which indicates that he’s aware I’ve requested a level of formality and seriousness tonight.
There’s the usual kerfuffle of sitting down, then getting up again to get a bottle of beer, sitting down for a second time and getting up again to find the soy sauce and sitting down and then getting up again to get a jug of tap water.
When we finally settle, Adam asks, ‘So what is it that you wanted to talk about?’ There’s a hint of nervousness in his voice.
I’m grateful that I’m fortified with the best part of a bottle of Chardonnay. I decide to dive right in.
‘You know that I’m thirty next week –’
Adam drops his fork dramatically. ‘Oh, Fern-girl, is this about your birthday gig? Don’t worry, girlie, that’s all cool.’ Adam looks relaxed now; in an instant all signs of tension have sloshed from his face. ‘Jesus, Fern, I thought you wanted the big talk. I thought I was going to be kicked into touch, or that you were up the duff or you’d found the perfume bottle I broke.’ He starts eating again. Are all these things on a par? How does this man’s mind work? Before I get to ask him he adds, ‘The birthday thing is in hand.’
I’m torn. I’m delighted to hear that Adam has given my birthday celebrations any thought at all and I’m dying to ask him details but, on the other hand, I need to keep on track and I’d never planned to talk about the festivities – more the significance of the date.
‘Yeah, girl, Jess and Lisa are all over this birthday gig. I’m not sure exactly what’s going down but they tell me it’s going to be one hell of a night. One to remember.’
My blood pressure zooms sky-high again. So, Adam hasn’t put any thought into my birthday, my brilliant friends have bailed him out. God, the man is hopeless. I can’t deal with that right now, I need to stick to the point.
‘I don’t want to talk about the celebrations. I want to ask you what being thirty means. You know, what it means to you.’
Adam looks a bit startled. ‘Buggered if I can remember, girl. I’m thirty-two already. Too many drugs and too much drink have been imbibed for me to have clear memories of my thirtieth.’
‘Stop being an arse, Adam. We both know you don’t do drugs. I’m not one of your rock and roll buddies – you don’t have to pretend to be zanier than you are when you are with me. And will you please stop calling me girl, girlie or Fern-girl! Fern will do nicely; it is my name, after all!’
Adam always talks like this. He likes to pretend he’s much more hard-core than is actually the case.
‘But Fern-girl is what I call you. It’s like our thing,’ says Adam; he looks injured.
‘I’m not a girl. That’s my point.’
‘Oh fuck, this is about you getting old, isn’t it?’
‘I am not old,’ I insist indignantly and then a nanosecond later I add, ‘Yes. It is about that. In a way.’
‘Fern-gir – Fern, don’t worry, you don’t look your age.’
Even though I’m cross with Adam I can hear that he’s being sincere and trying to comfort me. He’s wide of the goal though. He reaches for my hand but I sulkily pull away. My point is he doesn’t act his age, that’s what’s annoying me.
‘You are beautiful, Fern. Really hot. All my mates want a piece of you. Mick was just saying what a great pair of tits you’ve got and he didn’t qualify it with “for her age” the way he does when he’s talking about Sharon Stone.’
I give myself whiplash snapping my face up to meet Adam’s so I can glare at him. He blushes, realizing that at this moment in time I’m not going to think it’s a compliment that all of Adam’s boozy, lazy mates want to shag me and have obviously discussed the matter at length. Plus, Sharon Stone has twenty years on me. A lifetime ago I might have thought that his comments were funny. Not now. A lack of judgement and an effort to clarify makes Adam stumble on, despite my glares.
‘What I mean, Fern, is that you could pass for twenty-six or even twenty-five in a dark room. You haven’t got flabby bits like other women your age. I think it’s all that hauling around buckets of flowers. And your height works for you because tall, athletic-looking women never look hunched