Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

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      ‘I suppose. I can’t help but wonder how he is, how his life has been in the last forty years. He looked good in his profile photo.’

      ‘In a fantasy, you can imagine him as perfect, but spend a bit of time with him and you’ll probably find he’s as flawed as the rest of us.’

      ‘Maybe. And not only him – me too. Sorry, I know it’s a silly dream. I just wanted to talk to you about it. I know I’m older now, no longer the young girl he’d remember me being. I’ve changed, and not only appearance-wise.’

      ‘Cait, you look great, always do.’

      ‘He might be disappointed if we met up. I couldn’t bear that. No. I know, better to leave the past in the past where it has the rosy glow of nostalgia, though sometimes I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if Chloe Poshgirl Porter hadn’t appeared.’

      ‘Who was she?’

      ‘The woman he left me for. Sorry. I know, it’s going over old ground. What could possibly be gained by accepting his friend request but trouble? Deep inside, I do know that, but I don’t know what to do to improve things with Matt. Any advice?’

      ‘Seriously?’

      ‘Seriously.’

      ‘OK. Here’s the ex-GP speaking. Work on your marriage. Do what you can to improve things. Delete the request from Tom. Come over soon and we’ll have a proper chat. In the meantime, stop acting like an idiot and get on with your life.’

      ‘Advice noted,’ I said. She was right, and talking to her had helped clarify my thoughts.

      After our call, I was about to log into Facebook to delete Tom’s request, but first got up and went to the window to pull the curtains. As I did, I noticed a man zigzagging his way up the middle of the road, clearly very drunk. He looked vaguely like Matt. Christ, that is Matt, I thought as he got closer. What the hell is he doing?

      I ran downstairs, grabbed the door keys and went out into the street. ‘Matt, Matt,’ I called. ‘Are you OK?’

      He didn’t hear, and continued to stumble his way up the road, then he saw me and waved.

      ‘Harro, Cait,’ he called as he managed to get on the pavement then half fell into a laurel hedge next door.

      ‘Where have you been?’ I asked as I went to pull him out and back onto his feet.

      ‘Duncan. Drink. Cheer m’up,’ he slurred and laughed. ‘Bit pissed.’ He stank of red wine and beer.

      ‘Did you walk home?’

      ‘Nhh. Think so. Not. Taxi,’ he said, as he swayed back towards the bushes.

      I hauled him back again. ‘Why didn’t you get the cab to drop you at our door?’

      Matt grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Dunno. Dropped me at end of road … ’membered live near here.’

      I opened our gate, put his arm round my shoulder and walked, half carrying him, to the porch, where I leant him against the wall while I put my keys in to open the front door. ‘Harro, Cait, I bloody love you,’ he said with a big smile. ‘Lovely lovely Cait. Poor Cait. Sorry.’

      He slid down onto the porch floor, then keeled over so that he was lying on the ground, where he turned on his side and curled into a sleeping position. In all the time we’d been together, I’d never seen him so drunk.

      ‘Not yet, you can’t sleep there,’ I said, and tried to lift him. He was too heavy so I grabbed his wrists and, with some effort, dragged him inside.

      ‘Wheee,’ said Matt as I pulled him in over the threshold. ‘Oof. Back. Mind my back.’

      Once inside, I let go and caught my breath. ‘Come on, Matt, let’s get you to bed.’

      ‘Okee dokee. Bed.’

      ‘You have to get up.’

      Matt looked bewildered at this request. ‘Up? How?’

      ‘Roll onto your side, push yourself onto your knees and get up.’

      Matt attempted to do this but failed. ‘Woo, bit wobbly,’ he said as he tried again. As he floundered about, he let out a loud fart.

      ‘Urgh, Matt,’ I groaned and wafted the air.

      Matt seemed to find this hilarious and lay back on the floor laughing. ‘Sorry, sorry, oops.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Smell. Sorry.’ He turned on his side. ‘OK. Going to sleep now.’

      ‘Fine, you do that.’ I went into the sitting room and found a blanket, which I took back and threw over him.

      ‘I bloody love you,’ said Matt, then promptly fell asleep.

      ‘Don’t forget you’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning,’ I said.

      But he was gone.

      I watched him for a few moments. And there he is, my husband, my partner, the man I have chosen, I thought as he let out another loud fart then started snoring. ‘Who said romance is dead?’ I said as I stepped over him and headed upstairs. Maybe I wouldn’t delete Tom’s request just yet after all.

      Once up in my study, I opened my laptop, found the Facebook page and the request area, where my fingers hovered over the choice whether to Confirm or Delete Tom as a friend. What harm would there be in just seeing how he was doing? Say hello, what have you been up to for the last forty years? That’s all. It would be impolite to ignore his request, wouldn’t it?

      Confirm? Delete? Confirm? Delete? If I accepted him as a friend, Lorna might see him on my Facebook page, and she’d just advised me to delete his request. Worse still, Debs might see him, want me to hook her up. She’s on Facebook every day, sometimes twice.

      No, I should delete, I told myself. I have a husband and, even though he’s lying downstairs in a drunken stupor, it’s not something he does often; in fact, I can’t remember him ever having done it to this degree before.

      I was staring at the screen and suddenly realized that, although my privacy settings meant that friends only could see my page, Tom would have seen my profile picture. I groaned. It was a photograph of Debs and me, taken one evening last year at a Chinese restaurant. We’d thought it would be hilarious if we put chopsticks up our nostrils and take a selfie. Not the image I’d have wanted Tom to see after so long, but too late for that.

      I scrolled down to my photos that could be seen by friends. There were lots of me acting the fool, cross-eyed in one, dressed as a nun and flashing a leg at a friend’s birthday in another, at a bad angle in another in my baggy gardening clothes and waterproof hat in the rain. Thank God he hadn’t seen those but, looking at mine, I was more curious than ever to look at his life now, look at any photos he’d posted.

      I set about deleting the unflattering shots and downloaded a couple of me dressed up for various occasions, looking more glamorous. And why are you doing this? I asked myself. You’re going to delete his request, aren’t you? And if not, why do you even СКАЧАТЬ