18. Decisions, Decisions

"DECISIONS, DECISIONS"

R osie stood in her kitchen, staring blankly at the kettle as if it might suddenly spring to life and offer sage advice. The events of the previous night at the pub swirled in her mind like a particularly chaotic tea leaves reading.

"Get a grip, Rosie," she muttered to herself, finally flicking on the kettle. "You're a grown woman, not a teenager trying to decide who to take to prom."

They'd had a lovely date the night before. After inauspicious beginnings, they had gone to the pretty Lebanese restaurant in Hampton Court, very near to where her daughter Mary lives. The food, the wine and company had all been great, and even though she had been incredibly embarrassed when Matt had told his father that Rosie's ex was in the bar, it had been great to discuss everything openly. In some ways, the whole thing had brought Mike and her closer together.

As if summoned by the promise of tea and drama, the doorbell rang. Rosie opened it to find Emma on her doorstep. She'd texted them last night to update her on the whole bar situation.

"Morning, sunshine!" Emma chirped, breezing past Rosie into the house. "I brought reinforcements." She held up a bag that clinked suspiciously. "Mimosa ingredients. It's five o'clock somewhere, right?"

Rosie raised an eyebrow. "It's 9 AM, Emma."

"Exactly. Prime mimosa time. Now, where do you keep your champagne flutes?"

Before Rosie could protest that she didn't, in fact, own champagne flutes (wine glasses from the local supermarket were more her speed), the doorbell rang again. This time, it was Lisa, Catherine, and Julie, each bearing their own contributions to what was apparently going to be an impromptu brunch.

"We thought you might want to talk about your hot date last night," Lisa explained, hefting a bag of groceries. "And possibly an intervention if Emma's already broken into the alcohol."

As they filed into the kitchen, Rosie felt a wave of affection for these women who had just turned her quiet morning of contemplation into some sort of geriatric hen party.

Soon, the kitchen was a hive of activity. Lisa had taken charge of cooking, wielding a spatula with the authority of a five-star chef. Julie was arranging flowers in what she claimed was a "symbolic representation of Rosie's emotional journey," but looked suspiciously like she'd just grabbed whatever was still alive in Rosie's neglected garden. Catherine was nervously rearranging the cutlery, occasionally shooting worried glances at Rosie as if expecting her to burst into tears at any moment.

And Emma, true to form, was mixing mimosas with the flair of a bartender and the heavy-handedness of... well, Emma.

"Right," Emma announced, placing a violently orange concoction in front of Rosie. "Drink up, darling. Nothing like a little liquid courage to kick-start the decision-making process."

Rosie eyed the drink warily. "Emma, I'm not sure getting sozzled before noon."

Emma waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Some of my best decisions were made under the influence. Did I ever tell you about the time I decided to take up pole dancing? Granted, I couldn't walk properly for a week afterwards, but the paramedic was very handsome."

"Ladies," Lisa interrupted, placing a platter of what appeared to be gourmet avocado toast on the table, "perhaps we should focus on Rosie's dilemma? Derek or Mike?"

Rosie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "When you put it like that, I feel like I'm on some terrible reality dating show. 'The Sexagenarian Bachelorette.'"

"Ooh, I'd watch that," Julie piped up. "Imagine the cocktail parties. Instead of roses, you could hand out... I don't know, reading glasses?"

"Or tubes of arthritis cream," Catherine added, warming to the theme. "'

As her friends dissolved into giggles, Lisa fought to instil some order.

"Alright, alright. Let's approach this logically. Rosie, why don't you tell us how you feel about Derek?"

Rosie took a sip of her mimosa (which was, predictably, about 90% champagne) and considered the question. "Derek... well, there's history there. Thirty years of marriage, raising Mary together. He knows me better than anyone."

"But?" Emma prompted.

"But," Rosie continued, "when I think about going back to that life... it feels like putting on an old sweater. Comfortable, familiar, but maybe not quite the right fit anymore."

Her friends nodded encouragingly.

"And Mike?" Catherine asked gently.

Rosie felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Mike is... he's unexpected. He makes me feel like I'm discovering parts of myself I didn't even know existed. But it's also scary. Starting something new at our age..."

"Oh, pish posh," Emma interjected. "Age is just a number. And in our case, it's a number that comes with a free bus pass and excellent discounts at garden centres."

This set off another round of laughter, but Rosie appreciated the sentiment behind Emma's words.

"The thing is," Rosie continued, "it's not just about choosing between Derek and Mike. It's about choosing who I want to be at this stage of my life."

Lisa nodded sagely. "That's very insightful, Rosie. So, who do you want to be?"

Rosie stood up, pacing the kitchen as she tried to articulate the thoughts that had been swirling in her mind. "I want to be someone who isn't afraid to take risks. Someone who embraces new experiences. I want to be the kind of woman who... who joins a salsa class on a whim, or decides to learn Mandarin just because she can."

"That's the spirit!" Emma cheered, raising her mimosa glass. "Live a little! Or in our case, live a lot in whatever time we've got left before our hips give out entirely."

"Emma!" Catherine admonished, but she was smiling.

Rosie continued, warming to her theme. "When I was with Derek, I was always somebody's wife, somebody's mother. And those are important parts of who I am, but they're not all of me. These past few months, being with you lot," she gestured to her friends, "I've remembered that I'm also just Rosie. And I like her. I like who I am when I'm not trying to fit into someone else's idea of who I should be."

There was a moment of silence as her words sank in. Then Julie spoke up, her voice uncharacteristically serious. "Rosie, my dear, I think you've just made your decision."

Rosie blinked, realising Julie was right. Somehow, in trying to explain her feelings to her friends, she'd clarified them for herself as well.

"I have, haven't I?" she said, a sense of relief washing over her. "I'm not going back to Derek. I'm moving forward."

The kitchen erupted in cheers. Emma, in her enthusiasm, knocked over her mimosa, creating a sticky orange puddle on the table.

"Oh, botheration," Emma muttered, attempting to mop up the spill with what turned out to be one of Julie's "artistic" napkin creations. "Sorry about that. But more importantly - Rosie! Our girl's choosing adventure over arthritis cream! This calls for more champagne!"

As Emma bustled about, replenishing glasses and narrowly avoiding setting her sleeve on fire with the toaster, Lisa turned to Rosie with a warm smile. "I'm proud of you, Rosie. It takes courage to choose the unknown over the familiar."

Rosie felt a lump form in her throat. "Thank you," she said softly. "I couldn't have done it without all of you. You've shown me that life doesn't end at sixty. It just... gets more interesting."

"And how!" Catherine chimed in. "Why, just last week I learned how to use the 'Snap Filter' thing on my phone. Did you know you can make yourself look like a cat? Technology these days, I tell you!"

As her friends laughed and began sharing their own recent "adventures" Rosie felt a weight lift from her shoulders. The decision she'd been agonising over suddenly seemed so clear.

"Right," she announced, raising her glass. "I propose a toast. To new beginnings, old friends, and the adventures yet to come."

"Here, here!" her friends chorused, clinking glasses with more enthusiasm than coordination.

As they settled in to enjoy their brunch, the conversation flowing as freely as Emma's heavy-handed mimosas, Rosie found herself imagining the possibilities that lay ahead. Maybe she would take that salsa class. Or perhaps she'd finally write that novel she'd been thinking about for years. And yes, maybe she'd see where things went with Mike.

The future stretched out before her, not as a well-worn path, but as an open road full of potential. It was exciting. It was terrifying. It was exactly what she needed.

Later that afternoon, as her friends were preparing to leave (Emma insisting she was perfectly fine to drive, despite walking into the coat rack twice and addressing it as "Madam President"), Rosie pulled each of them aside for a heartfelt thank you.

To Lisa, she said, "Thank you for always being the voice of reason. Even when reason seems to have gone on holiday and left chaos in charge."

Lisa chuckled, pulling Rosie into a warm hug. "That's what friends are for. Besides, someone has to keep Emma from turning every situation into a Shakespearean drama. Or a Monty Python sketch, depending on her mood."

To Catherine, Rosie expressed her gratitude for her unwavering support. "You've shown me that it's never too late to stand up for yourself and what you want."

Catherine beamed, her eyes misty. "Oh, Rosie. You've done the same for me. Who would have thought we'd be starting new chapters in our lives at our age? It's terrifying and wonderful, isn't it?"

Julie received thanks for her artistic spirit and ability to find beauty in the everyday. "You've reminded me to look at the world with fresh eyes," Rosie told her.

Julie responded by presenting Rosie with a hastily sketched portrait of their brunch, which seemed to feature Emma as some sort of mimosa-wielding superhero. "I call it 'Sisterhood of the Traveling Spanx,'" Julie announced proudly.

And finally, to Emma, Rosie simply said, "Thank you for being you. Unabashedly, unapologetically you."

Emma, in a rare moment of seriousness, took Rosie's hands in hers. "Rosie, my dear, you don't need to thank me. But if you insist, you can repay me by living your life to the fullest. Take chances. Make mistakes. Get messy. And for god's sake, buy some proper champagne flutes. We're not barbarians."

As the last of her friends departed, leaving behind a kitchen that looked like it had hosted a particularly rowdy toddlers' birthday party. Rosie sank onto her sofa with a contented sigh.

She pulled out her phone, staring at Derek's number for a long moment. Then, with a decisive nod, she began to type:

"Derek, we need to talk. Not about reconciliation, but about moving forward. Separately. I've realised that I'm not the same woman I was when we were married. I've changed, grown, and I want to explore who I am now. I hope you can understand and respect my decision. Perhaps we can meet for coffee soon to discuss things calmly. Take care, Rosie."

Her finger hovered over the send button for just a moment before she pressed it firmly. As the "message sent" notification appeared, Rosie felt a curious mix of sadness and liberation.

Across town, Derek stared at the message on his phone. He'd laid his heart bare to Rosie, hoping for a second chance.

He thought of Rosie as he'd last seen her – vibrant, confident, surrounded by friends who brought out a side of her he'd never known existed. And he thought of himself – stuck in the past, hoping to reclaim something that had already evolved beyond his grasp.

"She's moved on," he whispered to the empty room. The truth of it hit him like a physical blow. Rosie, his Rosie, had found a life without him. A life that, he had to admit, seemed to suit her far better than the one they'd shared.

He would beg her to come to counselling with him and he would do everything he could to keep the marriage together but, deep down, he knew it was over.

Rosie's hand was trembling. She shouldn't have sent a message, she should have called him, but she knew she couldn't. He'd persuade her to stay and she wouldn't be able to hurt him. She watched the two blue ticks appearing. He was reading it now.

She scrolled to Mike's number before she lost her nerve and typed another message:

"Hi Mike. Sorry about the chaos at the pub. Turns out life can be quite an adventure, even (especially?) at our age. Fancy joining me for a proper date soon? No hiding behind the bar with your son this time. Let's talk properly. I've come to some major decisions. Let me know. Rosie."

As she set her phone down, Rosie looked around her living room. The same familiar walls and furniture surrounded her, but somehow everything looked different. Brighter. Full of possibility.

She stood up, walking to the window and gazing out at the street where she'd lived for so many years. The same trees, the same houses, the same neighbours walking their dogs. But now, instead of seeing a static, unchanging world, she saw potential adventures around every corner.

"Well, Rosie," she said to herself, a smile playing on her lips, "looks like life's about to get interesting."

And with that, she turned away from the window and began tidying up the kitchen, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like "I Will Survive." Because really, what better anthem could there be for a woman embracing her second act?

As she wiped down the counter, her phone buzzed. A reply from Mike:

"Rosie, I'd be delighted. How about Saturday? I know a great little jazz club in Kingston. Looking forward to it. Mike."

Rosie grinned, her heart doing a little flip that had nothing to do with her earlier mimosa consumption.