Page 60 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

Wild Cherry

PLAY THAT FUNKY MUSIC

‘David, this is utterly bloody ridiculous!’

There came a determined bang on the bathroom door in answer. I bloody knew I shouldn’t have trusted his judgement on this. But blinkered by heartache – a solid excuse if ever there was one – I foolishly thought David might make an age-appropriate suggestion that didn’t render me quite so wildly uncomfortable. While I pushed and shoved and yanked at the dress, as though I might magically rearrange the length to something that didn’t expose an arse cheek, and the plunging neckline to something that didn’t expose the beginnings of cleavage wrinkles, I saw how bloody stupid I’d been.

‘Patricia, stop being a big girl’s blouse and show me.’

‘Abso-bloody-lutely not! Go in my wardrobe and find something else!’

It wasn’t that the dress wasn’t beautiful. It was a deep maroon colour with a floral print: big and bulging, wholesome flowers in creams and pale pinks that swam over the fabric. In terms of target audience, however, I thought David had missed the mark by at least twenty years.

‘Where did you get it?’ I pulled at the cleavage line again but to no avail. ‘New Look teen, or Gap for children?’

‘Patti’ – another two knocks – ‘just let me see you in the sodding dress. If it looks ridiculous, you know I’ll tell you.’

That much I didn’t doubt. What I did doubt, however, was what mine and David’s respective benchmarks were for ridiculous. I’d seen the man go out in sandals and socks before now, all the while thinking he looked perfectly fine.

‘How old was the woman who sold this to you? Did she compliment you, is that what happened?’

There was a long pause during which time I hoped that he was rifling through my cupboards for a different outfit. And yet…

‘It’s besides the point whether she complimented me or not.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I bloody knew it.’

‘Patti, will you just show me the–’

I yanked the bathroom door open and threw my arms wide. ‘Happy?’

‘I’ll say!’ David looked every bit like his eyes might pop out of his head. I re-imagined him as a Bugs Bunny figure: eyes on stilts, looking at a tail to chase. ‘Christ, Patti, you look… I mean… It just…’

‘Do you have anything to finish these sentences with?’

He reached forward to grab me by the shoulder and encouraged me into a twirl. ‘You look bloody marvellous. If I weren’t taking you out on the pull, then I’d be only too glad to call you my wife.’

‘We’re not going on the pull, David.’ I pushed past him and wandered back into my room, where I landed heavy on my bed and braced myself for the arduous task of strapping myself into shoes that would cripple me. ‘We’re just going out for a couple of drinks.’

‘On a Saturday night.’

‘On a Saturday night,’ I parroted, shoving a heel in.

‘To a gay bar.’

‘To a– What?’ My head snapped up and from my awkward angle of sitting, half-leaning, struggling to get a look at my husband, I’m sure I felt something in my right shoulder snap. That’ll be an ibuprofen in the morning. ‘I didn’t agree to a gay bar.’

‘But doesn’t it make life easier?’

I sat fully upright, narrowed my eyes. ‘Make life easier for what?’

He gestured, stuttered two false starts and then said, ‘You know, spotting the lesbians.’

‘That’s it.’ I kicked off the single shoe that I’d managed to get on. ‘I’m not going…’

* * *

In mine and David’s many years of marriage, I had discovered time and again that compromise was key. David wanted to take me for a night out and I wanted to wallow more about Sheila – who still wasn’t answering my calls – so we were going out. David wanted to buy me a new dress and I wanted to wear a comfortable old one: so I was wearing a dress designed for a teenager with an eating disorder. David wanted to take me to The Village gay bar on the outskirts of the city: so–