Page 32 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

‘Utkarsh, you are way off base. You are also out of line. I need to be in India. And I need to find my parents.’ I deposit the trays outside the door with an angry clatter. ‘I do appreciate your assistance, but I do not appreciate your misguided opinions. You can help me or not, as you wish.’

I throw all the cushions up onto the bed, stacking them down the middle to create a pillow wall to rival anything imagined during the Cold War.

‘It’s late. I’m going to get some sleep.

’ I climb under the sheets and bring the doona up to my chin.

‘The bed is big enough for both of us. Just keep to your side.’

With that, I turn my back. Our conversation is over.

A hush falls over the room. The jazz band has stopped playing and I can hear the faint sound of tables and chairs scraping the floor as hotel staff pack up for the night.

I slow my breathing, pretending that I can fall asleep and not think about the truth bombs that have just been levelled at me.

But Utkarsh must know that my mind is whirring.

Eventually, he speaks, his voice formal and barely above a whisper.

‘I am sorry, Eva. You are right. This is none of my business.’ The end of the bed dips slightly as he pulls himself upright. ‘I think I will read a little more before I go to sleep. I understand you need to find your parents and I will do everything in my power to help you.’

I listen as he returns to the desk and to all my mother’s books and maps. I can’t imagine getting a wink of sleep but the exhaustion of the last miserable week combined with a heavy dose of residual jet lag does its work. I don’t stir for four glorious hours.

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy; Katie Taylor

Hi ladies,

I’m writing to you today from a luxury suite at a hotel in Gwalior in the beautiful state of Madhya Pradesh.

Here’s the day’s headline: I’ve had an argument with Utkarsh. Well, not an argument, exactly. More like he delivered a few home truths about my life and I was not receptive to what he had to say.

He thinks I’m only chasing my parents around India because I don’t want to face my problems back home. And he’s not entirely wrong, I’ll admit. India isn’t the kind of place I’d normally spend any length of time, but it beats returning to Sydney, a cheating husband and limited job prospects.

He also claims my parents are perfectly safe and don’t need me crashing their holiday.

I disagree on that point. Dad is in no condition to rein in my mother’s excesses.

She has absolutely no common sense or self-restraint.

And in this country, that’s dangerous. Dad always had my back growing up. Now I need to be there for him.

Anyway, I stopped talking to Utkarsh and stomped off to bed. I might even have given him a Debbie Reddy–style sniff.

I know. I know. Not exactly the most mature response, especially when some of his observations were reasonably accurate.

But just because he was right about the facts doesn’t mean he was right to offer his opinions out loud.

We scarcely know each other. And I get all the advice I need and then some from you guys.

I don’t want anyone else psychoanalysing me.

Particularly not someone whose lips possess weird aphrodisiac properties.

I did manage to sleep, which surprised me.

I normally react to evidence of my shortcomings by tossing and turning all night.

But it seems jet lag is an even more potent force than self-loathing.

Unfortunately, jet lag also has the power to jolt you upright at four in the morning.

So, I’m sitting at my desk in a very fancy hotel room, wide awake and using my melatonin-free time to do some writing.

Meanwhile, Utkarsh is purring from the bed, which is distracting for all kinds of reasons that I don’t intend to scrutinise.

Instead, I’ll continue my musings on the horrors of middle age, while subliminally puzzling out where my parents are headed next.

If I’m lucky, inspiration will strike before the sun comes up.

I refuse to let my mother outwit me. She’s sharp but she’s also 74 years old. It’s verging on embarrassing.

Here’s the next instalment of what might or might not end up becoming a blog.

MIDDLE-AGE DREAD

Now here’s a question for you. When exactly does middle age begin? For women, I mean. Men don’t ever seem to grow up. Or grow old. Until they’re shunted off to the nursing home.

When do we first realise that youth is in our rear-view mirror?

It’s not like you wander past a building site and think, This will be the last time a tradesman will wolf whistle at me .

You just realise one day that no one wearing hi-vis has noticed you walk by in a few years.

Or maybe you give a male colleague a light tap on the shoulder, followed by a dazzling smile.

And when they turn around, their expression makes it clear that you are not a cute young thing anymore. You are an unwelcome interruption.

Some women say they lost their looks the moment they had a child.

But I had my daughter quite young and I like to think that for a long time after that, I sat squarely in the category of MILF.

But we all have a best-before date when it comes to how society perceives us.

Genes play a part, but I’d put the number somewhere between our late thirties and, if we are really lucky, our mid-forties.

I remember the exact day I realised that I had entered middle age.

I was forty-three. It was Emily’s last year at school and I’d gone on a bit of a health kick.

I was hitting the gym regularly and my body was on point.

I’d stand with my back to the full-length mirror and peer over my shoulder to admire my toned legs and tight arse.

Not only could I fit into size 6 jeans, but I also had some shape to my butt. From that angle, I was hot.

I was out with Katie after work and was standing at the bar ordering a drink when I heard a male voice behind me.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you have one of the best arses I have ever seen.’

I certainly did not mind. And I swivelled around with an enormous smile on my face to acknowledge the compliment.

The man—or should I say boy—that belonged to the voice stopped leering and looked mortified instead.

‘I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, you do have a nice arse but you’re the same age as my mother. Oh God! I am so, so sorry.’

He hurried back to his friends, who were howling with laughter.

And that was the moment I knew I wasn’t young anymore.

I kept going to the gym, but my sessions became more and more sporadic until I stopped altogether.

I mean, what was the point? I was too young to care much about a healthy old age and too old to turn heads.

I know I should have kept up those pump classes for my own self-esteem but that’s not who I am. I need positive reinforcement.

I think the moment when you realise your looks have gone is especially hard if you’ve been marginally pretty in your youth.

I didn’t realise how easy I’d had it until my smiles and cute head tilts lost their power.

Suddenly, I had to rely entirely on my brains, which, in my industry, is rarely rewarded.

Somehow, age sits better on men. I know that’s a social construct.

Why should grey hair and wrinkles be an anathema in women, yet a man’s deeply lined face—evidence of a sense of humour and a life well lived—makes him a silver fox?

Why are the signs of ageing considered ugly in women?

What the heck is wrong with letting us age gracefully?

Okay, I admit it, I dye my hair. But I really do think that Botox strips women of their character.

And we have a hard enough time letting our personalities shine in this world without smothering them in poison.

Maybe peacocks have the right idea. It’s the male peacocks that are judged on their looks.

The girl peacocks can look as drab as they please and still they’ve got the blokes lining up with their fancy, fanned-out feathers.

There is a catch, of course. Peacocks are polygamous.

They play the field. A bit like my husband, really. And you need to be down with that.

Whoops, my apologies. I seem to have gone off on a bit of a tangent. I blame the jet lag. You deserve something more insightful than a riff on the mating habits of birds.

Oh my God, guys. Hold that thought …