‘In what way?’ I asked, still not convinced.
‘What I mean is that I’m not just attracting men in their forties, fifties and upwards, but also men in their twenties and thirties too. A lot of these young guys actually have a thing for the older woman,’ said Roxy.
I shot her my best yeah, whatever look as the waiter placed our starters on the table and then left swiftly, grinning as if he’d caught the tail end of our conversation.
‘O ye of little faith,’ she replied. ‘I kid you not, Sophia, I’ve never really gone into detail with you before as I know you’re quite prim and proper and didn’t want to shock you, but I’ve got hot twenty-seven-year-old guys wanting to get in my knickers!’
Bella nearly choked on her tuna salad.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Yep! Younger guys tell me women their age can be immature or play games, which they don’t get with a mature lady like me. I’m much more confident and self-assured since my divorce, and I think that attitude gives off a vibe that men like.’
‘I’ve heard that too, Roxy,’ said Bella in agreement as she stabbed her fork into another sliver of tuna. ‘One of Mike’s cousins is in his late twenties and likes to date women in their thirties and forties. It’s not as uncommon as you think, Soph. Either way, younger or older, a smart, ambitious, beautiful woman like you is definitely not going to have a problem finding some male company again, trust us!’
‘Tell her, Bella!’ added Roxy. ‘What you need to figure out first and foremost, Soph, is what you really want. Another long-term relationship? I mean, it’s up to you, but surely the last thing you need right now is to tie yourself down. I reckon you should get out there and have some fun. At least for a while. You’ve worked damned hard for years and have spent so long withering away in that relationship. You need to let loose. Hit the dating sites hard: Tinder, Bumble, OKCupid—get on them all. Go out, meet people in real life and get your leg over. You don’t want to be a MARGIN forever!’
Oh, here we go. Roxy and her acronyms.
‘A what?’ asked Bella, clearly reading my mind. ‘What’s a MARGIN, Roxy?’
Roxy rolled her eyes in a how do you not know what it means? fashion. She sighed:
‘You know, a MARGIN?’ Bella and I both shook our heads in unison. Roxy sighed again before explaining: ‘A middle-aged virgin. You know, the M-A stands for middle-aged, and the R-G-I-N is for virgin?’ Her voice went up an octave in disbelief. Our faces were still blank.
‘Oh, what am I going to do with you two?’ she said, voice not dissimilar to a schoolteacher being forced to explain the alphabet to a twenty-year-old.
‘A middle-aged virgin is someone in their thirties and forties—in fact, any adult who hasn’t had sex for so long that technically, they’re like a born-again virgin. It’s a term normally reserved for those experiencing an extensive period of sexual drought, typically of six months or more,’ she added matter-of-factly.
‘Ah, I see…’ said Bella as the penny started to drop.
‘There are many reasons for MARGINITY,’ added Roxy as she started cutting up her Carpaccio of Beef. ‘And before you glaze over again, MARGINITY is middle-aged virginity. It’s not just singles and divorcees that are MARGINS. It could be women who are in a relationship, but are so exhausted from looking after the kids that they just don’t do it anymore, or they might have been married for a while and don’t fancy their partner or vice versa. You’d be surprised how many couples sleep in separate rooms,’ she said as she put a forkful of food into her mouth. ‘It’s not even just restricted to women. There are more MARGINS out there than you’d imagine!’
I devoured one of my sautéed scallops. This was actually fascinating, and it definitely applied to me.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Bella as we both leaned in.
‘Well,’ replied Roxy as she repositioned herself, ‘when I was finding myself again, I read a lot of books and studies, not just about healing yourself, but also about sex and relationships, and apparently, we’re having less nookie in the 2010s than in the nineties. These days everyone’s too busy on their phones tweeting and watching Netflix to get some adult time. Most people don’t even have sex once a month!’ she said, exasperated, as if it was the equivalent of a century.
‘Pff!’ I scoffed. She thinks once a month isn’t often? It had been at least six months since I’d had any action. Probably more like nine, or maybe even twelve…? Shit.
‘Well, Soph, you know better than anyone that when you’re in a long-term relationship, one month without sex can quickly become two, then six, and before you know it, a year has passed,’ said Roxy as if reading my thoughts. ‘Hell, some people haven’t had it for years. Those are the fully fledged, stalwart MARGINs.’
‘Yeah, I can see how that can happen,’ added Bella.
‘The more you talk to people, the more common you see it is,’ said Roxy. ‘Particularly amongst women who may have married young, had their kids early and spent years raising them. Then they reach their forties, realise they want to start living their lives and get divorced, but then have to start navigating the whole dating scene all over again. It can be hard. But, Ms Huntingdon, you shall be a MARGIN no more!’ she added excitedly.
‘If you say so, Rox,’ I said, smirking.
‘Naturally, you probably need to take a bit of time to find yourself again and get used to your new single status, but in a few weeks’ time, I reckon you should get back on the horse and find a man with a giant duster to blast away the cobwebs down under!’ She shrieked with laughter. Not only was Roxy the queen of acronyms, at times she was also the queen of crude.
‘A few weeks?’ I replied, surprise evident in my voice. ‘This is a man I spent fifteen years with, not fifteen minutes. I think I’m going to need longer than that, Roxy.’
‘Like I said, Soph, if you had the emotional trauma and baggage I was carrying after an acrimonious divorce, then perhaps I’d agree with you. But you’re much stronger than I ever was, and I reckon a wild night of passion with a hot guy will make you feel a whole lot better,’ Roxy said, plastering a wicked grin all over her face.
‘Roxy, I know what I said earlier about being nearly thirty-nine and worrying about turning into a spinster, but I don’t want to rush into anything. I was just being weak. In truth, I know I don’t need a man to complete me,’ I said robotically. ‘I’ll be just fine on my own.’
‘Hello? Soph?’ shouted Roxy. ‘It’s me! You’re not the keynote speaker at a women’s lib convention. You can spout that independent stuff all you want and, yes, you are right—hence why I’ve not raced to shack up with someone. But, equally Soph, you are a woman, and sometimes a woman needs the touch of a hot man! It doesn’t make you weak, or less of a feminist . It makes you human. Sex is recognised as a basic human need. And after the drought in your knickers, I’m guessing you need to lose your MARGINITY more than most!’
She wasn’t wrong, and although experiencing passion was on my secret MAP list, the prospect of going through all the dating site rigmarole to try and meet a guy, or even getting physical with one, stirred up a new level of trepidation that I wasn’t ready to address quite yet.
‘I can’t disagree that I would like to experience some long-overdue passion, Roxy, but right now, maybe I need to just focus on me and getting my head together. Perhaps I just need a bit of time out. I don’t mean wallowing at home. I did enough of that last weekend. I mean perhaps a change of scenery,’ I said, considering my next move.
‘Yes!’ said Bella in agreement. ‘You need a holiday, or maybe one of your spa breaks?’ Bella’s mention of a spa break also reminded me of another MAP point and my plan to do something different and more educational this year.
Our main courses arrived, and Roxy wasted no time getting stuck in.
‘I’m all spa’d out, to be honest, Bella, but you’re right. I think I’ll book a holiday. Something different this time, though, where I’m doing something productive and fulfilling
, like photography or—’
‘Mmm,’ interrupted Roxy as her eyes rolled with pleasure. ‘This pasta is absolutely divine. It’s almost as good as an orgasm, I swear. Taste it!’ She stabbed a piece of lobster then twirled the tagliatelle around her fork and pushed it towards my mouth. She was right. How had I not ordered this before? The food here was always so good.
Food…
Yes. I love food…
‘I know,’ I said as if a thousand-megawatt lightbulb had just been switched on in my head. ‘I’m going to book myself onto a cookery holiday. It’s my birthday in a couple of months, so that’s what I’ll do. I won’t go to a spa. I’ll go away somewhere beautiful and learn how to cook gorgeous food.’
‘That’s a brilliant idea, Soph,’ agreed Bella. ‘Where are you thinking? France?’
‘Italy!’ interjected Roxy. ‘Go to Italy. You can learn how to cook fresh pasta, and then you can come round to my place and make me a divine lobster tagliatelle like this!’
Italy. What a good idea.
That’s why I loved our FTA sessions. I definitely needed to make time for them in the future. I always came away feeling inspired and a million times better.
Sod all this self-pity and wallowing. As soon as I got home, I was going to research cookery holidays.
I’d go to Italy, have fun, and emerge stronger, happier and ready to embrace my single life and everything this new chapter might hold.
Bring it on.
Chapter Five
Ahhh…the sound of silence. It was so strange. It was 9.30 a.m. on a Sunday and I’d just stepped through the grand glass double doors of our Covent Garden office. If this had been a weekday, there’d have been the buzz of the team discussing projects, plus the excitement of journalists, celebs and bloggers coming in for meetings or to get a sneak peek at our clients’ latest beauty launches. But today it was just me.
Now that there was less than a week until my birthday and my trip to Tuscany, I was trying to get as much done as possible before leaving so that I could try and relax a little whilst I was there.
Yes. I was going to Italy. After my last catch-up with Roxy and Bella, I’d gone home and spent hours researching cookery holidays. I’d found a small business called Taste Holidays who did package deals to Italy that welcomed people like me who were flying solo. There was no hotel as such, which ruled out a lot of my normal checks. Instead you stayed in an authentic Tuscan villa with other single travellers and got daily cookery lessons from the onsite Italian chef. All food, booze, accommodation and a couple of excursions, such as a trip to Florence, were included in the price.
It had amazing press reviews, and having quizzed the founder on the phone about the number of people on the holiday, their gender and age range, what their rooms were like and a million other questions, I’d decided to bite the bullet and book it.
Was I terrified? Definitely. But although I was taking a leap into the unknown, this would allow me to tick the educational holiday goal off my list. So I was going to feel the fear and do it anyway.
Although coming in on a Sunday didn’t appear to demonstrate that I was making progress with my goal to achieve a better work-life balance, I actually was. How? Well, rather than working for several hours, which I would typically do on the weekends, today I would be leaving at 1.30 p.m. and going to Bella’s for Paul’s second birthday party. Usually I’d say I was too busy, but this year I thought I’d make more of an effort to be a better godmother and take time out to attend.
Seeing the office peaceful like this gave me a rare moment to take stock and think about what I’d achieved. When we’d moved here four years ago to celebrate the business’ tenth anniversary, Rich’s architecture firm had helped design the office to bring my vision to life and they’d done an incredible job. This was the glamorous yet down-to-earth working environment I’d always dreamt of creating, and even now I still had to pinch myself to check it was real.
As you entered the reception area, individual freestanding illuminated yellow letters of the company name, BeCome, stood on a platform, flanked by large, lush indoor palm trees in white stone pots either side. I’d never wanted to name the agency after myself. So instead I had chosen something that would convey both our specialism (Be was taken from the first two letters of beauty) and what we did for brands. Every company wants to become something—whether it’s the market leader or the most luxurious salon in London. And we could help them become whatever they wanted to be.
I scanned the area again. To the right sat a grand red sofa in the shape of giant lips, and on the left was a glass reception desk with the words ‘hello beautiful’ imprinted at the front. There was always a stunning display of bright fresh flowers in a tall, elegant glass vase. This week it was a pretty peach-and-cream arrangement.
The walls were adorned with prime editorial features we’d secured for clients in Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Stylist, Grazia and everything between. There were celebrity front covers, quadruple-page spreads and certificates displayed in platinum frames highlighting the multiple accolades secured for the brands we represented, as well as awards the agency and I had won in our own right. It was a hall of fame that never failed to impress everyone who came to visit.
I walked across the solid oak floor and followed the corridor round to the main open-plan office space, which was flooded with natural light coming from the large oval windows that were surrounded by exposed brick. There were rows of glass-and-chrome desks, which I’d had designed and made especially for us, and on each one sat a shiny MacBook laptop or iMac.
I headed to the centre of the room and began to climb one of my favourite features: the eye-catching floating glass staircase that led to the mezzanine directors’ floor. I had my own individual glass office there, as did Harrison, my younger brother and the head of our digital division; Robyn, my senior account director who’d been with the company for almost a decade after joining us as an intern when she’d graduated; and Joe, the financial director. The beauty of the unique design was that the front panel of each office was also created to be a large sleek sliding door, so that we could slide it across to feel part of the open-plan atmosphere but could also close it for privacy.
My office, the largest on this floor, was quite minimalist. Exposed whitewashed brick walls, glass desk, charcoal Herman Miller Aeron chair, solid oak drawers, a small glass cabinet proudly displaying some of our clients’ hero products, small rectangular glass coffee table with a matching vase that was always filled with bright cheery flowers, and a comfy two-seater mustard-yellow sofa.
As I often went to events after work, I’d also had an en suite installed to allow me to have a shower, get changed and do my hair and make-up in privacy. It also meant that the loo was only ever a few steps away, which as a workaholic, or I should say a reformed workaholic, meant that I could spend more time working and less time going up and down the stairs to get to the main toilets.
I pulled up my chair and fired up my iMac Pro. This morning I wanted to spend a few more hours working on the MIKA Cosmetics lipstick launch campaign.
As their target audience was females aged eighteen to thirty-five who were very social media savvy, several months ago, we’d handpicked two key influencers with a huge following and flown them to MIKA’s beauty lab in New York to create a lipstick in their own custom shade. Céline, from Aspire magazine, the UK’s biggest glossy, was one of the most influential beauty directors in the industry, with an Instagram following of 200K, and she’d developed a wearable pretty pink-nude shade. Amelia, who, with a gazillion followers (well, over 5.5 million), was a big-deal blogger, had gone for a nude-beige hue. She literally could post a photo of a slice of burnt toast and get thousands of likes in less time than it takes to boil a kettle.
We’d planned a launch at Harvey Nichols, where both influencers would invite their followers to come along to meet and greet them, discover their beauty tips and, of course, buy the limited-edition lipsticks. Now the date was confirmed, I needed to go
over the details today to be sure that everything was in place before I jetted off to Italy.
Right on schedule at 1.30 p.m., I locked up the office and then jumped in a taxi to Hampstead for the party. I would’ve preferred to spend a couple more hours working on a few other campaigns, but this was the new me, and the new me would no longer spend all weekend working.
Repeat after me: it’s all about balance, it’s all about balance…And who better to spend my new-found downtime with than my best friend of over two decades and my godson?
I’d met Bella at the bus stop on the way home from college when I was sixteen. For weeks I’d seen her getting the same bus as me to the main garage in Croydon, and when we found ourselves huddled under the shelter in the rain, waiting for what felt like hours, we’d struck up a conversation. We vented about the weather (we wouldn’t be true Brits without having a meteorological moan), then found ourselves chatting about everything from The Jerry Springer Show to the gruelling homework and our plans to learn to drive the second we turned seventeen to avoid having to rely on public transport.
Even when we had gone to separate unis, we still used to speak daily. We went clubbing and took our first ‘adult’ holiday together (i.e., without parents, not that kind of ‘adult’ holiday). Plus, when I lived in France, because we didn’t have our own email, and On Demand TV hadn’t been invented, she used to send me ten-page letters with comprehensive updates on what had been going on in Home & Away and Neighbours. Now if that isn’t the sign of a good friend, I don’t know what is.
We’d been there for each other through first jobs, first proper boyfriends, first mortgages, and also when she’d first met Mike at her uni freshers’ week. At the time, they were both going out with other people, so they didn’t get together until they saw each other at a ten-year reunion. They got married a few years later, and now she was enjoying bringing up their first child. We’d both been through ups and downs in our lives, but the one thing that had always been constant was our friendship.
The Middle-Aged Virgin: A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel: Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles... Page 5
