Page 1 of The Second Chance Supper Club
Cath sliced a line through the brown tape, the scissors in her hand beginning to tremble.
She opened the cardboard lid to reveal a stack of tissue-wrapped photos and frames; mementoes of her not-so-long-ago-life, memories and waves of emotion crashing out with each item. She was still so bloody angry …
The third picture she unwrapped – the one she hadn’t quite had the heart to send to the tip, though it had certainly crossed her mind – stripped another layer off her heart.
White lace and promises … looking so young and hopeful.
Such a damned waste. All that time, all that togetherness, trashed. Thirty effing years in fact.
All she had left was a heap of memories, some happy, some sad. It was all gone. They were all gone. Divorce looming dangerously close on the horizon. Though Cath knew, all too well, divorce papers or not, you couldn’t unravel the seam on a long-term marriage that easily.
They had separated, moved homes, changed lives.
And yes, over time, she’d accepted the inevitability of the divorce, but it was still so unsettling.
Rejection and loneliness coming in ripples, like the circles in a lake after a stone is thrown in.
Cath couldn’t help but feel like she’d lost her anchor after all these rooted years as a wife and mother.
She’d bloody well given up her full-time role as deputy head and maths teacher too, which though stressful of late, she’d always loved – oh yeah, it was all part of the ‘enjoying an early retirement’ master plan the two of them had talked about and dreamed of.
Perhaps she’d been the only one dreaming, after all.
Numbers and figures, they were safe, reliable.
They always added up. She’d thought she would have it all worked out by now, moving solidly and securely into her fifties.
She and Trevor working part time – she’d taken on some freelance maths tuition – and going off on some exciting new adventures.
Cath just hadn’t imagined the adventures were going to be so damned traumatic … and on her own.
It had all kicked off eighteen months ago.
Their son, Adam, away in his third year at uni, and she in what was to be her last year of secondary school teaching.
She’d thought she and Trev would soon be slipping away on their travels, gathering magical memories of the Mediterranean, sitting side by side by a balmy sea, with glasses of chilled wine and some tasty tapas or mezze.
The stresses of years of hands-on parenting, whilst holding down a demanding job, a thing of the past.
They were settled, content, or so she bloody well thought.
She’d assumed she and Trevor would see their relationship through to old age like a comfy set of slippers.
Okay, they weren’t exactly setting the world on fire anymore, but who was when they were in their fifties?
And yes, sex was a bit of an occasional (okay, very occasional) afterthought.
But wasn’t that just normal ? She was okay with normal.
But Trevor evidently had other plans – plans that didn’t include his partner of thirty years.
Those comfy slippers had worn far too thin for him.
She dropped their wedding photo face down on the carpet, unsure what to do with the damn thing. Relationships, arrgh . Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue … The only thing left feeling blue was her.
But, she reminded herself, clutching at the positives, it wasn’t all a disaster, they did share a wonderful son.
But that hurt in itself too. He was off and away now.
Finished his final year at Leeds Uni, and was travelling.
Talk about empty nest. It was like some eagle had dived in and taken the bloody lot.
Right, Cath, pull up those big girl knickers .
This was no good. This was not the time to mope, no way José.
She sighed, stood up tall for a few seconds, giving her aching knees a stretch.
Then she went back to her task, pulling out more trinkets and images, and digging deeper to find a shoebox of letters and mementoes.
It had been a super busy day already, both physically and emotionally; these could be stored in the bedroom cupboard for now. A task for some other day.
Just a couple more photos left. She unwrapped the white tissue folds, and found herself holding a black-and-white image of her parents, both now having passed away, bless them.
Rock solid they were, right to the end. Not all relationships were doomed to fail, she reminded herself.
Her dad had only held out for a few lonely months after Mum died of bowel cancer.
The grip of grief, of loss, still feeling raw.
And lastly, she found herself clutching a silver-framed photo of her son, who was grinning widely at the camera, sporting floral-patterned boarding shorts and a washed-out T-shirt, in some exotic beachfront location on his latest travels. That one at least made her smile.
Cath got up, on those worryingly creaky knees.
(What the hell? Since when had twenty minutes’ kneeling turned her into some kind of geriatric?) As she was currently in the lounge, she put Adam’s picture in pride of place on the cottage’s weathered-oak mantelpiece, giving it a heartfelt pat.
She took a brief sniff to ward off any self-pitying tears.
Brace , brace , brace . Weirdly, the plane crash mantra drummed in her head. The flights of fancy, the travel dreams of her own, all on hold for now. Hah, she felt like she’d been severely delayed at the airport for let-down middle-agers.
The cardboard packing box, now empty, sat there looking back at her, a gaping hole. She wiped a sneaky twinkle of a tear from the corner of her eye. She felt exhausted with it all. Oh , my . How everything had changed over these past few months.
Gazing out of the white sash window, trying to shake her thoughts, she re-focused on the here and now.
A row of stone cottages sat opposite hers, gardens pretty with spring tulips, and bold pink and yellow primulas.
And a little chink of light found its way in through the window and into her mind.
She was here in her countryside cottage.
Bottom line was, she’d done it. Moved into her ‘dream’ house, if slightly jaded (hah, it suited her admirably right now), in this pretty rural Northumberland village of Tilldale.
Okay, so her head and her heart were still a bit fuzzy with the humungous change, but she had done it.
Tilldale village had been central to several family summer holidays for the three of them – she, Trevor and Adam – with walks in the moorland hills, trips to the coast, and supper at The Star Inn, a gorgeous country pub.
There had been lots of good times spent here.
She also remembered visiting the area years ago, as a teenager herself, with her parents and sister, all squished into a touring caravan.
Beach days and BBQs, sun-burnished skin and freckles, teetering on the edge of youth, filled with 99 ice creams and fish and chips, and the odd stolen kiss …
her first taste of romance. She’d even taken a little drive to the coast yesterday, for a breather from the packing.
Though it had felt a little lonely being without her family this time, the salt air was invigorating, reviving.
Northumberland’s wildly rugged beauty had drawn her back.
Yes, she felt she could make a home here, given time.
No doubt some of her friends thought she was crazy going so far away (almost a three-hour drive) from her old life in suburban Leeds, but the thought of having to move out and still live on the doorstep of her old house, well, that would have felt far more bizarre to her.
She’d spent weeks scouring the internet and touring a line-up of ‘possibles’: attractive two-and three-bed detached and semis, both younger and more mature, all with ‘kerbside appeal’.
It had felt like property speed dating some weekends!
After a long drive up the A1, she’d walk in and then within minutes, sometimes seconds, knew that it wasn’t going to work out.
It was only when she drove down into the lush green valley of Tilldale, entered the calming white-washed walls of Cheviot Cottage, and looked around the cosy sitting room with its log-burning stove, the two small but characterful double bedrooms upstairs with their sloping ceilings – plenty enough room for her and the odd visit from Adam, or perhaps a friend – and the practical but pretty galley kitchen, that she had at last sensed that comforting feeling this was ‘meant to be’.
And now the kitchen was exactly where she headed next.
Time to pop the kettle on and celebrate finishing her unpacking finale with, whey-hey , a cup of tea and a chocolate hobnob.
She unfolded that last empty cardboard box and placed it next to a plastic bread-crate from which she’d unloaded some crockery earlier, and pondered where in fact she might store them.
The cottage didn’t exactly have a lot of space, after all.
Oh well, another job for later. For now, it was time to rest those creaky knees and her overloaded mind.