Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word Read Online Free

you go along.”
    “Aah, I see, grazing areas. Like for cows. Or sheep. Now I get it. A kind of farmyard theme, although I’d been thinking more
     Moroccan myself.”
    Pam gushed on regardless. “You’re so lucky to have the open plan with that
divine
conservatory” (more like a lean-to, but never mind), “which is just perfect for parties.”
    I hoped I hadn’t made a big mistake. Pam always was too creative to spend her days correcting punctuation, but maybe this
     was all getting a bit out of hand. “Delicious morsels of sustenance,” for heaven’s sake.
    “I think we’ll have a shellfish station, a cocktail bar, and several hot-food stations with a choice of dishes. All served
     on these dinky little dessert plates I have at the back of my van. It’s going to be quite
divine
.”
    Pam never used to use the word “divine,” either. I was mystified but impressed. I learned that the correct nomenclature for
     this new style of serving was “miniature mains.” Our miniature mains were going to be lamb with mash and mint sauce, Thai
     fish curry with jasmine rice, and roasted vegetables with pesto dressing for the food-combining bores.
    “And a chocolate fountain, of course. With strawberries for dipping.”
    At least I’d heard of chocolate fountains. I’d even seen a picture in the paper of George Clooney dipping his strawberry at
     a premiere after-party. And I liked a bit of pretension every now and then. It was all beginning to shape up.
    I actually bumped into Ravi’s mum, Nomi, in Waitrose. I couldn’t resist asking her the fabric question, and I swear she immediately
     volunteered for the job of accompanying me to Southall. “Sari Central,” she called it. Olly’s right, in a way, about me and
     the other mums. I do like getting together with them, and we do talk mostly about our boys, but why shouldn’t we? It’s comforting
     to be told “Ravi’s so rude to me these days” or “James was found drunk in a gutter in Leicester Square.” Less comforting to
     hear that a boy from Olly’s year has been expelled for selling skunk to ninth-graders. Why on earth didn’t Olly tell me? What
     has he got to hide?
    A Saturday morning spent in Sari Central was a great success. Thanks to Nomi’s brilliance at bargaining, for fifty quid I
     bought enough material to drape the entire inside of the tent as well as having some left over to cover four tall bar-style
     round tables we’d hired to lend an air of louche nightclub glamour to the place.
    All this displacement activity was definitely doing the trick. I had no time at all to get morbid about what was about to
     hit. Christmas came and went with me playing the role of whirling dervish. Friends arriving from abroad. Food, drink, talk,
     more food, more drink, more talk. No chance for real intimacies, just exchanges of information. More catch up than cozy up.
     Busy, busy, busy. Going to work is a lot less exhausting.
    My mother says I bring it on myself. Not one to hold back, she’s convinced I’m heading for a breakdown. She has been predicting
     it for the last twenty-five years. Anita hopes I’m heading for a breakdown. I overheard her saying to Rupert after I’d served
     Christmas lunch for fifteen: “Hope always has to be one better than the rest of us, but I can see it’s beginning to take its
     toll.” Jack hasn’t mentioned breakdowns, but he has this new method of dealing with my more manic outbursts: “Whoa, girl,”
     he says, as though reining in an overexcited horse. The only time he doesn’t have to rein me in is in bed. In the meantime,
     my sister, Sarah, is a pillar of support. Claire, who’s come all the way from Australia, would be a pillar of support if only
     we could manage twenty minutes alone together.
    • • •
    At 7:45 p.m. on the night of the party, I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror inside my wardrobe. I should be pleased
     with what I see. For a woman who’s about four hours away from