And who said I wasn’t happy? Hadn’t I sounded happy when we’d last spoken on the phone? Yes, I had my moments like everyone else. He knew that better than anyone. But ultimately I’d created an amazing business and could afford to buy almost anything I wanted, so why wouldn’t I be happy?
As for love, I had Rich. We’d known each other since we were sixteen, and after several years of being just friends, we’d become a couple and had been together ever since. We had our ups and downs, but didn’t every couple? Besides, he ticked all the boxes. Smart, supportive and handsome. What wasn’t to love?
I hadn’t thought much about Albert’s comments at the time. When he’d called, although it was a bank holiday, I was in the middle of trying to send an urgent email to a client. If I’d known that would be the last time I’d speak to him, then of course I would have been more focused. I wasn’t proud of that—it was something I was likely to regret for the rest of my life.
But now his comments were troubling me. What exactly had he been saying? That I was an unhappy workaholic who needed to find love? Usually he was perceptive and his analysis of a situation was spot-on. However, this time I disagreed. Of course, I knew normally it wasn’t good to work too much, but it was different for me. I loved my career. Work made me happy. It fulfilled me. Rich was a great guy. Solid. And I was in love.
I am.
Aren’t I?
The two-hour journey back to Paris flew by. The first-class carriage was almost empty. Peace and quiet was just what I needed. I checked emails, scrolled through our social media feeds and did some campaign brainstorming. But Albert’s comments still raced through my mind. It was like he was there beside me, repeating those words over and over again.
I jumped in a taxi to Gare du Nord, took out my phone, plugged in my headphones, selected my ‘mellow’ Spotify playlist and clicked on ‘shuffle’. This will calm me. It didn’t.
It was as if I’d put the ‘Albert’s last words’ playlist on as his voice was still ringing in my ears.
I boarded the Business Premier carriage of the Eurostar. After travelling back and forth from London to Paris in the Standard seats with my huge rucksack when I was a student, I’d always vowed to sit in the posher carriage when I became a real grown-up with a proper job. And now that the business was doing well, I was able to do exactly that.
I found my single window seat, then lifted my small Louis Vuitton case up to the luggage rack above. I did a quick scan of the seat. Hmm, what’s that? I took a fresh tissue out of my handbag and brushed it off. Good. Just some crumbs. No stains. Should be fine. Headrest check? No stray hairs or dirt. Seems clean enough. I’ll be okay here.
I settled back into the seat, unzipped my boots and unbuttoned my coat. The Eurostar attendant approached with the complimentary drinks trolley. It had been an emotional few days. I could certainly do with a glass of wine.
‘A bottle of red, please,’ I said. She set the mini bottle and a glass on the faux wooden table in front of me. ‘Thank you.’
I picked up the glass and examined it from every angle. Shit. There were some marks along the rim. I can’t do it.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, calling her back. ‘Could I have another glass, please?’ The attendant, a French brunette, frowned before remembering that wasn’t a very customer-focused reaction.
‘Certainly, madame,’ she said, flashing me a fake smile whilst gently placing another glass on my table.
I scrutinised the new glass. Thank God. That’s much better.
‘Thank you,’ I said, indicating that all was right in my OCD world again.
I have a thing about glasses. Well, cleanliness in general. Glasses have to be clean. No water marks. No smudges. Otherwise I can’t drink from them. I know it’s not logical or sensible. If anyone else saw the glass, they’d say it’s fine. And I’m sure it is. It’s just something that I’ve always had. Just a touch of OCD. Nothing major. Not life-crippling or anything.
I’ve heard that Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz also had a thing about germs and cleanliness. Lots of people have it. And a lot worse than me too. I’d work on it. See someone and get it sorted. Just as soon as I found the time. Difficult, as there was always so much to do.
I unscrewed the lid of the bottle, poured the wine into the glass and took a large gulp. That’s better. I can relax now. Or attempt to…
Did I really work too much?
Okay, Albert. I get it. This is one of your classic ‘sewing the thinking seed’ moments. You’re obviously trying to tell me something and are not going to get out of my head until I give this some proper thought, so all right. Let’s do this. Let’s start with talking about work.
Since I’d launched my agency, BeCome, fourteen years earlier, I’d worked at least twelve hours a day, pretty much seven days a week. But come on, Albert! Look at what I got in return. I got to promote some of the best brands in the beauty business. I’d won dozens of awards and achieved more than I could ever have imagined.
Yes, it had come with huge sacrifices, and it did mean I had zero personal life. The only downtime I got was watching Game of Thrones with Rich maybe once a week (whilst simultaneously scrolling through Instagram, Snapchat and Twitter to keep on top of the latest influencers). I tried to see my friends and family maybe once a month, although it wasn’t unusual for me to cancel if something urgent came up at work…
But just look at the rewards. I had a beautiful three-storey, four-bedroom townhouse in Clapham, complete with a state-of-the-art home office, plus a dream dressing room filled with all the designer clothes, shoes and handbags any woman could ask for. I’ll admit, the house had become more like a place to sleep and eat in between going to and from work, whereas when I’d bought it, I had hoped to do more exciting things there, like throw dinner parties and have my friends stay over. But, no one’s life is perfect.
I definitely was happy though. I controlled my destiny. I could do what I wanted and go away whenever I liked. I mean, it had been a while since I’d actually been on holiday, but technically, if I wanted to, I could. Well, preferably around the Easter, May, August and Christmas bank holidays, though, to minimise time out of the office…
And I did enjoy myself. I had a great time with my family at Christmas. Remember I told you all about it? I might have made my excuses and gone up to my old bedroom with my laptop straight after dinner, to get a head start on brainstorming the new fragrance account we’d just won, rather than relax with everyone in the living room, but I wanted to get my ideas down whilst they were still fresh.
So maybe I needed to work on the having fun/happiness bit, but love? I had that point covered. I loved Rich. I knew him so well. He was kind and a wonderful friend. Yes, definitely a great companion. I mean, we’d had those wobbles in the past, which I told you all about, and we didn’t have sex, kiss or do anything physical anymore, but that was normal in a long-term relationship, right? And there was always so much to do at work, and I was always tired and busy and…
Shit.
He’s right.
Albert’s words rang like sirens in my ears.
‘Life is short. You only live once. You must enjoy. If you are not happy, you must do something to change it…rappelle-toi that it is happiness and amour, not work, that are the most important.’
How did I not realise it before? It seemed so obvious. I’d been on a treadmill—so focused on the business, being the best and carving out this amazing career that I’d lost sight of everything else. I’d constantly put work before my family, friends, my relationship, my well-being. In fact, my whole fucking life.
Was I actually in love or did I just love the stability of having Rich around? If I was honest with myself, we became more like brother and sister or flatmates every day.
There was no passion. Despite sleeping in the same bed every night, I could barely remember the last time Rich and I had even shared a peck on the lips, never mind anything else.
It had been so long since I’d had sex, I was
pretty sure my virginal status had been automatically restored. I was thirty-eight, not ninety-eight. Surely I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to having fun in the bedroom already?
Rich was comfortable, safe and predictable. And up until I received the call from Henri last week, that had all been okay. But now, thinking about Albert’s last words, I was beginning to feel like I couldn’t live like this anymore.
Albert had been right all along. I wasn’t living. I was existing.
I wasn’t working to live and enjoy life. I was living to work.
If I kept going on like this, it could be me who found myself in an early grave. And what would I have done with my life? Yes, I would have built a successful business, but was that enough? Was that what I really wanted? What about fun and true happiness? And kids? I’d always said I’d like to have at least one. But had I left it too late?
Fuck. This was a big wake-up call. Far from being idyllic like everyone always assumed, in fact my life was a mess. But at least I’m still alive.
As Albert warned me, life is short, so I couldn’t waste any more time. I needed to make some big decisions. Yes. Things had to change drastically. And fast.
Chapter Two
I reached into my handbag, pulled out my yellow personalised notebook and thumbed my way through to find a fresh page.
There was no point just saying things would change. For this to work, I needed to take action. Commit to a formal plan. A specific list.
It needs a name. What should I call it? Life Plan? No. Master Plan? That didn’t work either. Sounded like something from a James Bond film, where the evil baddie hatches a Master Plan to destroy the world.
No. It needed to be something positive. Let me think…
This was all about the changes I was going to make to improve my life: to show Albert I was putting my time on this earth to good use. So…
Yes.
In big, bold capital letters at the top of the page I wrote:
M.A.P.
An acronym for: Make Albert Proud. It’s perfect.
Now I had the title, I’d write this down and make it happen.
Okay, what would I like to change about my life? Well, I definitely had to start with this:
1) Stop being a workaholic/have a better work-life balance
It might sound cool running your own business, and in many ways it is. You get to choose when you work and how much you get paid. You call the shots. But the bit they don’t warn you about is the long hours (kiss goodbye to weekends, evenings and holidays), the stress of being responsible not just for big client budgets (and even bigger expectations), but also for the livelihoods of your team. If the money isn’t there to pay them at the end of the month, they won’t be able to cover their mortgage/credit card bills/buy food etc. It’s lot of pressure.
Don’t get me wrong—I love what I do. But as Albert said, all work and no play is bad, so I can’t let that passion cause my personal life to go to shit. I need to see my family and friends more. Make time for our monthly catch-ups at the very least and not be an arsehole by cancelling or turning up late because I feel the need to be available to clients 24/7.
I need to not work late every night and at weekends. What’s the point of spending years building a talented team who are always asking for more responsibility, which will help lighten my workload, if I’m going to continue micromanaging?
Time to set boundaries and not be all about the work.
2) End my relationship
So this is huge. I’ve been with Rich since I was twenty-four and soon it will also be our fifteenth anniversary. How did that happen? Whilst it might seem like a big milestone, we haven’t really had fun or a proper relationship for ages and I know we’re growing apart. I love Rich dearly, but we’re not in love. Well, at least I’m not, anyway. I realise that now.
I think we’ve both known for ages that it’s over. We stay together because it’s easy, but that’s not a way to live. We’ve stagnated for years, and the longer we remain in this relationship, the more of our lives we’ll be wasting.
This is a massive decision. Just thinking about it does kind of scare the shit out of me. Not only the part where I’ll have to break the news and hurt Rich, but also the prospect of being single at my age after being coupled up for so long. I’m definitely not looking forward to going through all that dating stuff again.
Fuck. It’s going to be beyond tough, but if something isn’t working, no matter how hard it is you’ve got to grow some balls, be brave, speak up, end it and move on.
Who am I kidding? If only it was that simple. It’s easy to sound strong and say those words in theory, but I’m pretty sure that actually putting it into practice is going to be significantly harder…
Tough titty. As difficult as it will be, I can’t be a wuss. It has to be done. No turning back.
3) Experience passion
I feel a bit cheeky writing this one, but what the hell. I’m doing it anyway. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, my work addiction and relationship rut has made me forget one fundamental thing: I’m still a fully functioning woman. And women have needs!
Like I said, there’s no hope of rekindling that side of things with Rich now. It’s too far gone. Not just the physical side—there are other factors too. But on the subject of being intimate, as many people in a relationship will understand, if you leave it long enough, it’s easy to quickly forget about how amazing it feels to have great sex. Well, it’s been an eternity, so I can’t quite remember the specifics, but I think I used to enjoy it.
Even if the memory of my sexual experiences has faded, my imagination is still firmly intact, so I do have the ability to at least fantasize about it.
I mean, I’m not asking for the earth (well, not initially, anyway). Right now I would love to have a long passionate snog. Oh, and what I wouldn’t give for some hot guy to gaze longingly into my eyes like I was the sexiest goddess who ever graced the universe, rip my clothes off in the throes of passion and kiss me all over.
Just thinking about it gives me the tingles…I’d be prepared to give up chocolate for a month for one night of passion…
Actually, let’s be realistic. Maybe a week. I really like chocolate…
Yes. Some passion would be pretty amazing. Not sure how likely this is though, as the guys my age are probably all chasing twenty-one-year-olds with legs up to their armpits and breasts the size of two helium balloons.
Nope, don’t care. I want it, so it’s staying on the list.
Okay, what’s next?
4) Go on an educational holiday
Oh yes, this one is one hundred percent needed too. I’m lucky enough to travel to Paris, Milan, LA and New York a fair bit for work to see clients or for press launches, but outside of this, apart from going to France to visit Albert and Marie (around the Easter or May bank holidays, of course), one of the only times I do go somewhere for pleasure is for my birthday. The thing is, though, these past few years, everything has become so monotonous:
Go to a posh country hotel (typically in the UK). Have a fancy dinner. Return to room. Both feign tiredness to avoid the awkwardness of not having sex in the huge four-poster bed. Wake up. Have breakfast, then maybe have a couple of spa treatments. Meet Rich at reception, drive home marvelling all the way at how wonderful it is to get away from London. How refreshed we both feel and gush about the fact that we really should do this more often. Zzzzzzz…
Yes, yes, I know. Poor me. I should hire the the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra to play millions of violins in sympathy. Talk about first world problems.
The thing is, though, as amazing as it is and as fortunate as I know I am (and trust me, having worked non-stop for the past fourteen years to earn this lifestyle, I really do appreciate it), after a while, whether it costs five or five hundred pounds, when you’ve done something year in, year out, even the nicest treats can feel dull. That’s why a lot of rich people are often miserable.
Last year I was so bored that I
vowed that this year I would stimulate my brain and do something different. Maybe visit a place I haven’t been to before (preferably somewhere warm, though) on a photography course, or learn to paint? I’m not quite sure what or where yet, but I’m determined to do this for my birthday in April.
On the subject of birthdays, I’d also like to…
5) Throw a party
I had one for my thirtieth but was so stressed about making everything perfect, as if I was organising a client event, that I forgot to actually enjoy myself. If I did it again and could manage to switch off the perfection button, that would be fantastic. I could invite my friends and family and show them I haven’t completely forgotten how to have a good time.
Looking forward to it already.
6) Look into adoption
Now I’m approaching thirty-nine at lightning speed, as the newspapers keep telling me (and have been since I was thirty-five), I have a better chance of winning the EuroMillions jackpot (around 1 in 116,531,800), than having my own child naturally.
Of course my family (notably my mum) has been banging on about my ticking biological clock for donkey’s years. At the time I thought I still had ages to worry about all that. As far as I was concerned, I had the perfect partner, so it was just a question of when rather than if. But then we won one big account after another, one year rolled into the next, and before I knew it I was thirty-eight and sounding like the stereotypical, much maligned ‘career woman’ who had put work ahead of starting a family. Except it wasn’t that cut and dried.
The Middle-Aged Virgin_A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel_Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles... Page 2
