Confessions of a Forty-Something F**k Up

by Alexandra Potter

“I miss my career. I want a job. I need to use my brain.

“I haven’t told David yet. When we had children we always agreed one of us would stay home and do the childcare, and of course it had to be me; David earned so much more. Then after I had Izzy I got awful postpartum depression, and we were lucky to find Francisca to help out part-time. I don’t know what I would have done without her, but I still couldn’t imagine leaving them—”

2,437. The number on my screen stared out at me. I looked at it, peered a bit closer, wondered if I was missing a decimal point somewhere, then suddenly it registered. TWO THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVEN DOWNLOADS.

“When I was a child I thought my parents knew all the answers; in my twenties I was adamant I knew all the answers; now the older I get, I realize no one knows the answers.

“Oh my God! Nell! You’ve started a podcast? When? How? You clever girl! Why didn’t you tell us? Can I be on it?”

“I thought I was the only one who felt like this,” I confess.

“Adam’s the wrong man?” asks Michelle, as the table suddenly falls silent. Seeming to realize she’s spoken out loud, Holly hesitates, then— “It’s been pretty awful for a long time,” she confesses. “I can’t even remember the last time we had sex—” “Oh God, who can?” says Fiona supportively. “By the time David rolls in from work he’s always so knackered and I’m usually asleep.”

I don’t even think we like each other anymore.” Holly’s face seems to crumple. “The only reason I’m doing the triathlon is to try and get some control over my life . . . and so I don’t have to sit at home in that horrible atmosphere.”

“Sometimes when I go with Clementine to feed the ducks, I look at them on the pond and think we’re all just like them.”

“We’re gliding along on the surface, but underneath our legs are paddling furiously, trying to keep afloat.” I don’t need to look at my friends to know we’re all identifying with the image. Seriously. I’m a bloody duck.

“I wanted everything to be perfect. I thought if I could present this image to the outside world, it would be like that at home. I got to look at my life on social media and pretend it was my life.”

“Clive was fucking his secretary. My daughter was so desperate for attention she was bullying. And me?” She shakes her head. “I’m on antidepressants and yet another diet. I swear, I think I’ve been hungry since 1998.”

So now I’ve got nearly fifteen thousand listeners. Seriously. Pinch me. But the best reaction of all has to be Cricket’s. “That’s wonderful, Nell, I’m so proud of you.”

“Mum?” “Nell—” Hearing my voice, she bursts into tears. She’s hysterical. “Mum, are you OK? What’s happened?” Fear has me by the throat. “It’s your dad . . . there’s been a terrible car accident—” I can hear urgent voices in the background. “Mum?” “The police are here, he’s been airlifted to the hospital—” Her voice is drowning under thick, heavy sobs. “They say it’s really serious . . .” More voices. A sense of panic. “Mum, I can’t hear you—” “Nell, I’ve got to go . . . I’ll call you from the hospital.”

Dad died in the air-ambulance on his way to hospital. He had a cardiac arrest, and his heart stopped for six minutes before they managed to shock him back to life. For six whole minutes, while I sat on my bed three hundred miles away, hugging my knees to my chest and desperately waiting for Mum to call back with more news, my dad was officially dead. Thoughts don’t come more sobering than that.

I get the first train out of London. Dad’s been transferred to the city hospital for emergency lifesaving surgery.

Scans have revealed a catalog of injuries: a fractured leg, broken ribs, a punctured lung, a ruptured spleen, internal bl...

Nathalie went into labor last night, but their careful plans for a home birth were abandoned and she ended up being taken to the hospital. Their daughter was finally born this afternoon, “eight pounds two ounces and just perfect,” but in the hurry he’d left his phone at home.

“They’ve put him in an induced coma. We’ve just got to wait.”

Big sister. Looking after her little brother. Just like always. I hesitate. He can’t be here. His priority is Nathalie and the new baby. He has to protect them, just like I’ve got to protect him. Just like I’ve always done. “Yeah,” I say, pushing down my fears. Then firmer this time. “Yes, he’s going to make it.”

“Because whatever happens, it will be OK. You’ll be OK.”

“He’s going to pull through, you know. Your dad’s a fighter. Remember how he was when we first met? I was so scared.”

“I moved to San Francisco when you left. I’m head chef at a new restaurant. I get to plan the whole menu—I do my puttanesca with olives and capers and parsley that you love.” And I’m right back there again. Just Ethan and me.

Dad trusted me to think for myself. He believed in me. He’s always believed in me, even when I haven’t believed in myself.

I think about Dad. How since the day I was born, he’s been the one man in my life who’s always been there for me, never letting me down, loving me unconditionally, even during those teenage years of rows and shouting and slamming of doors.

Nothing bad could ever happen to me while he was alive, because he’s the net into which I can always fall. A world without him is unfathomable.

“Nell!” Someone calls my name and I whip around. And that’s when I see him, walking toward me. “Edward?” I peer at him in the dawn light, in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” He looks disheveled, as if he’s slept in his car. “I got here as soon as I could.” I almost weep with relief. I have never been so grateful to see anyone in my whole life. “But . . . how?” “I drove through the night. I was worried, I didn’t hear from you.” My mind is grappling. “But how did you know where to find us?” “You told me the name of the hospital on the train, remember.”

And in that moment, I know I will love him forever for doing that. Not love in the romantic sense, but love in the true, deep sense of the word. Without even being asked, he’s driven through the night to be here for me. So I can lean on him when I need to lean on someone the most in my life. In the most desperate of times. When I thought I was alone. He was here. Waiting for me. And if that’s not real love, I don’t know what is.

I’ve come to meet Ethan. I’m not sure why I agreed. I told Fiona it was because I’m curious. Liza, because I wanted closure. Cricket, because it’s only a drink. What I didn’t tell anyone is that I also want to see if I still love him. Oh, Nell.

“What did you tell him?” “That you left me.” I raise my eyes to meet his. “That I screwed up. That I lost the best thing that ever happened to me . . .”

“Come home, Nell.”

my podcast has gone viral.

Still, it would be amazing if one day I could get paid for doing something that I love. Because I do love doing my podcast, and I love all my listeners and I’d love to keep doing it, only bigger and better. Because if what started out as me just trying to be truthful and tell it like it is has struck a chord with other people feeling just as flawed and confused as I do—and if in some small way it’s helped by showing them they’re not alone; that I’m here and I hear them—then that’s the biggest bonus of all.

I think these are the real moments in life. The small, unscripted moments that don’t need any photographs or likes; these are the moments that matter.

but if we’re both honest, things weren’t right between us before we lost the baby. That was just the catalyst.

I’m not coming back, Ethan. It’s not my home anymore. My life is here. But never doubt that I loved you very much, and I will never forget the good times or your puttanesca ☺

And Edward is kissing me and I’m wondering why it took us so long.

When I saw Edward in the parking lot the next morning, it was like the flicking of a switch. Something had changed.

Because instead of seeing Edward I saw this kind, wonderful, selfless, gorgeous man, and I knew I didn’t ever want to be without him. And I realized that just when you think you’ve finally got it all figured out, you haven’t even started.

I’ve found friendship and joy in the unlikeliest of places. I’ve discovered a strength I never knew I had, and a sense of humor that I know will never fail me. I’ve realized that I’m not alone, I still don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and guess what? Nobody else does either. And I’ve fallen in love.

My messy, flawed, perfectly imperfect life.

“I think I love you.” There. I’ve said it. Because what I’ve come to realize is that real, true love is the most romantic kind of love you can think of.

“Well, that’s lucky, because I think I’ve loved you since the moment you walked into my kitchen.”

My loving friends, being able to buy myself flowers, and great sex with Edward when we’re not too knackered and the thermostat is set to 68.

Snuggles with my niece, who showed her proud Auntie Nell that loss is all part of life, that love is infinite, and that nobody knows what’s going to happen in the future but whatever it is she’ll be just fine.

All the lovely listeners of my podcast, Monty’s play, which is opening in the West End in the summer, my role in the Monty’s Mini Libraries scheme that Cricket is rolling out, and my new newspaper column. It isn’t how I used to define a high-flying career, but it’s pieces of different things that I love and give me fulfilment,

My little apartment, in which I intend to squash all my friends for a housewarming when I finally get the keys, where they will exclaim over my clever mix of junk-shop finds and IKEA while eating takeout off their knees,

This feeling of strength and calm that comes from realizing you’re never really going to know what the hell you’re doing but it’s never too late to start over. Because it’s only when you are ready to surrender the life you thought you were going to live that you finally get the life you were always meant to live.**

Nell Stevens, who fought a long and brave battle against feeling like a forty-something fuck up, has died.

a woman who never really knew what the hell she was doing or how on earth she’d gotten here.