I’ve decided Liza is right – I need to make more of an effort to get out – so a few days ago I took matters in hand.
‘A concert?’ Fiona balked at me across her kitchen island, after I rushed around to hers with a surprise.
‘It’s an Eighties reunion concert!’
As teenagers, Fiona and I were huge fans of all the big Eighties bands. But we only discovered our shared love when we both turned up to a fancy dress party at Fresher’s Week, sporting backcombed hair, neckerchiefs and dungarees. She was Siobhan from Bananarama; I was Kevin from Dexy’s Midnight Runners. When I discovered lots of our favourite artists had reunited for a tour, I was so excited.
‘When is it?’
‘This Saturday. And guess what? I managed to get us two tickets!’
This would make it up to her for all those gifts of books and candles over the years. Fiona loves these bands. Some of the biggest stars of the Eighties are performing. She’s going to be over the moon.
There was a pause. I suddenly doubted my impulsiveness. I should have checked first.
‘Oh Nell, I’d love to, but I’m busy that night.’
‘Even if Robert De Niro’s waiting?’ I joked, trying to conceal my disappointment.
‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m going to the Savoy.’
‘Oh, wow. Fancy!’
‘I know, right?’ she agreed. ‘It’s the charity fundraiser I was telling you about that Annabel’s organized.’
Suddenly my enthusiasm popped, like a balloon.
‘Annabel?’
‘Yes, her husband’s company bought a table, but he’s had to go away on business so she asked me as her plus one—’
‘Right, yes. Of course.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s fine. I know it’s last minute. I just thought . . .’ I trailed off. I felt foolish. What was I thinking? That we were going to dress up in dungarees and backcomb our hair like we did when we were eighteen? Fiona couldn’t go gallivanting off at the drop of a hat to a concert with her desperate old fart of a friend. She had some swanky fundraiser at the Savoy to go to. With Annabel.
‘What about Holly?’ she suggested.
‘Does she like Eighties music?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll find someone who wants a free ticket.’
Except I couldn’t. All my friends already had plans or couldn’t get a babysitter. I did think about going by myself. I used to love taking myself off to movie matinees when I lived in New York. But showing up alone to a concert and singing along to some of the greatest hits of my youth felt different, so I decided to resell the tickets and accept I’d lose about a hundred quid.
Then I had an idea.
‘I haven’t been to a pop concert for years!’
Cricket looks across at me excitedly as we make our way into the arena.
‘I hope you like the music.’
‘I do already! I downloaded Now That’s What I Call The 80s in the Uber and listened to a few songs on the way here, instead of my podcast.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, impressed.
I invited Cricket at the last minute. With only a few hours to go, I was about to sell my tickets on eBay when I remembered her telling me how she had no one to do things with now her friends had all died, and on impulse sent her an email. She emailed me straight back saying she’d be delighted, and got straight in a cab to meet me.
‘The one about Vienna was my favourite. Monty and I used to love going there to the opera—’
And now I want to ask her a million questions, but she’s already at the bar ordering a couple of drinks, after which we head to our seats. If I was worried about Cricket managing the stairs, I needn’t be. She bounds up them in giant strides. Best of all, she’s still wearing her paint-splattered dungarees, as she’d been in the middle of decorating when she’d received my email and hadn’t had time to change. She couldn’t look more the part.
‘My, isn’t this fun?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, hurrying to keep up with her. It’s more fun than I’ve had in ages. I look around at the audience, which is buzzing with anticipation. It’s a mix of young and old, but none as old as Cricket, though she seems completely unfazed. In fact, I’m not sure she’s even noticed.
‘Did you and your fellow go to concerts?’
‘No, Ethan didn’t like live music,’ I say, and realize it’s the first time I’ve been able to bring myself to say his name. ‘He always complained they never sounded as good, and it was better to listen to their albums at home.’
‘And that, my dear, is reason enough not to marry him,’ she smiles, and despite the ache I feel inside, I smile too.
‘We had a lot of differences,’ I acknowledge.
‘Differences can make or break a marriage. Often the differences you love in the beginning can be the reasons you want to murder them five years later.’
I laugh. For the first time, I can actually laugh about it.
She drums her fingers on her knees impatiently. ‘So when are they coming on?’
‘I’m not sure. Soon, I think.’
‘Oh how marvellous . . .’ Her eyes grow wide and, taking out her phone, she begins snapping photographs, then leans in towards me. ‘Shall we do a quick selfie?’
‘A selfie?’
‘It’s when you take a picture of yourself like this,’ she explains innocently, angling her phone out in front of us. ‘Smile!’
We end up taking quite a few selfies as we wait for the concert to start, while chatting about all kinds of things. From tales about Monty and the time they were offered tickets to see a new band, but they’d never heard of them so went to the pictures instead – ‘and it turned out to be the Beatles, would you believe!’ – to the new podcast she’s listening to – ‘my favourites are true crime’ – to an exhibition she wants to see at the V&A – ‘I don’t know if you’re interested, but I’m a member so I can take in a free guest . . .’
It’s really quite refreshing. As much as I love my friends, I can’t quite join in their conversations about children and husbands and home improvements. At my birthday lunch, school catchment areas were mentioned and it was like a black hole everyone disappeared into, until the waiter rescued us with grated parmesan and the large pepper grinder.
Then the house lights go down and the strobe lights go up, and suddenly one of my all-time favourite bands is on stage, singing and dancing, and Cricket is straight up on her feet. A few people behind tell her to sit down, but she just says politely, ‘If I sit down, my dear, I may never get up again,’ and carries on jigging around delightedly.
Good for her; at eighty-something she’s earned the right to dance at a concert.
Meanwhile, I’m not so brave and remain pinned to my chair by the laser-like glares in my back from the people in the row behind us. Honestly, how can people come to concerts and not want to dance? I think about my teenage fan-self who had posters on her bedroom wall and backcombed her hair. What would she think if she saw me sitting here?
That does it. Sod This.
As they launch into one of their biggest hits, I take my cue from Cricket and jump up. At forty-something I’ve earned the right to dance too.
I’m grateful for: