Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins
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‘Yes.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘My mindfulness exercises. Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes.’
‘Right. Just I can’t find the frying pan.’
‘It’s where it always is. Left cupboard by the sink.’
‘Right.’
And breathe in, one two three. Out one two three. Let go of tension. Stop grinding teeth.
6.10 p.m. Sitting room. Must make an effort, it can’t be easy for him, I thought as I went and sat on the chair opposite Matt, who was stretched out on the sofa watching the TV.
‘How’s your day been?’ I asked.
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Fine.’
‘Maybe we could have a chat about what we’re going to do, you know, finances; maybe do a budget.’
Matt sighed. ‘Can we do it another time?’
‘Sure. You OK? You know I’m here if you want to talk about what happened.’
‘Happened when?’
‘You lost your job.’
‘Do I want to talk about it? Relive it? Let me think. No. No, I don’t. Erm …’ He glanced over at the TV. ‘Just want to catch the news.’
‘News. Right. Of course. OK. Good. And, just to let you know, I’ll probably be going to the loo in another half-hour. Just so you know where I am.’
He gave me a puzzled look.
I felt miffed.
8.00 p.m. Opened my laptop to look for emails. None.
Quick look on Facebook to see if there are any new compelling clips that I must watch as part of my essential education on life and all its aspects.
‘Want to know who you were in a past life?’ Well, yes, I think I do, Mr Facebook. Did the questionnaire. Ah. Apparently I was a Turkish fortune-teller in the fifteenth century. Well, I never saw that coming. Must tell Debs. She’ll believe it.
I was about to exit Facebook to go down to prepare supper when I remembered that I’d had a friend request from a Tom Lewis. In all the drama of Matt losing his job and me adjusting to being followed around the house, I’d forgotten about it.
I noted that whoever this Tom Lewis was, he’d also sent a private message. Hmm, the spam requests don’t usually do that, I thought, my curiosity aroused as I clicked to see what I’d been sent.
‘Hey Caitlin. Found you! Would love to see you, remember old times, plot new times and check we’re both still on track re. our promise to never give in and grow old, to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled. Never forget, you were always one of the cool ones. Tom X’
I clicked his profile photo up. Christ! It is. TOM Lewis. THE Tom Lewis.
Cue violins, time slowing down, a flock of white doves being released into the air, rose petals falling from the sky. TOM LEWIS. I took a deep breath and reread the message, then reread it again. He’d gone abroad. I thought we’d lost each other forever, but there he was in the photo on my laptop screen, older, still handsome as hell, still got his hair though no longer black, still capable of making my post-menopausal heart skip a beat.
I remembered the first time I saw him. I was twenty years old, in my second year at university in Manchester, and he was post grad at the art college. Ours was the love and peace generation. John Lennon had released ‘Imagine’. Joni Mitchell’s version of ‘Woodstock’ played on the radio. I knew all the words by heart. The Pyramid Stage was built at Glastonbury. There was a rush of gurus to choose from: Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the Maharishi, Sathya Sai Baba, Sri Chinmoy, Ram Dass – to name but a handful. Friends in the know swapped their cornflakes for muesli, potatoes for brown rice; green was a buzzword. My head was full of dreams: we were going to change the world and I was going to be a part of it.
I’d heard of Tom’s bad-boy reputation and the trail of broken hearts, though I’d never met him. One night, Eve and I had gone to see a band at a pub in town, a place where all the students went. I knew as soon as I saw him that it was him. In a time when the other men we encountered were about as sexy as an Old English sheepdog, with their open-toed sandals, duffel coats and pale, hairy legs, Tom stood out a mile. He was leaning against the bar, elbows back on the counter, his body turned to the room, hips slightly thrust out. He was wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a leather aviator jacket. His mane of shaggy dark hair reached to his shoulders, and those crinkly eyes, navy blue, surveyed the territory with that look he always had back then, as though he knew more than the rest of us and the whole world amused him. I was coming down the stairs and could feel him watching me. I descended slowly, my hand on the banister, trying to appear cool, not looking at him, missed the bottom step and landed in a heap. He had come over to help me to my feet, asked if I was OK. I’d nodded, said I liked to make an entrance and he laughed, so easily. I could always make him laugh.
I felt a rush as I looked at his photo on my computer screen and remembered afternoons and nights we’d spent on his mattress on the floor in his room at his digs. I even remembered the bedspread; it was from India and had a green and red paisley pattern. We’d spent a lot of time on it or under it, a whole week just after we met, locked away in a fusion of lust. There was a poster of Che Guevara on the wall, the scent of patchouli oil and sandalwood joss sticks in the air, the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash on the record player. He used to play their track, ‘Guinnevere’, over and over to me, the one where they sing about her green eyes. I had green eyes. Still have them. He said they were beautiful, that I was beautiful. I was his lady with my long hair, ankle-length dresses and velvet cape.
We prided ourselves on being open-minded about other cultures and beliefs. We read Buddhist scriptures, tried transcendental meditation, did yoga, went to meetings where we chanted Hare Krishna, ate curry and rice and listened to readings from the Bhagavad Gita, then would go home, get stoned and talk about our newfound discoveries until the early hours of the morning. Some nights we’d put on ‘Hot Rats’ by Frank Zappa and dance like mad things before bed, love and sleep. Other nights, we would lie on the floor in Tom’s room in the dark and listen to music: The Grateful Dead, Hendrix, Van Morrison, The Eagles, The Stones, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, Joni Mitchell, Miles Davis. We floated around in a haze of marijuana, and the world felt full of hope and the promise of new experience. ‘We must never grow old, Cait,’ he’d said. ‘We must stay curious. Promise me that, whatever happens, we’ll always stay in touch and remind each other to always seek adventure and take the road less travelled.’
It had been a magical, mystical time that had ended just after he’d finished his degree and Chloe Porter, a Jean Shrimpton-lookalike in a micro-skirt had arrived on the scene. She was attending her brother’s degree ceremony and, two weeks later, Tom left Manchester and went to be with her in London. All I got was a note left on our bed. ‘Adventure calling, Cait. I know you’ll understand.’ I didn’t. I was gutted, heartbroken. I’d thought we were soul mates, that he was The One. He was supposed to have been my knight in shining armour but he rode off into the sunset with another lady, leaving me the damsel in distress. I threw out my Crosby, Stills & Nash LP and played ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’ by Leonard Cohen over and over again until Eve, who shared the student house where I lived, called it ‘music to slash your wrists to’ and threatened to smash all my records.
A month later, I’d received a letter from Tom. ‘Dearest Cait. Timing. You know we were too young to have found each other when we did. There’s too much experience still to have on this journey through life for both of us. But we’ll meet again. You know we will, we are meant to be in each other’s lives. Get out there. Have love affairs. Travel. Give your heart. I miss you but that’s how it is for now. Seek adventures. Remember the promise. I will be in touch from time to time to check you haven’t taken the easy option. Love always, Tom.’
What a pile of crap, I’d thought,