Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins
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Matt’s A – Z of Activities for Retirement
Cait
Friday night (thirty years ago):
Our passion spent, we lay back on the grass, satiated, our limbs entwined, the sun shining down on our naked bodies. It was one of those times, I would remember and cherish forever.
After a few moments, we sat up and surveyed the valley below and fields stretching out in front of us.
Matt turned to look at me. ‘Forever,’ he said as he looked deeply into my eyes.
‘For—waaargh! Ants!’ I cried as I leapt up and began to brush the invaders off my legs.
‘And … Cait, get dressed! Fast. We have to leg it now!’ said Matt as he pointed to the bottom of the hill where two walkers could be seen advancing up the lane towards us.
‘No!’ I grabbed my dress from where it had been thrown over a fence and dived into it as Matt jumped up and began to scramble into his jeans. Stumbling and laughing, we ran off before the intruders spotted us and realized what we’d been up to.
*
Friday night (now):
‘Fancy an early night?’ I asked. I knew he’d get the subtext, we’d been married long enough not to have to spell it out; plus ‘have sex’ had been on my to-do list for weeks.
‘We could, or …’ Matt replied.
‘Or what?’
‘Glass of wine and a box set?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Latest series of Game of Thrones.’
‘No brainer. I’ll get the glasses, you open the bottle.’
A year later: Cait
Items mislaid:1) Reading glasses.2) Book (it was by the bed).3) Bottle of Ginkgo biloba (it’s supposed to improve memory but I can’t remember where I put that either).4) Mobile phone.
Chin hairs plucked: 4
‘Matt, Matt. Are you OK? Matt.’
No response. I’d just got home from work to find Matt, stretched out and snoring softly on the sofa in the sitting room. He’d taken off his suit jacket, tie and shoes and cast them onto the nearest chair. An empty bottle of red wine and glass were on the coffee table in front of him, together with an open dictionary. Something must have happened. Matt was never here on a weekday, he was in Bristol, working, usually back on the train which got in around 8.30 p.m. He wasn’t a big drinker, either.
Maybe I shouldn’t wake him, I thought. Should leave him to sleep it off. But … he’s never home in the day. What’s happened? I gave him a gentle shove, then a more persistent one, but he was dead to the world. I checked he was still breathing. He’d been snoring a moment ago – of course he was.
Reassured that Matt was still in the land of the living, I tiptoed out and into the kitchen to search for my mobile to see if it offered any clues. I’d forgotten to take it out with me, so didn’t know if he’d been trying to reach me. I found the phone in the fruit bowl and turned it on to see if there were any messages. There were four missed calls and one text. All from Matt. The text said: When r u back? Need 2 talk.
Two minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to my two closest friends, Lorna and Debs. They had said they’d drop in on their way back from a trip to the garden centre.
‘Spring flowers,’ said Debs, and handed me a bunch of white tulips.
‘Thanks, but shh, Matt’s home, asleep on the sofa,’ I said as I ushered them through the hall and into the kitchen diner, where I shut the door after them. They made an odd pair. Debs, a curvaceous bohemian, forty-seven years old, with a mop of dark hair piled on top of her head and kept in place with a chopstick, was wearing a kingfisher blue silk top, green harem trousers and a big emerald amulet fit for an Egyptian high priestess. Although British born and bred, with her olive skin and brown eyes she looked Spanish, a throwback to her Andalusian great-grandmother, she’d told us. Next to her, Lorna was small and slim, in her fifties, and was in jeans and a blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, her silver-white hair cut neatly to her shoulders. I was the oldest of the three of us, but often felt like the youngest, a twenty year old trapped in an old body. Matt called my friends the S and S, the silly and the sensible, Debs being the first, Lorna the latter; he said that each of them represented a different side of my nature. ‘There’s more to me than that,’ I’d told him. ‘I have many sides – I’m multifaceted, like a diamond.’ He’d laughed. Cheek.
‘Matt? What’s going on?’ asked Debs, and was about to go barging in to see him but I pulled her back.
‘I don’t know, but he’s clearly had a skinful. Best leave him for now.’
‘Not like him,’ said Lorna as she settled on a stool at the island.
‘Why don’t you wake him?’ asked Debs. ‘Find out?’
‘I thought I’d let him sleep whatever it is off first.’
‘Wise,’ said Lorna and stood up. ‘Should we go?’
‘I … maybe. In case … I don’t know, something’s clearly happened and, until I know what, I don’t … Probably best you’re not here to see him in whatever state he wakes up in.’
‘No clues at all?’ asked Debs.
‘No, apart from a dictionary on the table. He must have been working on something.’ He always had his nose in a book, researching something or other for his job as a TV programme developer.
Lorna handed me a pot; in it was a wild geranium, its white flowers tinged with the faintest pink blush. ‘It’s a Kashmir White. If you like it, we can get more,’ she said as she headed for the front door, where she pulled out a leaflet and handed it to me. ‘And this lists the gardening classes on locally. We could go together, but we can talk about that another time. Come on, Debs. Call us if you need.’
‘Call us anyway,’ said Debs.
‘I will,’ I said, and saw them back out. I was sorry to see them go. I’d been looking forward to an hour catching up with them with a bottle of rosé on the decking outside in the warm May sunshine, plus Lorna had promised to help me make a start on the long overdue task of designing the garden borders. ‘And thanks for the plant, Lorna. It’s lovely.’
Lorna stepped forward and hugged