Rich put his head in his hands, exhaled deeply and then got up, straightening his towel around his waist.
‘Soph, like you said, I’ve known you a long time, and when you get that look in your eye, you’ve made up your mind and you won’t budge. So that tells me you’re serious. This time, it really is over.’ He paused again, as if he was searching deep down for the strength to speak. ‘Despite me being totally and utterly devastated and feeling like everything I’ve known and loved for the past fifteen years has just come crashing down around me, even though I think you’re making a mistake, I realise that I will just have to accept your decision and somehow find a way to move on. You don’t want me anymore, so I will pack a bag now and go. I’ll message you once I’ve got my head straight to arrange a time to come and get the rest of my stuff.’
He walked towards me, leant forward, then kissed me gently on the forehead.
‘Goodbye, Soph,’ he muttered. And then he was gone.
My reading on the shitometer was now rocketing into the thousands.
It was the end of an era.
No more Sophia and Rich.
I am free, I am single and I am officially way out of my comfort zone.
Fuck.
Chapter Four
So far, there were three key things I’d personally learnt about breaking up with a long-term boyfriend:
1) That as confident and kick-ass as I might seem at work, when it came to matters of the heart, I wasn’t as strong as I appeared. The pain was real. Even when you were the one that made the decision to break up, somehow it was like you’d been dumped. You felt like total crap.
2) Throwing yourself into work really helped. I’d been so busy that when I was in the office, I didn’t have time to scratch my head, never mind think about my new single status. But when I went home, it was a totally different story. My emotions were wobblier than a five-year-old trying to walk in their mum’s heels. I hated it.
3) That M&S, Lola’s, Hummingbird and all other purveyors of fine cakes should offer an emergency 2 a.m. cupcake delivery service for people going through a break-up, because sometimes a girl just needs to bury her face in frosted icing to feel better.
Rich had come round yesterday (thankfully whilst I was at work) to collect more of his stuff. It was so weird to see his wardrobe empty. It was the little things that were strange too, like not smelling the scent of his aftershave in the morning or seeing his crumpled boxer shorts and socks on the en suite floor because he’d forgotten to put them in the laundry basket.
One positive thing about the whole situation was that, despite being together for so long, we’d both kept our own places. I’d bought this house ten years ago after landing three major clients, which had really propelled us into the beauty PR major league. And although it was where we’d both called home, it was still very much considered mine.
Rich had already had a two-bed house in Dulwich, which I’d moved into when we had first got together, plus a loft-style apartment on Bermondsey Street, which he’d bought long before the Shard and all the cool restaurants had come to London Bridge and the area had become all trendy. Now it was worth a fortune. He wouldn’t be short of somewhere to stay. By a pure stroke of luck, the tenants had moved out a few weeks ago, and he’d put off renting it out straight away to give himself time to freshen up the décor, which would help bump up the rent even more.
Rich had his own car, his own savings, his own everything. He certainly didn’t need anything from me, which I hoped would make things a lot easier. Fingers crossed we could have a clean break. No hassle, no legal wranglings—just consciously uncouple like Gwynnie and Chris. Time will tell…
When she heard how shitty I sounded on Wednesday night, four days post-break-up, Roxy, my best friend of one year, had summoned an emergency FTA. That’s a ‘Food, Therapy and Alcohol’ session, aka a humble catch-up.
Roxy, or QOTA (Queen of The Acronym), as I’d started to affectionately call her, had an abbreviated phrase (often featuring expletives) for everything. From feeling TAF (tired as fuck) and HAH (horny as hell), no phrase was immune to being ‘Roxified’. Sometimes she used so many code names that she’d leave even James Bond feeling CDC (confused.com).
I’d met Roxy at a welcome drinks party for one of the big industry exhibitions in Manchester. She’d just become the sales and marketing manager of a health and beauty tools company, and the event organiser had introduced us as Roxy was looking for a PR agency to launch their new Sonic Pulse Technology electric toothbrushes.
We’d literally only spent the first five minutes chatting about business, and then, before I knew it, Roxy started telling me all about her private life and the fact that she’d just got back on her feet after ending a destructive marriage with her SEH (Shithead Ex-Husband), which had caused her to lose her friends, her job and confidence.
I don’t know if it was the tequila she’d been drinking or her no-holds-barred personality (probably a combination of both), but she really opened up to me and we chatted for hours.
I could barely put one foot in front of the other at the exhibition the following morning as I was so exhausted, but it was worth it. I instantly loved Roxy’s new-found spirit and the fact that after enduring such an oppressive relationship, she’d emerged a million times stronger and now gave zero fucks about speaking her mind. I knew I’d discovered a new friend. Winning the PR project was just a nice bonus.
Our FTA session was scheduled to take place at ‘base’, i.e., Hush, our favourite restaurant, which was tucked away in Lancashire Court, off New Bond Street. It was one of the few places that always had something on the menu that I would like (no small feat given how fussy an eater I can be), and critically, the glasses were also streak-free. Normally, when I didn’t cancel, of course, we would have one on the last Saturday afternoon of every month, but given my current situation, Roxy had suggested we bring it forward a few weeks. Which kind of balanced out, as with Albert’s funeral last month, it hadn’t been possible to meet in January.
Roxy, myself, and Bella, my long-standing best friend of twenty-two years and counting, who I’d met at college, would sit on the comfy brown banquette seating in the special cove in the corner and discuss everything that was going on in our lives. Whether that was venting about our careers, man trouble, or trying to fathom why it took us a week to recover from staying up post 1 a.m., whereas in our twenties we could party until 6 a.m., sleep for two hours and go straight to work. It was like a therapy session, but with alcohol and no payment required. And boy was I in need of both therapy and a stiff drink right now.
Unsurprisingly, I was the first to arrive. I’d been up since 8 a.m. replying to client emails. Yes, I knew it was a Saturday, and I was supposed to be cutting back on work… but by 10 a.m., it was so eerily quiet without Rich there that I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Normally he’d have the TV blaring from the living room whilst he caught up with watching Formula 1. I showered, headed to my dressing room, put my face on, smoothed out my hair, pulled on my favourite black tailored flared Gucci trousers, a Stella McCartney asymmetric wool cranberry jumper and black four-inch Jimmy Choo pumps, then jumped in a taxi.
I’d already ordered myself a G&T (not wise for a lightweight like me to drink on an empty stomach, or to start at 11.50 a.m., but I was sure they’d be bringing the bread soon, so that’d soak it up) and started scrolling through Instagram whilst I waited for the girls to arrive…
Mia, the twenty-five-year-old lead singer of that reality show girl band, had just announced she was expecting a baby with boy band guitarist Callum, and beauty writer Lydia’s boyfriend had proposed to her in Paris over the weekend. All very happy news, but now was probably not the best time for me to be looking at this. Time to log off.
I heard Roxy coming before I saw her. I could recognise the click-clacking sound of her knee-high skyscraper-heeled boots from a mile off. She strode through the restaurant confidently, flicking her long fiery red hair, wearing her signature
black leather short skirt (just above the knee to strike the perfect sexy, yet tasteful balance), off-the-shoulder red top and matching bold pillar box lipstick, looking every bit the glamour puss. When she saw me, her brown eyes grew bright and she smiled, revealing her gleaming white teeth. As I got up to greet her, she threw her arms around me.
‘Hi, honey,’ she said, pulling back to scrutinise my eyes for signs of dark circles and tears like a concerned mother. ‘How are you doing, my love?’
‘Ah, you know, Roxy,’ I said, trying to stay strong. ‘I’m okay. It’s been tougher than I thought, but I’ll survive,’ I added as she sat down next me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she replied. ‘By the end of this FTA, we’ll have you feeling right as rain. Trust me. Now!’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What are we drinking? G&T? Let’s get a bottle of prosecco too. Toast your fresh start.’
As she caught the attention of the waiter to order some more drinks for the three of us, Bella came bounding through the restaurant, looking flustered.
‘Guys, I am sooo sorry!’ she said as she plonked herself down on the banquette like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. ‘Paul decided to throw the mother of all tantrums just as I was leaving, and not even Mike could stop him screaming, so I had to calm him down before the neighbours called social services!’ Her eyes weren’t as bright as normal, probably down to lack of sleep. Taking care of her almost-two-year-old son whilst juggling lesson planning and teaching English to foreign professionals working in the city part-time was clearly no walk in the park.
‘No worries honey,’ said Roxy reassuringly. ‘I just literally arrived two minutes ago. You’re fine.’
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said Bella as she stood up again to take off her green parker coat. At five foot eleven, she towered over Roxy, who was five foot two. Bella was dressed in a simple pair of skinny blue jeans and a comfortable orange cardigan, with her brown curly hair tied back in a practical bun. If Roxy was the poster girl for glamour, Bella was the doyenne of natural beauty. She didn’t tend to wear much make-up. Just a flick of black eyeliner, a teeny bit of mascara and slick of clear lip gloss was all she ever needed to look stunning.
We ordered our starters and mains so that the waiter wouldn’t interrupt us mid-conversation, then Bella reached over to give me a long hug.
‘So sorry about you and Rich,’ she said as she undid her scarf and stuffed it in the sleeve of her coat. As she’d had her hands full looking after Paul, I had only given her a quick summary over WhatsApp on Saturday evening, when I’d eventually peeled myself off the sofa.
‘I know it was a long time coming, Soph,’ added Bella, ‘but I also know how hard it must have been for you to actually go through with it.’
‘Thanks, Bella,’ I replied as I scrutinised the glass, which thankfully was perfectly clean, before taking a sip of my G&T. ‘You’re right. Neither of us had been happy for a while, so the practical side of my brain absolutely knows it was the sensible thing to do. But the less logical and more emotional side is starting to freak out a little.’
‘In what way?’ asked Bella.
‘Well, for starters, I’m going to be thirty-nine in less than eight weeks…thirty-fucking-nine. That’s one year away from forty!’ I said unhelpfully, as if she was unable to do basic maths. ‘I know I should be strong and confident and believe that I will be fine, which I am ninety percent of the time. But then I’ll read an article, or see Instagram posts with what feels like everyone looking loved up or pregnant, and I start fretting about the future and thinking I’ve made a mistake. I mean, technically Rich was such a catch, a guy in a million. Even at the end, when I’d crushed his heart, he was still understanding,’ I added, hanging my head and hoping they didn’t chastise me for being so weak.
‘It’s only natural to feel apprehensive about the future, but you’ve got to trust your gut, Soph,’ said Bella as she put her hand on my shoulder.
‘Of course,’ I replied in agreement. ‘Like I said, I know it’s the right decision. And I know it’s silly, but I get these visions of a sixty-year-old me, sitting in a rocking chair all alone with cobwebs growing from my vagina after decades of inactivity and then turning on the TV and seeing Rich named as the world’s most successful architect with a thirty-year-old wife, three gorgeous kids, and they’ll be living in between their homes in St Tropez, the Maldives and LA, whilst I’ll be rocking away in a big empty house, regretting the day I’d told him it was over.’
‘Oh fuck,’ yelled Roxy. ‘Bella, this is much worse than I thought. Thank goodness we met up today,’ she added, slamming her hand against her forehead with despair.
‘I know I sound like the most pathetic person on earth. But I haven’t broken up with a boyfriend in a long time, certainly not one as serious as Rich, and sometimes I just have these moments where I just feel so shitty.’
‘Wow…I’ve never seen you like this before, Soph,’ said Roxy, picking up the bottle of prosecco and kindly scrutinising the glass on my behalf before pouring out a generous amount. ‘Normally you’re so together and so strong. But don’t worry, honey. We’ll help you through this.’
‘Thanks, Roxy,’ I murmured. ‘Just listening to those words come out of my mouth is mortifying.’ I vetted the glass myself, just in case, then took a giant glug.
‘Firstly, remember: you’re a strong, intelligent, resourceful woman running a PR empire,’ replied Roxy. ‘If you can take an idea and build it into a multimillion-pound business, you can definitely get over a man and take care of yourself. Secondly, step away from social media,’ Roxy said, banging her hand on the table for emphasis. ‘It’s only going to make you feel like shit seeing all those he liked it, so he put a ring on it or we’re expecting posts. Cool for them, but not helpful for you right now.’
‘Totally agree, Roxy,’ added Bella. ‘When you’re feeling rubbish, looking at everyone portraying their airbrushed lives or scrolling through endless ultrasound scan pics can be toxic.’
‘It stirs up so many different emotions,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘As much as you’re happy for them and their amazing news, you also start wondering if it will ever be you, and then you feel bad for having those pangs of jealousy. After all, if it were me, I’d probably want to shout about it from the rooftops too, so why shouldn’t they celebrate something so joyful? Lord knows there’s enough doom and gloom in the world, so I should be happy to see something positive for a change.’
‘I know you’re sensitive, and things may appear to be shitty right now, but it will get better,’ said Roxy, squeezing my hand reassuringly. ‘When I divorced Steve, it took a long time to get over the initial loneliness and despair. There were days that I just curled up on the floor, crying my eyes out. We’d been married for eleven years, and as you know, he’d stripped away all of my confidence. I didn’t know who I was. I felt completely useless.’ She took a large gulp of her G&T.
‘How did you get over it, Rox?’ asked Bella.
‘Initially with great difficulty. When I left him and moved into my own flat, I worried about silly things, like who would kill the spiders, change the lightbulbs or put up the IKEA furniture,’ replied Roxy as she rested her glass back on the table. ‘And the bed. That’s one of the first things you notice. When you’re sleeping on your own for the first time in years, the bed suddenly feels huge!’
‘That’s exactly how I feel each night,’ I said, nodding. ‘It just feels so empty.’
‘Precisely. Sometimes I didn’t think that I’d survive. But each week it got easier, and after I’d struggled through the first few months, I slowly got to know myself again and remembered that I could take care of myself. I’d done it before I’d met Steve and I would do it again. Sleeping alone meant I didn’t have to deal with the duvet being pulled off me in the middle of the night. Handling creepy crawlies wasn’t so bad, and as for self-assembled furniture, thanks to Google and some YouTube videos, I even smashed the shit
out of putting up an IKEA wardrobe!’ said Roxy, giggling.
‘Ha-ha!’ replied Bella. ‘Now that’s definitely an achievement. Sometimes assembling flat-packed furniture feels like bloody rocket science!’
‘Totally! Soph, my relationship was extreme,’ sighed Roxy. ‘I was married to a controlling, abusive psychopath, so it took me a long time to get over that. You’ll be much better, as your break-up is much more civil and Rich was always supportive, so your self-esteem should hopefully remain intact. But one thing I believe is that, like me, you won’t look back. This is a new and exciting chapter for you, and nearly thirty-nine or not, it’s going to be amazing, I can just feel it!’ her eyes widened with excitement.
‘I’d like to think that you’re right, Roxy,’ I said cautiously as doubts flooded my brain.
‘The truth is, Soph, as lovely as Rich is, you were stifled in that relationship. Your youth and sexuality were wasting away. Now, you can be free to get out there and start living!’
‘Well, as you know, Rox, I’m generally always a glass-half-full kind of person, but we can’t deny the facts,’ I said pragmatically. ‘As a woman of a certain age, when I am eventually ready to get out into the world of dating again, my chances of meeting someone will be significantly reduced,’ I added.
‘Bullshit!’ shrieked Roxy. ‘You’ve been reading too much of that sexist, ageist crap society feeds us. I got divorced just before my fortieth birthday, and two years on, I’m having the time of my life! Like you, I assumed that becoming single at forty meant I’d end up like some boring cat lady—a spinster left on the shelf with no one but some seventy-five-year-old great-granddad interested in me. But it’s been quite the opposite,’ she said with a cheeky glint in her eye.
The Middle-Aged Virgin: A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel: Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles... Page 4
