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When Life Gives You Lemons
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS
Fiona Gibson
Copyright
Published by AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2020
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com
Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008310998
Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008311001
Version: 2020-01-31
Dedication
For Ellie Stott
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Before
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Two: After
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Three: Moving On
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Part Four: The Show
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Sunday, February 10
It’s happened again, the night-sweating thing. ‘Christ, Viv,’ Andy announces. ‘It’s like waking up in a swamp around here.’
I blink at my husband as he climbs out of bed. ‘I can’t help it. It just comes out of my body while I’m asleep.’
He winces. ‘Yeah, well, I’m just saying.’
‘But you’re not just saying, are you? You’re telling me off for being a middle-aged woman in the throes of hormonal collapse—’
‘It’s just unpleasant, that’s all I mean.’
He pulls on his dressing gown, tightening the belt with a sharp tug. It’s unpleasant for him? Well, I’m sorry, but along with the sweats I have a few other issues on my plate right now, such as: mood swings, heart palpitations, irrational outbursts and perpetually simmering anxiety that’s ramped up considerably from my usual already significant levels; plus a craving for hefty puddings (which might explain the weight piling onto my stomach), a tendency to cry at the sight of puppies, kittens, calves – any juvenile animal in fact – and more spots than I’ve been plagued with since I was thirteen years old. Oh, and there are the night fears too, neatly parcelled up with insomnia: about whether I booked my boss’s flights for the correct date, and why I am overdrawn so badly, and what’s happened to make my hair go crunchy like straw. There’s always something to fret about at 4.37 a.m., from the state of the government to the size of my arse – and, failing that, I can angst about my anxiety in general (is it normal to feel this way?). And my husband has the audacity to moan about a clammy bed? For a man, the menopause is a breeze.
‘I could sleep in the spare room?’ I suggest. ‘If it’s that bad for you?’
‘No need for that,’ he says with a martyrish sigh.
‘Or book into a special hotel for menopausal ladies with fans everywhere and sympathetic men to tend to our needs?’
He chooses not to respond to this.
‘There’s not much else I can do,’ I add. ‘It’s not as if I can have a thermostat fitted.’
‘All right, you’ve made your point …’
‘Although I wish I did have a little knob.’
I study my husband’s face: dashing Doctor Flint, with those intensely blue eyes and long, long lashes, as lush and curly as if he’s been at my mascara. I suspect the majority of his colleagues and patients nurture a crush on him. I’m hoping to detect a glimmer of humour – or at least sympathy for my plummeting oestrogen levels on this drab, grey-skied morning. He just regards me coolly as if I’ve been sweating disgustingly just to spite him. Considering his lofty position in the medical profession, his bedside manner stinks.
Trying to shrug off my irritation, I shower after Andy and peep into our daughter’s room where she is still in bed. She has fine, light brown hair, big blue eyes like her dad’s and a wide gappy smile, with two milk teeth gone.
‘Morning, Iz,’ I say. ‘Time to get up, love. Remember we said we’d go swimming today?’
‘Oh, I forgot!’
‘Let’s go before it gets too busy,’ I add. She slips out of bed and grabs at clothes from her wardrobe; Izzy won’t tolerate being told what to wear. People are often taken aback that Andy and I have a seven-year-old daughter. We are both fifty-two and I am easily the oldest mother at the school gate. When Izzy was conceived we had long given up hope of ever having a second child; there were a couple of miscarriages after we’d had our son, and then nothing more after that. We both had tests, and everything seemed to be in proper working order, but the years rolled by with no more pregnancies.
Andy and I had just accepted that we would only have the one child. Spencer was a brilliant boy, and we didn’t feel short-changed in any way. In fact, although we never used contraception, we’d almost forgotten it might be possible for us to conceive again. We certainly didn’t expect it to happen when I was forty-four.
When I missed a period I thought it was the menopause starting. But instead, along came Izzy, an explosion of joy for whom I am grateful every single day. Spencer, who’s twenty-two, looked a little queasy when we announced that he’d soon have a sibling (although he came round, of course, and he has adored Izzy from the moment she was born). But I guess most teenage boys don’t wish to be confronted by the hard evidence that their parents still do it.
We don’t much anymore, which wouldn’t be so much of an issue, were it not for a more startling aspect of the menopause. More startling, anyway, than the sweating, which I’d expected. But I hadn’t anticipated this surge in libido, to the point where I want it constantly and am driven to pawing at Andy in bed like a rampant sex pest.
Aw, Viv, I’m a bit knackered tonight.
I want to get up early for a run, love.
My lower back’s playing up again. Pretty sure it’s sciatica.
… Or maybe lumbago? Yeah, I think it’s that.
Ouch! Sorry, I got a twinge when you did that …
Such is the loin-stirring effect I have on my beloved. One day he’ll be desperate, breathing hotly in my ear and I’ll be the exhausted/sciatica-bothered one. Sorry, mate, you had your chance! The prospect of denying him sex cheers me hugely while I make scrambled eggs for the three of us, and by the time we sit down to breakfast, I have just about forgiven him for his grumpiness earlier.
I even find it within myself to apologise, basically for being a woman, growing older. ‘Sorry I’m being so narky,’ I say, sipping my coffee. ‘It’s just horrible, waking up feeling like a slimy reptile.’
He eyes me levelly, this man who is supposed to love me and, by extension, possibly care about the hormonal stew I have found myself in. ‘I think you’ll find reptiles are dry-skinned, Viv,’ he says.
Chapter Two
Monday, February 11
First day back after half-term, and Izzy and I are speed-walking to school. I am trying to greet the new week with a positive attitude and forget about how snarky and unsupportive Andy has been lately. Maybe it’s work pressures and I should try to be more understanding of his needs? I know his job is pressurised, that everyone is overstretched, that working in a major hospital under tighter and tighter budget restrictions is no picnic. And, Christ, I respect what he does.
However, the reptile thing is still niggling me, especially as he added, ‘I’d say you’re more … amphibious,’ while quirking his left eyebrow in that irritating way that always makes me want to thump him (have I always been this intolerant, with fury simmering just below the surface, or is it a new thing?). Plus, I’ve noticed Andy using the phrase ‘I think you’ll find’ quite a lot recently, and not just in a reptile context. For instance, we have a worrying fan heater in our bedroom (Andy really feels the cold), which he refuses to throw away, despite the fact that it emits a burning smell sporadically.
He insists it’s perfectly safe. Being male, with that x-ray vision all men have, he can obviously see through the white plastic exterior to its inner workings and be confident in his diagnosis. ‘I think you’ll find it’s just the dust inside burning off,’ he added, last time I ‘went on’ about it (i.e. happened to mention that it smelt worryingly close to burning the house down).
‘But should there be dust in it?’ I asked. ‘And, if so, is it meant to “burn off”?’
‘It’s fine!’
I can see it inscribed on our tombstones: He said the fan heater was perfectly safe to use. One more thing to add to the menopausal worries currently piling up in my head.
‘Mum, there’s Maeve!’ Izzy announces, snapping me back to the present as she spots her best friend across the street. Maeve and her mother, Jules, wave to us, and we cross the road to join them.
‘Hey, we were hoping to see you on the way,’ Jules says as the girls fall into conversation and scamper ahead. ‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘Just pottering about really,’ I reply. ‘How about you?’
‘We decided to go down to the caravan at the last minute. I know it sounds mad at this time of year but Erol was determined to get away for a few days.’
Ah, lovely Erol, Jules’s husband, who makes no secret of the fact that he adores her and is always festooning her with compliments. She seems to think this is entirely normal, to be expected in a marriage. Maybe it is?
‘Bet it was lovely,’ I say, at which Jules chuckles. Jokingly, they call their static mobile home The World’s Most Disgusting Caravan although, from what I’ve seen, it looks pretty idyllic with its faded green decking and hanging baskets, and views of Lake Windermere.
‘I’d never say it’s lovely,’ she says, ‘especially now it seems to have developed a leak right over our bed. But we had fun, didn’t we, Maeve?’
‘Yeah.’ Her daughter looks back and grins. ‘We built a fire by the lake and cooked sausages on it.’
‘Wow, in February?’ I exclaim.
Jules smiles. At forty-two, she looks even more youthful than her years with her wiry body and boyish crop. I guess her look would be described as ‘elfin.’ If I had her hairstyle it would be more ‘stout, angry man.’
‘You know what Erol’s like,’ she goes on. ‘Never deterred by bad weather. Anyway, it was lovely to be away, especially as I have a pretty full-on time coming up.’
‘Plenty of clients at the moment?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, and I’m starting some new classes too.’
I nod, and a thought starts to form. Before I knew her, Jules was something very important in banking. Burnt out and disillusioned with corporate life, she chucked all that in and now has several strings to her bow: yoga teacher, caterer and … life coach. I know Andy regards coaching as a silly indulgence for the privileged few, but, frankly, who cares what he thinks? If I booked a few sessions, perhaps some of Jules’s qualities might rub off on me. Perhaps I’d be less … amphibious.
‘D’you have room for any more clients at the moment?’ I ask as we approach the school.
‘You mean, for someone you know?’
‘Erm, not exactly …’
‘You mean for you?’
‘I do, actually,’ I say.
‘Great! Yes, we can fix something up no problem. Fancy a coffee now, or are you rushing straight off to work?’
‘Back to work, unfortunately,’ I reply, ‘but let’s get together soon.’ At the school gates now, I turn to Izzy. ‘Remember it’s after-school club today, won’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ She grins. Maeve goes too; they have toast and honey and are apparently embarking on a mural-painting project in the playground. ‘Is my gym kit in my bag?’ she asks.
‘Yes, love.’
‘What kind of sandwiches did you give me?’
‘Cheese and pickle.’
‘What else is there?’
‘Tangerine, cereal bar, packet of Crunchy-Bites …’
‘Did you pack Woolly?’ That’s the joke sandwich my friend Penny knitted for Izzy’s last birthday, which amused her so much that she likes to bring it to school every day. Every so often I have to wrestle it off her for a gentle hand-wash.
‘Of course I did.’ I bob down to kiss her as the bell sounds. ‘Have a good day, sweetheart—’
‘Mum, I’ll be late!’ She pulls away, inadequately brushed hair flying behind her as she and Maeve charge towards the door.
And so to work, on an unlovely industrial estate to the west of Glasgow, where I find my office phone already ringing. It’s my boss calling in a state of distress.
‘What on earth made you book this place, Viv?’
Rose is phoning from China. This is why she is shouting. Despite her undeniable intellect, she seems to believe that the further she is from our headquarters, the louder she has to be. Never mind that she could easily have messaged me. Rose prefers to communicate verbally and – with the seven-hour time difference firmly established in her mind – had obviously been poised to call me the minute I’d sat down at my desk.
‘It looked fine on the website,’ I say. ‘I checked out loads of options and thought it seemed like the best …’
‘You said it was as good as the Larson!’
‘Yes, but the Larson was full. Remember I told you?’ And I showed you pictures of this place, of the glass-walled lounge and rooftop infinity pool, which you barely looked at. We have clients all over the world and, with China being a particularly big market for us, Rose has been to Tianjin on business several times.
‘Yes, well, they’re in the throes of building works here,’ she explains, as if I should have known this, ‘and I’ve been shovelled off into this god-awful annexe.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Is it comfortable, though?’
‘Not exactly. There’s a problem.’
I clear my throat. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s …’ her voice tightens ‘… a pubic hair on the toilet seat.’
For a moment, I don’t quite know how to respond.
‘Can you hear me, Viv?’
‘Yes, yes, I hear you …’ Loud and ruddy clear! ‘Um, could you call housekeeping or something? Maybe they could send someone along to deal with it?’ Or how about grabbing a piece of loo paper and wiping it away by yourself?
I’m prepared to humour her little freak-out because, in many ways, Rose is a remarkable woman. Our company, Flaxico, might sound like some kind of anti-flatulence medication but it’s actually a long-established, male-dominated global food company. Perennially single and child-free, Rose has forced her way, terrier-like, up through the ranks and now presides over our sprawling complex of glass and steel. At barely five feet tall, she favours massive blow-dries and teetering heels and, although the overall effect is a little scary, I admire her commitment to adding height to herself from both ends.
It wasn’t part of my life’s plan to work somewhere like this. Years ago, I worked in theatre, which I loved. I did various jobs – props, lighting, set building – before working my way up to stage manager. However, the hours were insane, which was fine when I was younger, but less so when I became a mum again at forty-five. So I took a couple of years out after having Izzy. By the time I was ready to return, the theatre company I’d been connected to had had its funding stopped, and I couldn’t find anything else. Disconcertingly, it felt like all of my reliable contacts had moved on. To tide me over I took on some temping work here until Rose appointed me as her PA five years ago.
When I’d taken the temp role, I’d had no idea that Flaxico was one of the world’s biggest manufacturers of … well, pellets in fact. They’re formed mainly from cereals (corn, wheat, rice) that have been ‘extruded’ (i.e. forced through a shaping machine). When they leave our factory they look like beanbag filler, or gravel from the bottom of a fish tank, and are what’s known as an ‘intermediate product’. They are then sold on to other companies to be flavoured, dyed, fried, baked, air-puffed or whatever’s required to turn them into the desired savoury snacks, breakfast cereals or pet treats.
So, that’s what we are about; hardly artisanal, nothing fresh or even resembling anything you’d actually want to eat. It’s basically enormous vats of stuff being pumped about. Meanwhile, Rose travels the world, negotiating eye-watering deals with some of the most ruthless individuals in food manufacturing – yet she falls apart at the sight of a pube on a loo seat.
‘Could you get onto someone please?’ she asks now.
‘Yes, of course. Leave it with me and I’ll get straight back to you.’
‘Thanks so much.’ When I manage to sort it, Rose calls me a ‘lifesaver’, which is perhaps overshooting it a bit, but at least she is appreciative of my efforts.
I tell Andy about all of this as we get ready for bed that night – thinking, well, it’s funny, isn’t it, the pube-in-China emergency? ‘So,’ I rattle on, ‘from a distance of 5,000 miles I finally managed to speak to a human being on the phone – they speak English, of course they do, Tianjin’s an international city of something like thirteen million people. Can you believe that? That there are these enormous cities, way bigger than London, some of them, that most people in Britain have never even heard of?’
I clamber into bed. Andy is sitting on the edge of it, seemingly engrossed in the task of peeling off a sock.
‘Andy?’
He flinches as if he’s only just remembered I’m here. ‘Huh?’
‘I was just saying, most people haven’t even heard of it.’
‘Haven’t heard of what?’
‘Tianjin.’
He gives me a baffled stare. ‘Tian … jin?’
‘It’s where Rose is right now.’ I think you’ll find it’s in China.
‘Oh, is it? Right …’
As he climbs into bed, I wonder if this is how it feels to do stand-up and be faced with row upon row of unsmiling faces as your routine bombs. Maybe it’s my material, you’d think, desperately. I need to change direction – find something fresh and new.
The problem is, this is my life. It’s the only material I have.
Chapter Three
Thursday, February 14
No Valentine’s present – not even a card – but then I didn’t get anything for Andy either. This year, we decided ‘not to honour Valentine’s Day’. As it was by mutual agreement (at least, he suggested it and I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to disagree without seeming needy or simply wanting a gift), I can hardly be huffy about it. In fact, I don’t even mention it. I just get ready for work as normal, and chivvy Izzy along, pretending it’s just an ordinary day.
Until last year, we exchanged cards at least. The fact that even this ritual has dropped off the radar gives me an uneasy feeling deep in my gut, but I try to ignore it as I drive to work.
At the office, a bouquet of red roses arrives for one of the other PAs from her newish boyfriend. That’s what newish boyfriends do, I reassure myself as everyone gathers around and makes a big fuss of it. They make these grand gestures; it’s almost expected. And an image flashes into my mind of a Valentine’s Day many years ago, when I still worked in theatre. I’d just gone back after having Spencer and was working on a production that was proving incredibly tricky to pull together. In the middle of a rehearsal, an enormous, showy concoction of pink lilies and white baby’s breath arrived for me from Andy. The entire cast and crew gathered around and cheered, and my face blazed with delight.
To my gorgeous superwoman, the card said.
Another time, Andy had a request played for me on the radio, when people still did that. Further back, when we were still pretty new as a couple, having recently met at an otherwise terrible party, he’d make mix tapes for me and turn up at my door at 2 a.m., a bit drunk and proclaiming love, which I’d pretend to be mad about for about three seconds before pulling him in and hauling him off to my bed.
Back then, we didn’t need it to be Valentine’s Day to make thoughtful, affectionate gestures. Andy and I sent cards and letters to each other in the post all the time. If he’d stayed over at my flat, and left before I’d got up, I’d often find a sweet or funny note from him, sitting by the kettle. I’d draw silly cartoons to make him smile when he found them in his fridge. It occurs to me now that Valentine’s Day is more useful to long-term couples like us, acting as it does as a reminder to make an effort, to consider the other person and make them feel special. But too late for that now, at least for this year. As we are Not Honouring It, there’s no night out planned, no treaty dinner, just for the two of us.
Back home after work, I tell myself that this is a good thing as restaurants are always packed on February 14th, and they have those special Valentine’s menus, which are actually just their normal ones with ‘seduction cocktails’ and pink champagne jellies tacked on, as if that constitutes romance. I have almost convinced myself that going out with one’s beloved on Valentine’s Day is corny and faintly embarrassing (who wants to eat out just because the date on the calendar says we should? All that pressure, jeez!) when Andy announces he is going out – with other people!
