All I need to do is find somewhere to live – a house-share with a few cool, fun people, preferably my age – and then Bob’s your uncle! Before you can say, “hot pants”, I’ll be youngish, free and single, and having a ball. (I ruled out “middle-aged, free and single” because it didn’t have the same ring.)
I can see my new life now, as clear as day. After work (where I’ll be responsible for something that doesn’t involve icons), I’ll rush home to get changed into something simple and chic (but dazzlingly sexy), then I’ll swig a quick glass of chilled white wine in the kitchen while my funny, affectionate new friends quiz me about whether tonight’s date is “good enough” for me.
Then my taxi will arrive and I’ll waft off into the night, leaving behind a trail of Chanel or whatever’s cool these days, and arrive fashionably late at a little Italian restaurant: one that only the most sophisticated man would know about. It’ll be intime, and the maître d’ will not only know my date’s name, but he’ll give him the thumbs-up approvingly when he thinks that I’m not looking.
I suppose I might have to eat from one of those stupid wooden chopping boards with handles (the ones Dan always calls “totally pretentious”), but the food will be great, and – who knows – being single might prove so good for my cholesterol levels that I won’t have to pull a bottle of Benecol out of my bag and swig it as soon as I’ve finished eating, for once.
And there’ll be conversation, too – proper conversation, not just moaning about work, and Joel, and why he and Dan never throw toilet-roll inners into the bin – and there’ll be eye contact, as well. Lots of eye contact, so intense it’ll fire up all those neurons or whatever those things are that give you the shivers when you’re filled with lust. If my neurons aren’t all dead from lack of use, of course.
Afterwards, my date will say, “I don’t want the night to end yet, Hannah. Your place … or mine?”
I’m having a hot flush just thinking about it. Well, not a hot flush, because sexy single women don’t have hot flushes. It’s a bit humid for January, that’s all.
Where was I? Oh, yes – so while I’m playing at being Charlize Theron or Keira Knightley in one of those perfume ads, and staring deep into Mr Suave’s gorgeous eyes, Dan’ll just be lying on the sofa watching TV, and only remembering that I don’t live with him any more when he glances across to see if I’ve noticed the covert nap that he’s just woken from. No more watching his eyes glaze over when I tell him about the Fembot’s latest idiotic idea, either, or when I ask him where we’ve gone wrong with Joel; no more being “mum” first, and a woman second, and no more boring Hannah without anything resembling a social life. I’ll get a makeover, and become a cougar or whatever Courteney Cox is called these days. It’s all going to be better than fine.
All I need to do to get to Friends-cum-perfume-advert land is take control. No more wallowing in self-pity, and no more keeping what’s happening to myself, in the hope that it will go away. Dan and I will tell Joel when he gets home from work tonight – just like we agreed we would last night. Then, as soon as I’ve found somewhere to live, I’ll move out, leaving the pair of them free to fill the whole house with empty toilet-roll inners, if they like. That’s if they can spare the time to go to the loo while binge-watching episodes of Half-Naked Brits in Ibiza. I won’t care. I’ll be too busy drinking, dancing and being interesting again. Just like I used to be when I married Dan, all those years ago.
By the time I wake up from another very uncougar-like nap on the sofa, Dan and Joel are both in the living room, though they’re not talking to each other. Joel’s too busy yelling abuse at a faceless stranger who’s annoyed him by killing him when he wasn’t looking. (Young guys are so rude to each other when playing Call of Duty online, I’m sure it’s a major factor in the lack of world peace.)
I pull a disapproving face, then tell Joel to shove up and make room for me on the sofa.
“Keep quiet, Mum,” he says. “I’ve already messed up once, thanks to Dad.”
“I had the temerity to ask him what he fancied for dinner,” says Dan, before he stands up and moves towards the door. He can’t bear to be in the same room as me for more than five minutes at the moment.
“Hang on a sec, Dan,” I say. “I thought we were going to speak to Joel together.”
“But –” says Dan, as Joel throws the controller onto the floor and sighs as if the world is ending. Which I suppose it’s about to, in a way.
“What?” says Joel. “This had better be important.”
I don’t know whether it is, or isn’t, actually – to Joel, anyway. Who knows what’s going on in his head? Sometimes I think he can’t stand either me or Dan, but then sometimes – especially if he comes into a room unexpectedly, and catches me when I’m feeling a bit tearful, or lonely – he’ll say, “Mum! What’s wrong? Come over here.”
Then he’ll give me a big hug, and tell me that everything’s going to be okay, even when he has no idea what I’m sad about. It helps much more than you’d think it would – but I can’t let myself think about feeling lonely at the moment. I have to get this nightmare over and then I can focus on making my Friends fantasy come to life.
“We’ve got something important to tell you, Joel,” I say, “so pay attention.”
“Um, Hannah,” says Dan, shifting about from foot to foot, and looking extremely uncomfortable. “There’s something else I should tell you first.”
I take no notice, as delaying tactics are typical of Dan. He’ll always put off doing anything tricky or emotional if he can, but he’s not getting away with it this time. We said we’d do this together, and we said we’d do it tonight – and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Even if “together” means him standing there like a spare part while I do the difficult bit.
“Your dad and I are splitting up, Joel,” I say.
Joel doesn’t react at all, but when I look across at Dan and catch his eye, he shakes his head and swallows, then decides he’d better help out, after all.
“Joel?” he says. “Did you hear what your mother said? We’re splitting up.”
Dan’s voice sounds deadly serious, if a bit shaky, but Joel just laughs.
“Yeah, yeah – very funny,” he says. “Pull the other one. You two would never split up.”
It takes ages to persuade him that we would – and are – and then he’s incredulous, and extremely upset.
“But why?” he says. “Why the hell would you do that?”
I suggest Dan explains, seeing as the whole thing was originally his idea, but that doesn’t help at all, because he takes so long to get to the point. He starts by telling Joel about the argument, and what it was about.
“You argued about what?” says Joel, staring at Dan and me in turn. “A television programme? Have you both gone senile overnight?”
For a
