The Guilt Trip(15)

When Ali looks at her, laughing at something she can’t hear because the roar of self-doubt circumnavigating her brain is so much louder, Rachel wonders what she sees. Has all trace of the ambitious career woman, who loved to live spontaneously, all but vanished? Has it been replaced by a wholesome motherly figure who looks like she spends her days knitting and listening to classical music?

But I’m still in here, her twenty-one-year-old self silently shouts, as she fingers the buttons on her white shirt, wondering whether, in her efforts not to look like mutton dressed as lamb, she’s now dressing like an old lady instead. Her eyes settle on her legs, encased in dark skinny denim, though she doesn’t see how slim they are or how long they go on for. Why would she, when she’s solely focused on pulling herself apart?

On good days, she can appreciate herself for what she is; a forty-two-year-old mother of one who goes to the gym whenever she can force herself to and eats healthily and whose only vice is a chocolate digestive with her cup of tea every morning. But on bad days, like the one she’s only just realized she’s having today, she wonders whether it’s all worth it, when everyone else will only ever see her as a woman who’s past her best.

She’d lamented her fears when she’d met up with Paige a couple of weeks ago, after her own attempt at holding back the years.

“I just think I should try it on my forehead,” Rachel had said, as she looked in awe at Paige’s wrinkle-free brow. “Just to see what difference it makes.”

“You don’t need Botox,” Paige had said, through a mouthful of garlic bread.

Rachel would probably agree, but she was feeling under increasing pressure to join the thousands of women who were erasing ten years of life and laughter from their faces.

“Nor do you, but you still have it done every three months,” she said.

“This is my mask,” Paige had said. “My poker face for when I’m at work.”

“So, it’s got nothing to do with wanting to recapture your youth?” Rachel had teased.

“If you’re doing it for that reason, then I think that’s where it starts to go wrong, because you just keep wanting more and more. Anyway, I don’t know why you’d want to turn the clock back—Jack loves you just the way you are.”

She was right about that. Jack loved her, warts and all. In fact, he was dead against her doing anything to “enhance” herself, but it still didn’t make her feel any more secure when she was around women like Ali.

As she looks at her now, with her boosted bosom and inflated pillow lips, Rachel wonders whether even women like her are happy in their own skin. While an onlooker might see a beautiful, overly confident woman, might Ali still see the person who’s hiding inside, when she looks in the mirror? If she does, Rachel feels a rare moment of empathy with her. It’s exhausting trying to be the person you think you want to be, when all you really want is to be happy being the person you are.

“Be careful what you presume,” says Rachel, looking at Ali. “You never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

“Steady on,” says Jack, laughing nervously. “I don’t think anybody needs the rundown.”

“Oh, I think we do,” says Ali, leaning forward, all ears.

“So, Jack…” starts Rachel, to a chorus of “whoas.” It’s hard to tell who they’re coming from among the calls of “TMI,” “go on” and “urgh, he’s my brother.”

“Spill,” urges Ali, talking to Rachel, but looking at Jack.

“I’ll spare his blushes,” says Rachel. “But we’re having a very nice time at the moment, aren’t we?”

Jack looks around awkwardly.

“Come on,” says Ali. “You’re among friends. If we can’t tell our friends about the fun we have, who can we tell?”

“You might want to think about keeping it to yourself,” says Paige, sagely.

Normally, Rachel would agree with her, but after Ali’s assumption that she and Jack are doing the missionary position, and only on Wednesdays, she feels compelled to put her straight.

She wants to say that since Josh had left home for university, all she and Jack ever seemed to do was have sex. They’d shared candlelit baths, being serenaded by Marvin Gaye; she’d unzipped him one Sunday afternoon while he was sitting in the lounge reading the paper, and he’d even interrupted the unloading of the dishwasher last week, apparently unable to wait until they were in bed.

“Well, since Josh has been gone, we’ve not known quite what to do with ourselves, have we?” She chastises herself for making it sound as if their sex life had been dead up until then. “Of course, once Josh was old enough to go out to parties, we’d have a bottle of champagne with dinner, and a naughty session of foreplay in the living room, just because we could.”

Ali shakes her head, as if she’s shocked. “I gotta give it to you Rach, you’re a dark horse.” She laughs to herself. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

Relishing in her newfound role of surprising people, Rachel goes on. “Though, that came to a rather abrupt end the night Josh and his mates couldn’t get into the pub, so decided to come back to ours instead.”

She smiles at Jack, but his eyes stay focused awkwardly on the flickering flames of the fire.