The Middle-Aged Virgin_A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel_Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles...

by Olivia Spring

  ‘Sexy?’ I’d protested. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ I know you’re supposed to accept compliments graciously, but I wasn’t feeling at all photogenic.

  ‘Yes!’ he’d insisted, planting kisses across my face. ‘A woman will not let just anyone see her without make-up, so there is something intimate about it. Like this, I see the real Sophia,’ he’d added, stroking my bare cheek. And then he’d said it. The sentence I’d never forget: ‘The Sophia that I love. Ti amo, Sophia. I love you very much.’

  As those words tumbled from his lips, I remember my stomach flipped and then did a million somersaults. He’d said he loved me. And I felt it. In his actions, the way he looked at me and in his touch. My whole body was floating. He loved me and the feeling was most definitely mutual.

  At that moment, I took his face into my hands and kissed him gently.

  ‘I love you too, Lorenzo,’ I’d said, pulling back slowly to admire him. ‘With all of my heart. I’ve never felt this way before.’

  I remember laying my head on his chest and inhaling his woody scent. He always smelt so damn good. Then he wrapped his arms around me and I swear I didn’t move for hours. Everything just felt so perfect, so right…

  Since then, he’d been ridiculously busy at the restaurant with all the Christmas parties and had been working fourteen, sometimes fifteen hours a day, six days a week, so it was difficult to meet, even after work.

  We were desperate to see each other, though, so I visited the restaurant on Christmas Eve and we managed to steal ten minutes together during his break. But he was so tired, he could barely string a sentence together. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin wasn’t its normal glowing, golden colour, and he was slower on his feet. But to me, he still looked gorgeous.

  Lorenzo was really pushing hard. He wanted to learn as much as possible, and although I personally thought he should take some time off to sleep, he didn’t want to let the head chef and the team down (apparently two of his colleagues had wrapped up their knives and left during service on Christmas Day, as they couldn’t hack the pressure anymore). Long hours, he explained, were part and parcel of the job he loved, so he was adamant that he must continue.

  I missed Lorenzo so much, but with just one day off a week, he needed that time to rest. Otherwise he’d make himself ill. Even though he said he’d be fine and asked me to come round, I knew if I did, he’d want to cook for me, we’d spend hours talking and would end up having sex, because we wouldn’t be able to resist. So as much as I wanted to see Lorenzo, I wanted him to stay healthy even more.

  That’s why we reluctantly agreed that even though it would be hard, we’d wait until after the New Year to see each other again. Then all of the festivities would be out of the way, things would be calmer for him at work and we could spend quality time together.

  We messaged everyday, spoke on the phone or video-called a few times a week, and exchanged photos, which made it a little more bearable. I still thought about him literally every second, though, especially now that what was supposed to be a two-week break had become almost five…

  As he’d worked all over Christmas, after New Year, he had taken a fortnight break to go back to Italy to spend time with his family. Then, when he returned, I was busy getting ready to go to France as the anniversary of Albert’s passing was fast approaching.

  Marie had told me there was no need for me to come over, but I wanted to be there to support her, Henri and Geraldine, and I’d only got back last night.

  I was going to head straight to Lorenzo’s, but he was finishing late, and as much as I couldn’t wait to see him, after almost six hours of travelling, I was shattered. I was just feeling so tired all the time these days. Even doing the smallest thing felt like moving a mountain. The journey to and from France had clearly had more of an effect on me than I’d thought.

  It took all the strength I had to get out of bed, throw on a loose-fitting dress swipe on some concealer, tinted moisturiser, mascara and lip gloss, then jump in the taxi to meet Fran. I felt rough. Nauseous, sore and weird. Just awful.

  We met at the Sea Containers restaurant at the Mondrian Hotel on the South Bank, which was still a favourite spot of mine (despite the disappointing date with Charlie upstairs at their Rumpus Room rooftop bar last summer).

  I loved the way you could sit at the iron tables and gaze at the views of St Paul’s and Big Ben, plus do some people watching.

  Fran was already sitting down, sipping what looked like a gin and tonic, when I arrived. She got up and gave me a massive hug.

  ‘Oooh, are you okay, Soph?’ she asked, sounding concerned. ‘You look a bit peeky.’

  Clearly even shovelling on a load of Touche Éclat couldn’t help me today.

  ‘Hmm, I’m not feeling great, to be honest, Fran,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, luv. Why didn’t you say?’ she said, patting my hand. ‘We could have met another time.’

  ‘No way!’ I replied. ‘I’ve been wanting to see you for months, and I knew you would have already bought your train ticket and been on your way down to London, so I wouldn’t want you to waste your money and time. I’ll be fine. Maybe I just need to eat something.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ she said calmly. ‘Well, it’s sooooo good to see you! I know we all speak loads on the group chat with Dan, but nothing beats seeing each other face-to-face. So how have you been? Still madly in love with Lorenzo? You lucky cow! He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. In fact, is he still working in London? We should have gone to his restaurant so we could just gaze at him all afternoon!’ she said, giggling. ‘Sorry! Is it wrong for me to say that, seeing as I’m a married woman and you two are together? Well, I’m still human, nothing wrong in looking,’ she said, chuckling again and answering her own question.

  ‘Ah my lovely Lorenzo…’ I gushed. ‘Yes, I’m still madly in love! We haven’t seen each other since last month, but we spoke this morning and he’s well. Just about recovered from working non-stop over Christmas and New Year and has had a lot of stuff to sort out back home too by the sound of it, but I’ll be seeing him on his day off next week and I cannot wait!’

  As we tucked into our smoked salmon, poached eggs (I had a fried egg white instead) and toasted sourdough, I recapped the full story of what had happened these past couple of months, as I’d kept everything quite short and sweet on WhatsApp. But as I neared the end of the tale, I had to stop. Rather than feeling better, my nausea became worse. In fact, I had to go to the loo immediately.

  I just about got there in time before I started throwing up. Such beautiful toilets they had here, too. What a shame to sully them…

  When I thought it had stopped, another wave of awfulness would return. I was too terrified to go outside in case I needed to be sick again and didn’t make it back to the loo in time. So I sat there on the floor, waiting to see if I felt any better.

  The room was spinning. I just wanted to lie down. That was the second time I had been ill after eating salmon. I remembered going to a restaurant with Rich about ten years ago and having salmon. It was delicious. But then the next day, I was violently ill. So ill, in fact, that I had to stay at my parents’ because Rich went on a business trip that day and I felt like I was dying, so I didn’t want to be alone.

  From that moment on, I had vowed never to eat salmon again. Even the smell set me off. Then slowly, a few years later, I started eating it again. But judging by how ill I was feeling now, my body still wasn’t a fan.

  ‘Soph? Are you in here?’

  It was Fran. I must have been here awhile, so she’d come to check on me. I quickly flushed the toilet to get rid of the horrendous smell. Should have done that straight away.

  ‘I’m down here, Fran,’ I cried out, rubbing my sore stomach. ‘At the end toilet on the right.’

  I heard her heels clink down the black-tiled walkway. ‘Are you okay, hon?’ she asked, talking to me through the door.

  ‘Not really, Fran,’ I replied. ‘I feel awful. I
think it might be the salmon.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to call you a cab, sweetheart?’

  ‘No!’ I protested. ‘We haven’t finished our catch-up. I want to hear about how everything is going with you. I just need a few more minutes, Fran, and I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Well, maybe we should move to The Den, then,’ she suggested. They’ve got comfy chairs there, which may be more relaxing. I’ll order us a pot of peppermint tea to calm your stomach.’

  ‘That would be great, Fran,’ I replied, trying to fight another wave of nausea I could feel returning. ‘Sorry to ruin our brunch.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, hon!’ she said. ‘I’ll go and explain everything to the waiter, and then just come and meet me in The Den when you’re ready. If you’re not out in fifteen minutes, though, I will come and check on you again.’

  What a sweetheart.

  After throwing up again, I started to feel a little better. I wasn’t sure there was anything left in me to come out. I surveyed the toilet bowl, cleaned it up the best I could and then headed out to the sinks. I stared at myself in the mirror. God, I looked terrible. Tired, washed out, fat and awful. Overindulgence at Christmas and New Year, travelling, grief and eating salmon would do that to you.

  After washing my hands, I splashed my face with cold water, rinsed out my mouth and then made my way to The Den.

  Sure enough, Fran was seated there with a pot of tea. As she saw me approaching, she poured some out into the pretty china teacup.

  I plonked myself down on the cosy green sofa.

  ‘Here you go, my love,’ she said, pushing the teacup slowly towards me.

  ‘Sorry again, Fran,’ I said. ‘Maybe the salmon didn’t agree with me,’ I suggested, desperate for an explanation.

  ‘Hmm. I was thinking, Soph,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘I don’t think it can be the salmon as a) you were ill before you got here and b) I also had the salmon and I’m fine. This is a top-notch restaurant, and they would have got the fish fresh today, so I doubt it’s down to them.’

  ‘Yes, but everyone reacts differently to food,’ I reasoned. ‘I’ve had issues with salmon before.’

  ‘Maybe. Or perhaps you’re getting your period?’ she asked. ‘When was your last period, out of interest?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I insisted. ‘I get stomach cramps and a bit emotional when I have my period, but I never throw up, so it’s not that.’

  ‘So when was your last period?’ Fran asked again.

  ‘Erm…’ I paused as I started to do the calculations. ‘Well, let’s see,’ I said as if launching a calculator and a calendar in my head simultaneously. ‘It normally comes towards the end of the month. Around the twenty-third or twenty-fifth, I think. Yeah, probably should have had it a few days ago, maybe, so it’s a little late as I’ve been rushing about and upset with it being the anniversary of Albert’s passing and everything.’

  ‘So it came as normal between Christmas and New Year, then?’ Fran probed again. ‘Y’know, seeing as you said it normally comes towards the end of the month. That means you would have been on at Christmas or just after if it was a few days late right?’

  I sat there puzzled. Yes, that was right, but had I had my period whilst I was at my parents’ over Christmas? I started doing the mental calculations. Christmas Day? No, definitely not. Boxing Day? No, we’d gone to Granddad’s for dinner that day. Twenty-seventh? Nope. I was out shopping with Mum all day as she wanted to check out the sales. That was a painful experience.

  Twenty-eighth? What did we do again? Oh, yes. Mum’s sisters came round. After that, on the twenty-ninth and thirtieth, I was at home making collages of hundreds of photos I’d taken over Christmas, which had taken ages. I would have remembered if I’d had to insert a tampon with all the spray glue I had over my hands.

  Then it was New Year’s Eve, so I’d gone back to my parents’ for a family gathering, and I’d worn a pale pink dress. Something I would have been reluctant to do if I was about to come on or was in the middle of my period. I would have stuck to a darker colour just in case. It would be rare for my period to have started that late in the month, though.

  And I certainly hadn’t had a period this month.

  Shit.

  Fran was monitoring my facial expressions, which had gone from confusion, to fear and blind panic in the space of sixty seconds.

  ‘You didn’t have a period last month, did you, Soph?’ asked Fran calmly. ‘I can tell by the look on your face…’

  ‘I don’t think I did, Fran, no,’ I admitted. ‘I had so much on, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not pregnant?’ she blurted out.

  ‘No! Of course not!’ I insisted. ‘I haven’t had sex for ages! Well, ages by my new sex life standards, anyway. I’ve been focusing on work, and then I was off for the holidays and I’ve just come back from France.’

  ‘How long are we talking exactly?’ asked Fran.

  I scanned my memory.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe five or six weeks?’ I replied, shuffling around in the chair nervously. ‘Erm…perhaps not since the third week of December? Okay, let me think: I met up with Lorenzo during the first week of December and we were at it like rabbits the entire week and much of the week after, but then he was working longer hours, so we didn’t see each other as much. It’s hard to remember exactly. I’d really need to check my diary to be sure, but that’s my best guess for now.’

  I saw Fran doing some mental calculations of her own.

  ‘Hmm. That would be about right, then, Soph. If you’re due between the third and fourth week of the month, then the first or second week of December was probably your optimum time for ovulation, as it’s normally about fourteen days before your period comes…’

  I began to think about what she was saying. On the very rare occasions that my period was late, I would have dismissed this theory immediately as I hadn’t been having sex, so it would be a complete impossibility.

  But, recently—well, pre-mid-December—I had been. And a bloody lot of it too. Plus I hadn’t been using condoms with Lorenzo after the first few times, so that alone would have put our number of unprotected sexual encounters into double figures.

  I wouldn’t normally have done it without one, but we’d quickly run out, and he’d assured me he’d got tested before he came over to London and got the all-clear. Things felt serious and committed between us. I trusted him, so thought I’d be okay. The pregnancy thing hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’d just assumed my ovaries had passed their best-before date.

  And if we were talking about early December, then there might also be a second guy in the frame: Charlie. I knew we’d definitely started having sex with a condom that last time, but now that I thought about it, I did remember being surprised when I had seen it on the bed beside him straight after we’d finished and remarking that I hadn’t seen him take it off. Had he removed it when I wasn’t looking? Perhaps that’s why he’d suggested we do it doggy style, so I couldn’t see him take it off? You hear about women trapping men to get pregnant. Maybe men did the same. Perhaps he wanted me to have his child so I’d stay with him, and that’s why he’d come with so much gusto…

  I desperately tried to remember if I could see anything inside the condom to indicate that he had removed it after he ejaculated or if in fact he’d come inside me and the condom was empty? I was drawing a blank. At the time, I think I was too busy worrying about how to break the news of how I was feeling.

  Shit. This wasn’t looking good.

  Then again, like I said, think about my age. It’s not easy to get knocked up at almost forty, so I could be worrying over nothing.

  ‘Okay, Fran, your calculations might be right and one way or another I did have unprotected sex, but although I saw online that there’s been an increase, in reality, getting pregnant naturally at thirty-nine is still rare, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘You said so yourself last year in Tuscany. And the papers are forever banging on about w
omen becoming barren after thirty-five. Yes, I read about celebs getting pregnant even in their mid-forties, but they have the best doctors and resources,’ I reasoned.

  ‘It may be harder, yes, but actually you’d be surprised, Soph. Geriatric pregnancies are one of the commonest groups these days. There’s been a sharp increase over the past few years. We’re seeing a lot more of them at the hospital.’

  ‘I’m sorry what? Geriatric? I know I’m approaching forty, but what’s with the ageist terminology?’ I retorted, rolling my eyes. ‘Anyway, you’re only speculating. There could be a million other explanations,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe not a million, but I get your point. Shall we find out, Soph?’ Fran questioned.

  ‘What, now?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘Best to know sooner rather than later. Where’s the nearest Boots?’ asked Fran. ‘We need to get some pregnancy tests.’

  I did a mental scan of the area.

  ‘Well, there’s not anywhere in walking distance,’ I replied. ‘There’s a massive Boots in Waterloo station, or there’s a Boots and Superdrug on The Strand,’ I said as I wriggled around the chair again, realising the magnitude of what she was suggesting.

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ said Fran swiftly. ‘I’ll jump in a taxi, get some kits and come right back, and we can find out once and for all.’

  You could tell she’d been a nurse for years. So cool, calm, collected and caring, despite seeing that I was freaking out.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I questioned. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, Soph. You stay here. Best to be close to a bathroom just in case.’

  I reached for my bag and fished out my purse. ‘Here you go,’ I said, taking out three twenty-pound notes.

  I knew I’d have to force the cash on her as otherwise she’d try to pay for it all, and God knew how much pregnancy tests even cost. I’d never had to buy one before.