Turning Forty Read Online Free PDF Page A

because when I came to a halt my chest tightened and my head began to spin. Fearing I was about to have another panic attack I pulled out my earphones and sat down on the wall outside the house to get my breath as one of Bryan Adams’ greatest hits spilled into the world.
     
    Inside the house I called out Lauren’s name even though I was pretty sure she wouldn’t be back from work yet. Upstairs, I shed my running gear on the floor of the bathroom ready to shower. Passing by the mirrored wall cabinet above the sink I caught a glimpse of myself and stopped. Did I look like a man in his late thirties? The flecks of grey in my stubble and by my temples seemed to answer that question, but I ran once or twice a week and although I’d had to let my gym membership slide since I gave up work I still felt pretty fit. But did I look like I was about to turn forty, like a man who was statistically over halfway through the only life he was ever going to live? I shuddered at the thought and from that point on did my best to stop thinking.
     
    After I showered I made myself a cheese and ham sandwich and plonked myself in front of the TV where I remained until I heard Lauren’s key in the front door.
    ‘Are you hungry?’ I called. She was still wearing her black winter overcoat and boots. Her hair was tied away from her face, and with her tightly pursed lips she looked every inch the business professional.
    ‘I ate earlier but thanks anyway.’
    ‘How about a drink? I bought a bottle of that Shiraz you like. You know the one—’
    ‘Have you thought any more about what we spoke about?’ she said, talking over me.
    I set down my sandwich.
    ‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘one of us should move out and I think it should be me.’
    She looked relieved. I don’t think she’d ever dared imagine that getting me to move out would be this easy after all this time.
    ‘That’s really good of you.’
    ‘It’s not like I have much choice.’
    ‘Well no . . . but even so . . . it’s appreciated.’ She looked down guiltily. ‘Have you any idea where you’re going to go?’
    ‘To Birmingham.’
    Lauren looked horrified, probably because I’d always insisted that past the age of twenty-one moving back in with your parents is a guaranteed route to insanity.
    ‘Are you sure that’s the right thing to do? Couldn’t you just find a place here in London for a while and then start putting your CV out there? You’d walk into a job in no time and when the house sells you could move on.’
    I’d done my thinking and I wasn’t about to be swayed by anyone. ‘I’ve told you a million times, Lauren, I’m never going back to that kind of work. It nearly broke me. I can’t do it again even if it will save me from having to spend the last days of my thirties living with my parents. I want my next job to be different. Something fulfilling. Something that doesn’t deaden my soul. So while I work out exactly what that might be I’m going to go home, see my folks, catch up with some old mates and . . . turn forty with as much dignity as I can muster. And maybe, by the time I’ve dealt with the big four-oh, the house will be sold, and you and I can finally . . . well, it’s like you said, isn’t? We’ve done the hard bit, we just need to push on through.’
    She seemed to accept my speech at face value, which was a relief, because had I told her my real reason for going home she’d think that I was completely insane. In truth I was heading back to my home town because I was pinning all hopes for a brighter future on an old on/off girlfriend who I first kissed at a school disco when I was seventeen.

6
    I would never have spoken to Ginny Pascoe if it hadn’t been for fellow student and lanky half-brained narcissist Dave Harriett pushing his tongue down the throat of Amanda Dixon (dressed that night in the garb of the day: black top, short denim skirt, thick black woollen tights, black ankle-length Doc Martens boots and cheap silver