Page 1 of Never Too Late
1
Perspective is everything. When I was twenty, anyone aged fifty was old. Like,reallyold. I’m not being rude, but they were. That was how everyone our age saw them. Even when I hit thirty it still seemed like a world away.
Then one day, I woke up and there it was: FIFTY, in garish, flashing neon lights front and centre of my mind…
How the hell did that happen? Had I been in a coma? But nope, all the years were there. They’d just sped by at an unfathomable speed and although it felt like yesterday that I was holding a chubby, red-cheeked baby in my arms and wondering how on earth I was ever going to keep this tiny human alive – as well as will sheeverstop crying – she was now a confident twenty-eight-year-old woman taking charge of the evening’s activity, not to mention booking the entire five-star holiday to Goa.
There were various wrinkles, gravity wasn’t always the kindest and the hormones had gone a bit rogue – although on that last point, what else is new? Haven’t women been dealing with that particular joy in one form or another for most of our lives? Despite all this, I was, of course, grateful to have survived to see this age. Many, including some dear friends, hadn’t, and so whingeing about it, when looked at from that perspective, was rather unseemly. Getting older is a privilege not bestowed on everyone so to receive that privilege was to be lucky. That said, I was still in some shock that this birthday had arrived a darn sight quicker than expected.
2
I slipped off my low-heeled sandals and took the young waitress’s hand, doing my best not to crush it with a death grip, as I made my way down the steps into the warm water and gently sloshed towards the table. Wading through a hotel’s ankle-deep water feature was certainly not where I’d thought I’d be having dinner on my fiftieth birthday. Then again, the past few decades had turned out very different from the plan I’d originally made for myself, so why should this be anything new?
‘Isn’t this great, Mum?’ Sasha said, laughing as she followed me into the water, panning her camera around as she did so. Unlike me, my daughter didn’t have a fistful of maxi dress in her hand. But unlike her, I didn’t have young, toned and tanned legs, hence the maxi dress rather than the mini. Neither did I have her grace of a gazelle, or confidence of youth.
‘Here we are, ma’am.’ The young girl smiled and waited as we hopped up onto the bar chairs around our table. ‘Is this fine?’
‘Perfect, thanks.’
‘Here are the drinks menus. I will be back shortly with the food ones, or you can choose anything from the fresh grill here.’ She indicated a space to our right where several open-air barbecues were being attended to by a number of white-hatted chefs.
Before the waitress could turn away, and without consulting the drinks menu, Sasha placed our order. ‘We’ll have a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, please. It’s my mum’s…’ She wavered and caught my look. ‘…birthday!’ she finished, wisely, without the addition of a specific number.
‘Sasha,’ I said quietly.
‘You deserve it, Mum. No arguments.’
The waitress nodded with a wide smile and sloshed back off to fetch our order, the bottoms of her rolled-up uniform trousers catching the odd splash as she did so.
‘Isn’t this fun?’ Sasha asked, moving her toes back and forth in the water.
‘It’s certainly different,’ I replied.
When Sasha had seen the board earlier in the hotel advertising ‘Dinner on the Water’, she’d immediately said we had to do it. I would have been happy, and felt more at ease, with the hotel’s actual restaurant but my daughter had always been one for trying new things, being spontaneous and doing her best to live life to the fullest. She reminded me of myself in that way. At least, a version of me that had once existed a long time ago but was now little more than a hazy and faded memory. These days, as demonstrated by my hesitancy in both the restaurant choice and the champagne, I erred more towards reservation and consideration in my decisions. Part of that came with becoming a mum – something, although unplanned at that particular point in time – that I wouldn’t change for all the tea in Tesco’s. The rest of it though? Who knew? But that other girl, the one who’d had all the plans, all the exciting adventures whizzing through her brain, the one who’d jump on the next train just to see where it went, she had faded into the distance when I’d boarded that plane home to England from Paris all those years ago.
3
‘You OK, Mum?’ Sasha’s hand touched mine, jogging my thoughts back to the present.
‘Oh! Yes, sorry. Miles away.’
‘You sure you’re OK? You looked…’ She chewed her lip for a moment as she always did when she was thinking. ‘Sad.’
‘Oh, no, darling! I’m not sad at all. How could I be? I’m here, in this beautiful place with my favourite person in the whole world.’
With perfect timing, our food menus arrived along with two flutes and the bottle of champagne, deftly opened and poured by the waitress.
‘Happy birthday, ma’am,’ she said as she placed the bottle carefully in the crushed ice of the wine cooler another server had carried and positioned beside our table.
‘Thank you.’
‘To my gorgeous mum! Happy birthday!’ Sash clinked my glass against hers.
‘I’m not sure about that, but thank you. And I’d like to make another toast to having the best, most supportive, thoughtful, kind and beautiful daughter ever.’
‘Being far less modest than you, I’ll drink to that!’
She downed a good amount and I, a lot less used to drinking these days, took more sedate sips. It had taken me a lifetime to finally get to India and I was keen not to create a lasting memory of me flailing about in this water feature, rather than dining in it.
