myself dissolving, like salt in water. So so peaceful. I know the feel of this place. I belong here. This is my true home.

Somewhere, a long way away, I could hear someone calling my name. I knew the voice. It was Jane’s. When did she arrive at the café? It was peculiar. I was aware of the sea of light but also the scene in the café. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been up wherever it was. I didn’t want to reply to Jane or go back down there. I liked where I was, floating, warm, so very very comfortable. But … oh no, I felt a pull in my solar plexus, I was going back, something was calling me back, back, back.

Then I realized what was happening. I probably wasn’t dead. I was having one of those out-of-body, near-death experiences. I had seen a documentary about it and thought it was a load of tosh, but hallelujah, now it was happening to me. How cool. Not tosh after all, I thought as I watched my body being put on a stretcher then hoiked up onto a bed, one of those with wheels. The female medic had a long plait and the man had a tattoo of a dove just behind his left ear. Bet that hurt, I thought. I wasn’t in the slightest bit afraid which was odd considering the circumstances. God, I felt good. I am soooooo chilled, I thought as I watched my body being wheeled away. Mr Richard was right, though: I am fat. It’s not often you see yourself from all sides, three dimensionally.

I heard a voice beside me. ‘Do you want to go back?’

I turned. Who was that? I sensed a presence, though couldn’t see anything or anyone. It was more like the sensation of a being, an energy, but whoever it was, they felt like my very best friend ever, full of love, warmth and humour. I got the feeling that this being shared my sense of the absurdity of it all. I was glad it was there. I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, but I knew somehow that it had my best interests at heart. The presence seemed kind. ‘Do you want to go back?’ it asked again.

‘Well I don’t think I do,’ I somehow communicated telepathically. ‘I like it here, weightless, timeless.’

‘Have you finished with your life?’

As I pondered the big question, my life or parts of my life began to stream in front of me, like a film. I saw myself as a toddler, learning to walk, a child growing up in Manchester, walking to school in the rain, digging in the back garden, fast-forwarding to being a teen at school with Ally, Mitch and Sara, in chapel, our shoulders shaking in silent laughter before getting detention, me as a young woman studying, a stream of friends. Doug, the kids, happy times, sad times, me rushing about a lot. Did I ever sit still? Always working. Getting married, having children, cooking, gardening, driving, cleaning, working, caring for my parents, caring for the neighbourhood. Busy, busy, busy. I’d been a human doing, not a human being. I felt the presence next to me, not judging, though a few memories left me embarrassed, like the time I was pissed and managed to pull the fridge-freezer on top of me, then had to lie on the floor with a frozen chicken and pack of garden peas in my hair until someone rescued me soon after.

‘Does whoever’s editing this film that is my life have to show that?’ I asked.

‘All part of the whole,’ said my new astral pal. ‘You learnt from the good and the bad and that was what it was all about.’

And then I saw more recent times. My grandkids. Oliver, Holly, Jason, Annie. My children, Kirsty and Graham, and their partners, Will and Saskia. My dear ones. All struggling with jobs, trying to get by, not able to buy their own properties. The lovely sensation I had been experiencing changed. I felt in the middle of a tug-of-war: my family on one side, the pull of the light on the other.

‘Darn it, damn it. I have to go back,’ I said. ‘It’s not my time. I still have stuff to do.’

‘Your choice,’ I heard the voice say.

‘Hey, but before I go, where am I? Who are you? What’s it all been about?’

‘Love,’ was all I heard, as suddenly I was being pulled, hurtled, catapulted back into that fat piece of blubber that was me. Oomph. Landed. Back in the body. Back in the room. It felt so heavy after the sensation of weightlessness, like being in wet sand. Hurt too.

‘I think she’s coming back,’ said a voice. Not the kind one up above, not my astral chum. I opened my eyes. It was the medic with the plait. ‘Jo, are you OK?’

‘We thought we’d lost you for a moment,’ said the man with the topknot.

‘You did. I was watching.’

Jane was at the end of the bed. ‘Jo. It’s me. Thank god.’

‘It’s OK. I felt like I died but I was watching the whole thing from up there.’ I pointed at the ceiling.

The two medics exchanged glances, as if to say we’ve got a cuckoo one here.

‘I was,’ I said. ‘I could see you working on me. You’ve got a tattoo of a dove on your neck just behind your left ear.’

The male medic looked shocked and put his hand up to his neck. ‘I do.’

‘So how was it?’ asked Jane.

Suddenly, I felt drained. They were all staring at me, Jane and the two medics, with expressions on their faces as if they were indulging a fanciful child, but I knew what I’d experienced and it had been real. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself back to the sea of light, but all I could feel was a throbbing pain in my head, my chest, and my shoulder where I’d hit the floor. Damn it.

Chapter Eight

Sara

Present day, November

I flicked on the TV and watched Rhys for thirty seconds. He was in the bright studio kitchen watching Antonio, a celebrity chef, cook risotto. ‘Oo,’ he oozed as Antonio spooned food into his mouth, ‘aah, fabulous.’ Ew, I thought as the camera zoomed into a close-up of him masticating the food. In the press of a button, he was gone. Thank god for remotes. If only they worked in real life.

Back to my quest to reunite with my old friends. I hadn’t got far. I planned to visit both Jo and Ally and make steps to reconnecting, but there had been shocking news from both of them. Jo was now recovering in hospital from a heart attack, and Ally was reeling with grief over the death of her beloved husband. I’d sent cards and flowers and would travel to see them when they were both up for visitors. So much for my assumption that they were living happy, idyllic lives. The recent events had served to show how out of touch I really was and I wanted to make up for that when the time was right.

Next on the list was Mitch.

I went to my computer, found Facebook and typed ‘Michelle Blake’ into the search box. Hundreds with that name came up, pages and pages; some with profile photos, some without. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down to go through them properly. Depending on the privacy settings, I was able to look at some and eliminate them – too young, too old or nothing like her. Other pages I couldn’t get into but could see photos. There were no pictures of anyone looking as I’d imagine Mitch would now. Once I had been through all pages with the name Michelle Blake, I typed in Mitch Blake.

Next I tried Twitter. As with Facebook, there were plenty to choose from, all around the world, but none looking like my Mitch. It felt hopeless. She might have married, changed her name. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. As a last resort, I found an old photo of us from our school days, took a picture on my phone then posted it on my page with a tweet saying: Michelle Blake from Manchester. Where are you now? Responses were immediate, mainly from pervs who clearly liked the look of us in school uniform. I took the post down after a private message from a man who’d sent a close-up of his willie. Bleurgh.

Deli. An almond croissant was calling me. It had been calling me for years but I’d always resisted. TV can put weight on a person, so I could never take the risk of anything so indulgent. But I was no longer on TV. I had some catching up to do in the ‘piling on the pounds’ department.

*

I was at the cash desk at the deli waiting to pay.

‘Sara Meyers!’

I turned to see Gary Parsons from Little Dog Productions. He used to work at Calcot TV but had left years ago to start his own independent company and had been very successful in doing so. He was a cuddly bear of man with a bushy beard. He was wearing clothes that made him look as if he was about to go hiking: jeans and a red checked flannel shirt, probably Oxfam’s finest; army boots on his feet. I’d always liked him and he was one of the few people I didn’t mind catching me with no make-up wearing an old jacket, my slouchy pants and trainers. He had two Portuguese custard tarts in hand. ‘Hey!’

‘Just the person I wanted to see. This is synchronicity.’

‘I am? It is?’

He glanced at my croissant. ‘Let me pay for that. Time for a coffee?’

‘Absolutely.’

We found a table by the window and caught up on gossip for a while. Who was doing what. Who was working where.

‘So. Synchronicity?’ I asked, once we’d exhausted the gossip.

‘I was only talking about you this morning.’

‘Good, bad or bitchy?’

He smiled. ‘All good. We have a gap in our programming. A gap I believe you could help us with.’

I felt my spirits rise.

‘We want to develop a new reality show.’

I felt my spirits fall. ‘Reality show?’

‘For the over-fifties. There’s a whole new market out there for—’

‘People my age?’

‘Exactly. We call it the Second Marigold Hotel market.’

‘You mean the Saga Louts? The Silver Surfers? You’re right, they’re finally being acknowledged.’

‘I know. The over-fifties have money, they read books, they watch TV, they go to the movies, the theatre. People are cottoning on that there’s a whole generation that are only just beginning to be catered for in the media in the last decade.’

‘And where would I fit in?’

‘Ah, well, that’s the question.’ He laughed. ‘We haven’t actually got an idea as yet. That’s why we were talking about you. If you could come up with something that would appeal, you of course could front the series.’

‘OK. So what kind of areas were you thinking about?’

Gary finished off his tarts, then combed the crumbs out of his beard with his fingers. ‘Something that hasn’t been done before.’

I laughed. ‘No pressure there then. Isn’t that what everyone’s looking for?’

‘It is, but I remember working with you. You were never short of ideas and often had more than the production team you were working with.’

‘You know I’m no longer at Calcot?’

‘I had heard. Idiots to have let someone like you go.’

‘I knew there was a reason I liked you.’

‘So, how about it? Have you got other commitments yet?’

‘Honestly, nothing. I could lie and say I had offers coming out of my ears, but the truth is, I haven’t.’

‘Well, that’s great news. I’ll send you over a brief but truth is, we haven’t got much so far. All I can tell you is we want something upbeat, an angle to draw in our more mature viewers, something relevant to that time of life. You still with your agent Nicholas?’

‘I am.’

‘I can sort out the details with him.’

‘Sounds great.’ I looked down at my half-eaten croissant. ‘And here was me thinking I could have one of these. If I’m to be fronting a show again, these will have to go.’

‘You look great. Too thin, if you ask me. Have a tart as well. They’re truly excellent.’

‘I’ve got an idea for your show. Love Island for older folk who like their food. We could call it Love Handle Island.’

Gary laughed so hard, he spat coffee.

‘Or Bus Pass to Love Island, for the over-sixties?’

Gary laughed again. ‘I knew I could count on you.’

‘How soon do you need realistic proposals?’

‘Next few weeks. We’d like to get started as soon as possible. So are you in?’

‘I’m in.’

I couldn’t wait to get started. I felt as if I’d been given a shot of adrenalin and, as I left the café, my mind was already firing off ideas.

I went straight round to see Nicholas at his office, which was in the basement of his house.

‘Sounds promising,’ he said, after I’d made a fuss of his shepadoodle Atticus and filled Nicholas in on my meeting with Gary. ‘Any ideas so far?’

‘No serious ones. First I thought I’d have a look at what’s been done so far. I googled on the way here. Gary was right. It has all been done. I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here, Big Brother, talent shows, cooking shows, health shows, travel shows, Strictly. How about a version of that for the elderly?’

‘With zimmer frames? Strictly Come Hobbling for people who’ve had knee and hip replacements.’ Nicholas screwed up his face. ‘Dating shows? Naked Attraction for the elderly? Can you imagine?’

I screwed up my face. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘OK, let’s think about this. You’re the age that they want to attract, so what’s important to you at this time of life? What concerns you? People your age?’

I sighed. ‘I remember turning thirty and feeling that I was old then, and now …’

Nicholas held up his palm. ‘You’re as young as you feel. We don’t need figures.’

‘Priorities change as you get older, don’t they? Elderly parents, looking after them and losing them, sometimes divorce, seeing some friends battle with illness, some lose that battle, others coming to terms with becoming empty-nesters or grandparents.’

‘What about for you?’

‘Presently my main concern is: will I ever work again? Finances. How much I might need to survive depending on how long I live. It’s weird to think about how much I might need if I live to ninety, or that maybe it would be better if I popped off before.’

‘Cheerful. It would help if when we’re born we got a date of issue and a date of expiration.’

‘Like a driving licence.’

‘Programme about finding work in your fifties?’ Nicholas suggested.

‘Sounds dull. Gary said he wanted uplifting. What about a makeover show? Everyone loves a good before-and-after programme.’

‘Like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? Hard to top that.’

‘Or what about Snog, Marry or Avoid for the elderly? We could call it Medicate, Resuscitate or Pull the Plug?’

Nicholas eyes twinkled. ‘What you have to do, Sara, is really get into the mind of a fifty-year-old,’ he said with a grin.

‘If I can remember how that was. Gary still thinks I’m in my fifties.’

‘No one need know you’re not. What I mean is – you’re the target market. Come on, think. What is relevant? Sex? Men? Relationships? Cooking? Gardening? Retirement?’

We sat in silence for a moment.

‘I think I may have bitten off more than I can chew,’ I said.

‘Sleep on it, dear Sara. You have a few weeks.’

I left the office with my mind in a spin, generating and rejecting ideas one after the other as I tried to rise to the challenge of creating the next big thing. Did I still have it in me and why had I agreed to come up with the impossible so quickly?