From the Back Cover
"Women reach fifty and think they're on the verge of liberation
and excitement, and their broken-down men just want to stay home and fart.
Or in my case, go and live in a cabin in the Rockies and fart." Sally Howe
plans to spend her husband-free year trying her hand at becoming a wildly
successful author. But she's beset by distractions - the first being a
queue of local lotharios, led by young Billy Bathgate, village postmaster
with a tartan trouser habit and an obsession with drain rods. Warm, wise
and funny, "Plotting for Beginners" offers a wry evaluation of long-haul
marriages, plus a lesson on how to hit the menopause running and seize your
freedom when the family has gone.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
April
Tuesday 1st April
Gus has gone.
As a mark of tenderness he let me drive the car to the airport.
"Well I suppose you'll be doing it all year when I'm not here so at least I
can supervise your last practice."
"Cheeky sod," I said.
As I turned onto the A6 I said "Do you want me to run through everything
again?"
"Yes, just to calm me down."
So as I drove I explained again about checking in and then talked him
through all the procedures and destinations--customs, security, gate
numbers, Heathrow, Denver.
When we reached the security barrier we gave each other the biggest hug of
our lives.
"Just make sure you come back in one piece," I said. "I don't want to get
an email from Dan telling me you've been savaged by a bear."
"Will you be OK?" he said. "You know how long I've wanted to try this,
don't you?"
"Of course. Go on, you'd better go."
We kissed each other as if it were the last time (hark at me, I sound like
Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca). Then he walked off to be searched.
"I love you," I called after him.
"Love you, too."
I watched him go through the arch and collect his bag. He turned round and
caught my eye and grimaced. Then he put down his holdall and held out his
hands in front of him and made them shake, pretending to be even more
nervous than he was. Then he smiled and waved again, picked up his bag and
went.
I walked back to the café near the entrance, the one that smelled of
apricot and almond cookies. I treated myself to a celebratory pot of earl
grey tea because there was no-one to complain about the "extravagance." And
it felt like an occasion, so I bought a pack of shortbread fingers too. I
saw an empty sofa, which felt like a sign--a sofa is just what a newly
liberated writer needs. I got out my notebook and described the scene...the
waitress flirting with the Jon Snow look-alike in crushed corduroy suit and
exquisite arty tie, and the business woman who thought no-one could see her
flicking her nose-pickings under the table.
On the way home I played my Fred Astaire tape. I sang along to all the
songs and joined in the taps on the steering wheel, and there was no-one to
moan about the choice of music, or the taps. And when I got home I watched
Neighbours and no-one complained.
What fun! I have a whole year of this ahead.
The above is what I was expecting to write here tonight.
This is what I am writing...
I wanted to go to the airport starting on the A623 via Chapel-en-le-Frith,
but Gus preferred the "far superior route" via Buxton. There was no third
way. Balls to compromise. Compromise just means that at least one person is
unhappy. Sometimes it's both.
Once I got there I was dying for a cuppa but Gus said Thoreau would have
waited for a drink till he got back to Walden, and I should do the same.
We had a long-married, businesslike hug at the barrier.
"Just make sure you come back in one piece," I said. "I don't want to get
an email from Dan telling me you've been savaged by a bear."
"Will you be OK?" he said.
"Of course. Go on, you'd better go."
"Well," said Gus. "Just think. The next time you drop me off here I'll be
on my way to Australia."
"What?" I said.
"If the Rockies goes well, I'm planning on doing the same in Western
Australia."
"What?"
"It's another type of wilderness, and I thought--"
"If you're planning on going to the bloody Rockies for a year and coming
back and then going to Australia for another year we might as well be
separated."
"But isn't this year a kind of separation?"
"What?"
"You were so adamant you weren't coming with me. I did wonder if a trial
separation was what you were wanting."
"You wondered what? Are you mad?"
"I just thought--"
"OK. Why don't we? If you're planning on doing your Thoreau crap in every
wilderness in the world for the next ten years, why don't we treat this
year as a trial separation?"
"I only said Australia, I didn't say--"
"They're calling your flight number. Go on, piss off. See you next March."
He strode off without looking back. I stood there with my arms crossed and
watched him go.
I had been planning to listen to my Fred Astaire tape on the drive home,
singing along and doing all the taps with my hands on the steering wheel
but I didn't feel like it. I scrabbled around on the passenger shelf,
looking for something to suit my mood. I ended up putting on a Loudon
Wainwright tape of Sam's that was lurking in there. The first track was I'm
Alright (without you). I joined in very loudly.
I've just rung up to cancel The Times and order The Recorder. There'll be
no more monthly flipping between the two. And I'm having something really
smelly for tea--maybe a kipper. Tonight I shall read in bed till midnight
and no-one will carp about the light. (Do I detect a fish motif? Is this
what Bodmyn Corner means by subtext?)
It's wonderfully quiet here.
Now it's make or break.
Double or drop.
