Page 3 of One Day at a Time

Chanel raised an eyebrow as high as her Botox would allow. ‘I think this might officially be the happiest anyone has ever been to see me.’

‘I’m always happy to see you,’ Sheena blurted truthfully, but even more so tonight. ‘I just thought you’d already have gone to meet Martha because I’m late. But you’re here – yay. And you’ll make me even happier if you tell me you’ve got a pair of black tights, size large, and preferably not diamond-studded ones that’ll cost me a fortune.’

Chanel’s boutique specialised in sensational special-occasion outfits – parties, proms, celebrations, awards, weddings, boss-lady board meetings and revenge frocks. She made no secret of the fact that the latter was her favourite category. Her designer dresses were fabulous, exclusive, expensive and way out of Sheena’s budget, so she admired them in the same way as she would art. Or Ryan Gosling. With reverence, appreciation and from a distance.

Chanel reached below the counter and pulled out a packet of the requested tights. Sheena could have hugged her, even when her friend said, ‘And I don’t know why you thought I’d have gone ahead, because we arranged to meet here. Martha is on her way.’

Sheena’s non-Botoxed brow furrowed as she took that on board. ‘We did? Oh shit, so we did. Honestly, the brain fog is real. Why did no one warn us about this? Why? All my mother ever said about this stage of life was that there was a thing called “the change” and she got through it by drinking tea laced with the occasional medicinal brandy and impulse shopping. She spent about a decade and a large chunk of her life savings in Marks and Spencer. And, apparently, she omitted small details like memory loss, thinning hair and the fact that my vagina is dryer than the Sahara.’

Chanel, always calm and logical, with the most deadpansense of humour, processed that. ‘You know there’s such a thing as oversharing? Too much information? I think vaginal discussions before we’ve had a bottle of wine hit that threshold.’

Sheena stepped into the changing room but left the curtain open so that she was shielded from the street while still able to continue the conversation as she whipped off her tights. ‘We once compared matching Brazilians at that salon on Hope Street. I think that over the years we’ve dispensed with any oversharing threshold.’

She pulled on her fresh tights and with it came a natural levitation of her mood. Half an hour ago, she’d been dealing with a gnarling twist of anxiety in her gut, but five minutes with one of her pals and already it felt like the world had stopped kicking her arse.

Back out in the boutique, she took a seat in the oversized green velour throne that sat in the corner and was usually occupied by bored husbands, while Chanel perched on the swivel seat behind the counter and touched up her make-up using a hand-held mirror with an LED light around the rim.

Sheena pulled out her make-up bag too, deciding to make a token effort in the grooming stakes. She swept her mass of red, prone-to-frizz, curls off her face and wrapped it in a bun, secured by the scrunchie that was a permanent feature on her wrist. Next, she delved into her bag for her favourite Mac red lipstick and dabbed it on as she said, ‘Okay, so do you want to hear about my latest perimenopause symptoms, my marital woes or shall I just cut to mapping out why I might be the worst relationship counsellor who ever had the audacity to advocate for the sanctity of marriage?’

‘I’ll take option number three please,’ Chanel declared, focusing on her mirror and her mascara application. ‘But do I get bonus points if I can guess the answer?’

‘No, because saying it out loud keeps me humble.’

Chanel was still laughing when Martha, the third member of their merry trio, burst in the door, harassed as always. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had to drop the twins at cheerleading practice and then Jackson at basketball and then I had to intervene in a fight between two blokes outside the train station. Don’t ask.’

Sheena turned to Chanel, lips pursed, feigning irritation. ‘And there was me trying to win the most dramatic entrance of the night.’

Martha flopped down on the only other seat in the room – a bench by the window that was generally used for trying on heels that cost more than the entire contents of Sheena’s footwear cupboard.

What Chanel was to glamour, Martha was to sensible shoes, appropriate outerwear and clothes that washed at forty degrees and didn’t require ironing, because ‘bugger that, I’m far too busy’. She was a high-school English teacher, between the extensive demands of running her house, ferrying her three teenagers around, walking her golden retriever and being a corporate wife who smiled on demand at business events.

As she struggled out of her ancient Barbour jacket, she requested more information. ‘Okay, what did I miss?’

Chanel swooped in with the answer. ‘Sheena was about to explain why she’s the worst relationship counsellor in existence.’

‘Oh, I’m here for that. I do love a bit of self-doubt. Keeps you humble.’

‘That’s exactly what I just said,’ Sheena retorted, grinning. This was why she loved the two women who’d been her friends since high school. It was the brutal honesty and merciless sarcasm of it all.

Martha tossed her jacket on to a square block at the feet of a mannequin dressed in Versace. ‘Okay, shoot. But I warn you, itopens the door for me to moan about being the worst mother of teenagers in existence. The Wi-Fi in my house has been broken for a week, so my darling ungrateful offspring have all had plenty to offer to that discussion.’

‘Excellent. You’re very welcome to join me in my self-pity.’ Sheena took a breath, exhaled, then cut right to the heart of it. ‘I just feel like such an absolute hypocrite. There I am, helping all these poor buggers to stick with their marriages, when my own is… is… I don’t know what it is, actually, but it’s definitely not happy. How can I provide a service that offers to help fix other relationships when I can’t even fix my own?’ Sheena didn’t miss the glance of consternation that passed between her friends and immediately switched to self-defence. ‘And, no, this isn’t just another one of my midlife rants. I know I’ve been irritable lately…’

‘You think? I hadn’t noticed,’ Chanel declared innocently, as she moved her wand on to her other eye.

‘But it’s just… it’s just a lot.’

Martha was a tad more empathetic. ‘Honey, it’s going to get better. You know it will. You can’t be married for as long as you and Gregor and not have some dips. You’ll come out of this, and everything will be great again. It always is.’

Sheena appreciated the positivity and she knew there was truth in what Martha was saying. Over the years, there had been many times in her marriage when she’d doubted their future together, but somehow they’d always made it through. This felt different, though. It felt… irreversible. And she didn’t know why. If they were Hollywood stars, their publicist would release a statement saying they’d ‘grown apart’ and ‘no other parties were involved’. Both were true. But the truest thing of all was that she knew she just wasn’t in love with him anymore. Hadn’t been for years. Maybe decades.

However, she wasn’t going to spoil her one night of the week with her pals by moaning about the rest of her life, so she pulled herself together and slapped on a smile. ‘So your input, my darling Martha, is that we go with blind faith and optimism then?’

‘Yes. And wine,’ Chanel cut in, as she glanced at her watch. ‘Talking of which, the table is booked, so we need to go.’

Chanel shooed them out, set the alarm, pulled down the shutters and then they linked arms as they made their way along Ingram Street and round to George Square to one of their favourite restaurants, Martha chattering away about the latest dramas in the life of a cheerleading and basketball mum.

Sheena listened and nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.