Turning Forty Read Free

open jars half filled with turpentine and paintbrushes and, of course, the icing on the cake, multiple kids’ bikes all with flat tyres.
    A noise from behind me alerted me to the fact that I was no longer alone. I turned to see that Lauren had joined me. As befitting the weather she was dressed in a lightweight jacket and jeans. She looked beautiful and I wanted her to want to come closer and kiss me but she didn’t move.
    ‘So is this it?’
    I nodded. ‘What do you think?’
    ‘It looks nice,’ she said unconvincingly (I was well aware of Lauren’s true feelings about my shed but at this point it was all water off a duck’s back). She drew a deep breath and added quickly, ‘Can you spare a minute? I just need a word with you about something.’
    ‘Can it wait?’ I kept my eyes firmly on the shed, ‘I really want to get the shed organised.’
    ‘Oh, come on Matt, it’s just a shed.’
    ‘Not to me, OK?’
    She put a hand on my arm.
    ‘But I really need to talk to you.’
    ‘And like I said, now is not a good time.’
    ‘Just a few moments.’
    ‘I’m busy.’
    ‘Matt!’
    She was crying now but I still didn’t turn round.
    ‘We need to talk, Matt, we need to talk right now! Can’t you see it? Can’t you see that I don’t love you any more?’
    I finally allowed my gaze to shift to her tear-streaked face.
    ‘Of course I can. What do you think I am, blind?’
    ‘Then why didn’t you say something?’
    I looked at my shed, and then back at Lauren and without another word I headed back indoors.

3
    Lauren and I met in Australia eight years ago. Our meeting had followed on from what I can only describe as a period of extreme transition which had begun when I’d split up with my live-in girlfriend, Elaine, while living in New York. Thousands of miles from home, with a thirtieth birthday looming, I’d packed my bags and bought a one-way ticket back to the UK.
    Safe in the arms of friends and family in Birmingham I set about trying to turn thirty without losing the plot. And it worked, up to a point. Although there was a major complication where I briefly mistook the hazy warmth of nostalgia for something more, thankfully everything came good in the end. Fresh to thirtydom, I embarked on a new chapter of both my professional and personal life in Oz; and as most of my contemporaries were settling down and starting families I opted instead to get to the top of my game. I’d always worked hard but suddenly I upped a gear, always the first to arrive in the mornings and regularly working late in the evenings. When it came to weekends I spent more time in the office than anywhere else. In short I became a workaholic but as it was the only thing that seemed to give my life meaning I decided that the best thing I could do was just go with it. My increased work ethic did not go unnoticed and not only did I get paid very well, but I also climbed up the career ladder very quickly indeed.
    One night a group of colleagues and the strategic business consultants with whom we’d been locked in a conference room for the best part of the day suggested that we all go for a wind-down at a bar near our office. Tempted as I was to say, ‘Actually, I think I might stay here and go through these development reports,’ I found myself saying, ‘Yeah, fine. I could do with a break.’ It’s a good job I did, because that was the night I met Lauren.
    ‘Rumour has it you’re the hardest-working employee at the company,’ she said, taking a seat next to mine. Her accent was English, Home Counties to be exact, which wasn’t that much of a surprise given the international make-up of companies like Benson-Lawless.
    ‘And you are?’ I hadn’t meant to sound abrupt. I was genuinely interested. The Benson-Lawless people had been coming into our offices for months for various meetings and consultations and I’d never had a conversation with one of them that wasn’t work-related.
    ‘Lauren Murray, strategic analyst for