Page 25 of The Notecard
‘But that’s the problem, Laura, you want every year to be about you! This year it’s your wedding. Next year you’ll be having a baby, buying a house or I don’t know, learning how to fly a plane. Everything is always about you, Laura, because you’re a selfish fucking arsehole!’
I realise when I say it that I might have gone too far. Laura immediately starts crying.
‘Apologise to your sister now,’ says Mum.
‘I can’t believe it,’ says Laura, sniffling, crying, really laying it on thick. ‘That my own sister…’ She breaks down. Floods. It’s Shakespeare. To cry or not to cry. It’s not even a question.
‘Oh, Laura, babes,’ says Mum. ‘It’s okay, she didn’t mean it, did you Megs?’
‘I just can’t,’ says Laura, who puts a hand up to the screen. ‘This is literally the worst day of my entire life.’
Then she is gone.
To put her worst day ever into perspective when she was nine, she had her adenoids out and caused quite a stink at the hospital. All the nurses and doctors clapped when she left, and I don’t think they were being nice. Age twelve and she broke both arms in a tragic roller-skating Salvation Army accident. Age sixteen, and after she dumped her then boyfriend, Bobby David (I know, two first names), he told the entire school they broke up because she gave the entire football team, (including the P.E. teacher Mr Jacobs) a blowjob in the boy’s changing room. In hindsight, not particularly believable, but at the time it was gospel. She was nicknamed Larynx Laura for a whole year.
‘I’m so disappointed in you,’ says Mum. ‘I’m going to go before I say something I might regret. Say goodbye to Hugh. He was really funny.’
Mum goes and I’m staring at a blank computer screen before I apologise to Hugh.
‘It’s fine,’ says Hugh. ‘My family has arguments all the time. We were once asked to leave the Toby Carvery in Hemel Hempstead because Mum called Dad a ‘fastidious old cunt’. To be fair, we were sitting next to a family with young children.’
I smile at Hugh, get up, and head to my bedroom. I need to get ready to go out. I’m meeting Cressida in just over an hour. We’re going for a drink at a pub in Parsons Green. I need a night out. I need to have a drink with someone and talk about travelling. I almost died today, and all Laura is worried about is her stupid wedding. Mum is only worried about keeping Laura happy. Who is keeping me happy? Who is going to make me happy? There is only one answer to that. Me. I need to make myself happy. This is something I learnt after the split with James. For years I relied on him. Before James, I had a few short-term boyfriends, but nothing serious. I was always quite an independent girl growing up. Then I met James and everything changed. James and I clicked and within weeks we were inseparable. After university we ended up sharing a flat because it just made sense. James and I made sense.
I thought this was the year we might get engaged and start planning our wedding. We had talked about getting married at some point and we didn’t want one of those long drawn-out engagements. We were focusing on our careers and building a life. James became my new normal. From the strong, independent young woman who didn’t need anyone, I was one part of a couple that was stronger together. There was nothing we couldn’t do. Meg and James. James and Meg. It rolled off the tongue. It was our professional name. ‘We’re having a party, who should we invite? Oh, what about James and Meg?’ We bought a flat, had holidays, went out every weekend with friends and sat in pubs, ate good food, and talked about life as though it was already set in place. What will happen when we have kids? When we are forced to move out of London to one of the outer suburbs to buy a house and become middle-aged? All of it seemed so inevitable I never thought about or questioned what would happen if it didn’t #StrongerTogether
Standing in my bedroom getting ready, I’m suddenly so aware that I’m turning thirty this year. A birthday we had planned on spending together. Thirty was the big one. It was going to require an enormous party. James had talked about renting a house in the county with ten of our closest friends. A weekend of eating, drinking, and celebrating. A holiday somewhere we’d both never been before. I wanted to go to Bali and James had mentioned the Caribbean. It was going to be an incredible year. Us. Together. This was how life was going to be. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. All the big life moments, the tent poles that would hold us up, we would navigate together. I never imagined for a moment that I would navigate turning thirty on my own. Mum and Laura have no idea what I’ve been through. I’m going to meet Cressida for a drink. I’m going to plan my trip, and I’m not going to worry about anything else. I’m a strong, independent woman again. I don’t need anyone to make me happy but me.
Nick
Dear Meg. Dearest Meg. Meg from across the hall. It’s the opening gambit, and I’m already second guessing myself. Writing love letters, or in this case a love notecard, isn’t something I’m good at. I wouldn’t list it on my CV under strengths. Perhaps weaknesses.
Mum and Michael left for their date. I felt like a parent watching their child go on their first date. I was worried and nervous for Mum. I felt over-protective. I still don’t know how I feel about her dating Michael. Whether he’s the right man for her, but I suppose that’s up to her. I just hope she doesn’t get hurt. She’s had enough pain in her life. She deserves her slice of happiness.
Dear Meg. Thank you for your notecard. Much appreciated. You had no need to say thank you. I am a doctor, it’s what I do.
Too professional.
Dear Meg. The truth is, I think I love you.
Too much and I don’t think I’m in love with her. I feel a strong connection towards her. That doesn’t sound very romantic or sexy though, does it? Imagine the end of Four Weddings And A Funeral when Hugh Grant and Andy McDowell are standing in the rain, and instead of Hugh Grant saying that he loves her, that he wants to spend his life not married to her, he says, I feel a ‘strong connection’ towards you. Imagine the scene in Love Actually when Colin Firth’s character spends months learning Portuguese, rushes to Portugal on Christmas all just to say that he feels a ‘strong connection’ towards Aurelia. Two films that would have failed horribly.
I write another ten notecards (all failures) until I settle on this one.
Dear Meg. I don’t quite know how to say it because I’m not very good at this sort of thing, but I like you. There’s just something about you. I felt it from the moment we first met. I don’t know what this is or what it could be, but I want to see where it might go. I don’t believe in signs from the universe, but when you choked today and I helped out, I thought that maybe it was a sign. Perhaps you and I are important to each other. I hope you’ll consider going for a drink with me. Maybe even a meal. Just no grapes this time. Love Nick.
I think it strikes the right balance between saying how much I like her without going over the top, and the joke at the end lets her know I’m funny. Girls like funny men. At least that’s what every magazine article about love always says. Humour is always (suspiciously, in my opinion) top of the list. I’m fairly sure if you see the sort of women that rock stars and football players date (even the really unattractive and dull ones) that money trumps humour.
I hope Meg likes me. I hope my notecard does the trick. It’s almost five o’clock. I’m not ready to give it to her yet. I need to have a shower, get changed, and be ready to see her. I want to give her the notecard in person. I want to be brave. I want a classic romantic comedy moment. I want sparks to fly. I’ll give her the notecard and she’ll read it. Her face will change, a smile perhaps, a wrinkled forehead, she’ll finish and look at me, maybe she’ll have tears in her eyes, and she’ll say something like, ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment since I first saw you in the hall’. We won’t kiss, but we’ll both want to. Instead we’ll arrange to go out for a meal. It will be romantic comedy perfect.
I take a shower, feeling the warm water run over me. I’m nervous. I get out of the shower, style my hair, put on some clothes that don’t say doctor and instead (hopefully) say potential boyfriend. Dark blue jeans and a light blue shirt if you’re interested. I spray some aftershave on my neck, put on my watch, my shoes (brown leather), and I get my notecard. I read it over once more. You only get one chance to make a good first impression. Words Dad said to me once.
I think about Dad before I leave and head across the hall and one moment in particular. It was just after he got the cancer diagnosis. I was home from university for the weekend, and I walked into Dad’s office. It was really the third bedroom, but Dad had turned it into an office. It was full of medical books and an old sofa he sat on and read. It overlooked the back garden and had a wonderful view. Trees. The tops of houses. Blue sky. I loved his office. He used to play classical music on an old record player. It was quintessentially Dad.
It was the early days of the cancer and he still looked like himself. It was before the chemotherapy ravaged his body. He looked just like Dad and didn't seem sick at all. It was hard to imagine that there was a cancer inside of him, slowly destroying his body. He was wearing classic weekend Dad attire. Brown corduroy trousers and a white shirt. I sat down next to him on the sofa. It was a gorgeous day and sunshine exploded through the window and into the room. It gave the scene an incandescent glow.
‘How are you doing?’ I said.
‘Yes, yes, fine, fine, just a touch of cancer,’ said Dad, using humour to deflect. ‘I, umm, just wanted to say something, Nick. Bear with me. It might get a tad soppy.’
