The Single Life. Liz Wood

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      Clare didn’t respond in kind. Her features seemed sterner, and she shook her head emphatically. “It’s not over. Not all of it, anyway. It’s time for you to say goodbye to one part of your life and move on to the next.” She blew out slowly, then continued in a more restrained tone. “I mean, it’s not as if we just have a single shot at doing something with our lives.”

      Alice nodded. “Or one way of living it.”

      “I can’t. I’m just not cut out for any other kind of life. I really don’t think I can manage this…this…this single life.” Lauren pointed at the air, as if to provide a clearer idea of what she was talking about.

      “You don’t know that until you’ve tried,” Alice said. “Things change, and we keep on living.”

      “That’s easy for you to say. You still have your life, the one you’ve always had, the one you’ve always wanted.”

      “Not exactly.”

      Alice sounded almost wistful, but Lauren knew that wasn’t possible. She was projecting her own failures and disappointments onto her friend. Alice really did have everything—a career on track, a husband who obviously loved her more than ever and two children, living close enough to visit, whose only contact didn’t have to be through the telephone or the Internet.

      “You think your life is over when you could be entering one of the most exciting periods,” Alice continued. “Just think of all the exciting, new places you could visit, the fun things you could do, the great guys you could meet.”

      “Men are not interested in me.” Lauren waved her hands over her chest, where, even with a firm under-wire bra, her breasts sagged. She didn’t need to point at the rest of her. She was obviously a dismal heap.

      “You don’t know that,” Clare said. “You haven’t bothered to get in touch with that writer who your agent Louise has been trying to set you up with.”

      “Or that guy who Chrissie has been wanting you to meet,” Alice added. “She certainly thinks someone might be interested in you.”

      “Chrissie’s just being a good daughter,” Lauren replied. “Nothing can shake her faith in me.”

      “So learn from her and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your life isn’t over. It’s just beginning. Think of it as…as…as…” Alice’s face suddenly brightened. “I know, as the dawning of a new age.”

      Alice must be listening to Frank’s old albums, Lauren thought, bemused. She wanted to remind her friend how outdated that kind of talk was. But Alice seemed so sincere, Lauren didn’t have the heart. Besides, she suddenly realized how hard Clare and Alice were trying, for her sake. Surely, the least she could do was listen.

      “Go ahead,” she said, forcing herself to smile at the concerned faces. “Explain.”

      “It’s just a question of changing your attitude. Your husband walked out? Good riddance,” Alice said.

      “That’s what I would say. What I say.” Clare nodded approvingly. “I mean, come on Lauren, think of what Charles did to you. It’s not as if he was ever really there for you. You know that.”

      Alice leaned forward. “Besides, now you don’t have to waste your time socializing with his colleagues at those silly dinner parties you hated.”

      This time, Lauren’s smile was genuine. “I did hate them.”

      Charles had always argued that part of his career depended on pleasing the people he worked with. So Lauren had accepted the role of hostess, even when it hadn’t been what she wanted. She certainly didn’t miss that part of her former life!

      “See what I mean?” Alice said. She tilted her head slightly. With her mousy curls framing her face, she suddenly looked cherubic, despite her fifty-something years.

      “Maybe.” Lauren shrugged her shoulders. “But that’s just one thing. What about everything else?”

      Clare opened her mouth, then closed it to smile at the waiter, returning to check on them. Alice asked for more bread.

      “About Charles…” Clare began when the waiter left.

      “No, forget about him.” Lauren waved her hands. “He wouldn’t matter so much if I could finish this book. What about not being able to write? That has never happened to me. Never. Not even when Chrissie was a baby, and Jeff was three, and between the two of them, I was up all night and all day. I was exhausted, but I wrote. Nothing memorable, of course, but I wrote. I can’t even do that now.”

      The two women exchanged glances. Clare shrugged, and Alice spoke.

      “Maybe you’re writing about the wrong thing. When the kids were small, what did you write about?”

      “Them. Me. Parenting. Our lives. Stuff like that. Like I said, most of it was pretty bad, but it gave me a routine that I could stick to. Now, I can’t think of a paragraph, a sentence, a word to put down.”

      Alice smiled sympathetically. “I understand. But the book you won the award for was about the house, your family, the people and things you love, right?”

      “Autobiography of a House? Yes, you could say that.” Lauren narrowed her eyes, realizing where Alice was going. “But my current project, My Mother’s Garden, is about the same sort of thing. Only this time, I just can’t write. So there goes your theory.”

      “Maybe you’ve said all you have to say about it,” Alice continued. “Start thinking about something else and maybe you’ll begin to write again.”

      “That would be great if it weren’t for a little thing called a contract,” Lauren said.

      Alice looked at Clare for help.

      “Be inventive. Your editor has agreed to extend the deadline, hasn’t she?” Clare began, then paused as the waiter arrived with the bread and waited for him to leave. “Like I was saying, maybe you can persuade your editor that this other topic—the one you are going to come up with—is really great. Talk to your agent. Talk to Louise. That’s what she’s there for.”

      “You make it sound so easy, Clare. It’s not.”

      “I never said it was.” Clare’s hands thumped lightly against the tabletop. “I just said you have to think about things differently. It’s a start.”

      “Maybe.” Lauren picked up her fork again and pushed it around her plate, shaping the untouched food into a mound. “But here’s the real test. What do I do about the house?”

      Alice looked at Lauren’s plate. “Have some bread. It’s whole wheat, the kind you like. Go ahead. Dip it in the yogurt sauce.”

      Alice did just that, but Lauren didn’t follow suit. Instead she watched, enjoying Alice’s obvious pleasure in the food, despite her own dark mood.

      “Go on, Lauren. Have some.” Clare helped herself to some bread and dipped it in the sauce. “We don’t want you missing out on a good thing. That’s what you said to me the first time you brought me here. Remember?”

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