This was definitely a pinch-me-is-it-real kind of room. Sometimes I couldn’t believe that I had all of this stuff. I still had moments where I felt like that naïve twenty-five-year-old starting out in business who didn’t have a clue what she was doing but pretended she did. Fake It Until You Make It had been my motto. But now I was doing okay (I don’t know if anyone can ever truly say they’ve ‘made it’), and the feeling of faking it hadn’t gone away. Dressing up to look the part does help, though. It’s like you’re getting into character, ready to play the role of ‘businesswoman’. My clothes were like my armour. The shield that protected me. They told the world that I was a success and worthy of acceptance, even if inside, I often didn’t feel like I was.
On the subject of dressing, I needed to pick out something for tonight. I headed over to the evening wear section, scrolling through the options.
Nope, too formal, too long, too sexy…hold on. Too sexy? Aha. Yes. I’d forgotten about this one. I pulled it off the rail and held it up. It was a daring black mesh dress I’d tried on in a little boutique in Fulham. Across the boob area, it had a black bandeau, and then a little skirt sewn in that just covered my bottom, leaving the midriff and leg area exposed except for the mesh.
At first I’d thought it might be a bit too much for a woman in her late thirties. But when I’d tried it on, it had fitted perfectly and I’d instantly loved it. As if to solidify my decision, whilst I was in the changing room, I’d heard another woman asking the sales assistant where the black mesh dress was, which was clearly the one I was trying on. I knew it was the last one and that I liked it, so I went ahead and bought it.
Yes, I thought, running my fingers over the mesh. Although tonight I’d be at my parents’ and not at a glamorous event, it was my birthday, so it was the ideal time to give it an airing.
I headed to the shoe rack and selected my favourite blue suede Louboutins, then grabbed a black Chanel clutch bag from the shelf. Twenty minutes later I was good to go.
When I arrived, Harrison was in the living room chatting to Dad. Seeing them together just reminded me of how alike they looked. Both were six foot four—although Dad might be an inch or two shorter, now I think about it—with dark cropped hair, brown eyes and well-groomed beards. As always, they looked dapper in dark blue jeans, and tonight, both wore navy-blue jumpers. I wondered who’d sent the uniform memo to whom.
My elder sister Marilyn, also blessed with the tall genes—at five foot seven, I took after my mum, who was a petite five foot four—was looking glamorous with her signature Mac Ruby Woo red lips and Carey Mulligan-esque pixie-cut black hair as she brought the food into the dining room with my seventeen-year-old niece, Jasmine. Bella and Roxy were already standing in the corner laughing with Monique, a straight-talking New Yorker I’d met through work about a year ago and struck up a friendship with.
I whipped out my phone from my clutch and started taking some photos. With her tall model physique, dressed in loose black trousers and a zebra-striped top, as always Bella was towering over Roxy, who was wearing a fitted red mini dress and of course her favourite knee-high boots. Monique was sandwiched in between the two, her platinum-blond cropped hair and striking green dress reflecting her confident, spirited personality.
I surveyed the light and airy room, which had old family photos in gold frames on each of the deep burgundy walls. As always, Mum had ensured that everything was just so. The oval pine table was hosting a generous spread of dreamy dishes, including everything from fried rice to noodles, and the aroma of the sweet-and-sour sauce that accompanied my favourite tempura prawns filled the air. Mmmm.
I started making the rounds, hugging everyone and thanking them for their birthday cards, gifts and best wishes and taking lots of photos along the way. Then Mum, who was looking beautiful as usual in a ruffled gold dress, almost matching the golden highlights scattered through her long brown hair, which she’d pulled into a chic bun for the occasion, shouted from the kitchen:
‘Dinner’s ready! Everyone at the table now, please. And don’t worry, Soph,’ she added reassuringly, ‘I’ve checked all the glasses and washed them twice, so they’re perfectly clean.’ My mother knows me so well.
I took my normal seat at the end of the table. The others filtered in at a steady pace. It would be a little more cosy than usual, as we didn’t normally have nine people eating at one time, so a few extra chairs had been added to fit everyone in.
After taking some pics of the spread, I started helping myself to the food, piling everything sky-high onto my plate. As the guest of honour, surely I had the perfect excuse to eat like a pig.
On the whole, I’m a very healthy eater. My diet in general consists of eating lots of oily fish like sea bass as well as seafood (especially prawns) and chicken, with lots of vegetables, salad and typically potatoes, brown rice and occasionally pasta. For a weekend treat, cake is definitely my vice.
There are a few things I’m not so keen on, though. I don’t really like cheese (unless it’s melted on a pizza, of course). I like eggs, but only the egg white—not the yolk. Eggs in cake and ice cream, etc., are obviously fine. I don’t really do red meat often either, so I generally steer clear of burgers, sausages and pork. Although an occasional bacon sandwich is okay. I like salmon, but only sometimes…
Thinking about it, there wasn’t much logic to my food preferences. Some might call it fussy, but that’s just me. I like what I like, and my friends and family are just used to it. My mum had definitely come up trumps tonight with prawns cooked in multiple ways, plus some lovely chicken, rice and noodle dishes. I couldn’t wait to get stuck in.
I’d barely sat down and thanked everyone for coming before the interrogation started.
‘So, Sophia,’ said my mother, resting her hand underneath her chin. ‘How’s it all going on the man front?’ Oh no, not again. I already didn’t like the direction of this line of questioning…
‘Umm,’ I said, trying to keep my cool. ‘Well, it’s not really, Mum. As you know, I’ve only just broken up with Rich.’
‘Come along, darling,’ she scoffed. ‘That was what, three months ago?’ she added as if twelve weeks was more than enough time to get over a long-term boyfriend. ‘Remember, you’re thirty-nine now. There’s no time to lose if you want to find a man. It’s not going to be easy, so don’t waste time getting back on the horse. Especially if you’re still even contemplating kids—although, it’s probably too late for that now.’
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell her, Gloria!’ said Monique, jumping in. ‘Honey, take it from a fifty-four-year-old single woman like me. The older you are, the harder it becomes, and you’re not getting any younger, sweetie. You need to start pushing out some babies.’
And so the kidterrogation began. Again. For fuck’s sake!
‘Come on, ladies,’ Dad chipped in as if he’d heard me screaming in my head. ‘I’m sure Soph will be just fine.’
My father was always very protective. The most affectionate of my parents, he never tired of saying how proud he was of me. I was the first person in his family to go to university and the only one to run their own business. Before he’d retired, his office, where he’d been a foreman for a building company for forty-five years, had been a bit of a shrine. He’d collected dozens of articles on me, like the one from the Sunday Times business section and my double-page profile in PR Week, and displayed them on his walls. In his eyes I could do no wrong, so he was going to be firmly in my corner for this debate.
‘Pfft!’ fired back Monique. ‘That’s a typical male response! It’s okay for men. They have no biological clock. Look at Ronnie Wood, Mick Jagger and all those other horny old men still shamelessly getting girls knocked up in their sixties and seventies. Sophia, trust me, girl. You need to find you a man fast and get reproducing.’
‘Seriously, guys,’ I huffed. It had been bad enough being quizzed by Fertility Felicity at Paul’s party. ‘Give me a break. It’s my birthday, for goodness’ sak
e. I wish everyone would stop bloody quizzing me about my love life, or lack thereof, and the status of my ovaries. Even if you are right, it’s not that easy. I can’t just step out on to the street and grab the first man and ask him to impregnate me. Well, not without getting arrested for harassment, anyway.’
‘Listen,’ replied Monique, running her fingers through her vibrant hair. ‘I’m not saying it’s a walk in the park. But, honey, you’re a successful businesswoman. You’re used to making shit happen. Pulling rabbits out of a hat. This will be child’s play in comparison.’
‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ I replied, curious to hear the magical solution that she was going to propose that would result in the imaginary Mr Perfect knocking down my door.
‘You’ve got to stop waiting around and approach this like a new business campaign. If it was work, how would you deal with this? You’d put together your credentials and a proposal, and you’d draw up a list of potential targets from searching online, speaking to different contacts in the industry or getting out there to research the hottest brands. So do the same for your personal life.’
‘That’s a great way of looking at it, Monique,’ said Roxy in agreement.
‘Thanks, Rox. So, Soph, here’s what I suggest: first of all, look hot at all times, which should not be a problem for you as you’re always immaculate. But remember, it’s not just about looking smart. We’re dealing with red-blooded men here, so turn up the sex appeal too. For example, I am L-O-V-I-N-G that dress you’re wearing tonight.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied whilst awaiting the next tip from her How to Magic Up a Perfect Man manual.
‘Secondly, join dating sites,’ she suggested. ‘I always tell my friends to do this if only for practice getting back into the dating world again. Network like you would for work, get friends and family and ask them to set you up on dates. This cookery holiday you’re going on tomorrow is a good start. But you need to join clubs, do activities and meet new people. You’ve got to put yourself out there and go and get yours!’
She wasn’t entirely wrong. I could see there was potentially some mileage in what she was saying. But I still wasn’t convinced it was that easy.
‘Yes, Monique,’ I replied, still considering her suggestions. ‘Roxy’s already given me the lecture about going on to dating sites, so I’ll look into it, but even if I were to meet someone, it’d still take years to get to know them properly, and by that time I’d be too old to have children anyway.’
‘Hell no!’ she fired back. ‘The older you get, the quicker things can happen. We know what we want and are more confident, so we just go for it. My friend Arianna was forty-three. She met a lawyer one afternoon, and a year later she was pregnant and married. I’m telling you, girl! It can happen. But not if you’re sat on your butt at home, watching Netflix with a tub of Häagen-Dazs every night.’
How did she know I’d been doing that?
‘See, Soph!’ said Roxy. ‘Like I keep saying at our FTAs, it’s all about getting some experience. You’ve been out of the game for a while, so you need to practice flirting with guys. Kissing them. Honing your bedroom technique. It’s been soooo long you need to check that everything’s still working downstairs.’
Whilst Roxy was giggling, in contrast, Jasmine’s cute face was now contorting as she held her hands against her ears, squashing her curly black hair against her flawless skin.
‘La, la, la, laaaa!’ Jasmine screeched. ‘This conversation is getting waaaay too cringe for me. I do not need to be listening to you guys talking about my auntie getting some action.’ She got up from the table and pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘I’ll be in the living room…eeeeurrrgh. Gross!’
‘As I was saying,’ Roxy added, rolling her eyes at Jasmine’s reaction and sudden departure, ‘I know you say you need more time to get over Rich, but the trick is just to do something. Get yourself off the starting block. Find someone to flirt with, snog their face off and see where it goes. He doesn’t have to be perfect, Mr Right or the love of your life. Just find someone you like the look of and stick your tongue down their throat, goddammit. It’ll be fun. And it will get you on the pitch again. If you’re not on the pitch, Soph, you can’t score. Simples.’
Who knew Roxy was into football? It was an interesting analogy.
Whilst my dad’s eyes were fixated on his plate to avoid showing his feelings of awkwardness, my mum’s jaw was on the floor. Bella and I had been friends since college, so she was already considered part of the family. I’d only known Roxy for just over a year and Monique just shy of that, so my parents hadn’t had that much contact with them, and they were obviously taken aback by their frankness. Particularly Mum, who was a bit more, how can we say? Traditional. She certainly wasn’t one for ‘sexy talk’ around the dinner table.
In fact, my whole world was a bit alien to both my parents. They were simple, humble people. Not into flashy things. A car is just to get you from A to B. Clothes were just to keep you warm and protect your modesty, so as long as they looked smart, that was all that mattered. No designer tag required. Work was something you did to pay the bills. For example, up until a couple of years ago, when I’d paid off their mortgage so that my parents could retire early, Mum had worked as an office manager at a local insurance firm for decades. When we were growing up, she also took on various extra jobs, including bar work at weekends and childminding, just to make ends meet.
To my parents, the most important thing was family. And that’s why my mum often struggled to understand why I had been so career-driven and not settled down properly years ago.
‘Well, erm, I guess everyone has their own way of putting things,’ said Mum tactfully in response to Roxy’s ‘scoring’ suggestion, ‘but essentially, darling, I think we all agree that it’s time that you started courting again.’
‘I think Soph is making good progress, actually,’ said Bella supportively. ‘It’s only been just over three months since the sad passing of Albert, and she’s dealt with that and taken the brave step of breaking up with a long-term boyfriend of fifteen years, which can’t have been easy. She’s having a super busy time at work, and we all know how terrible she is at taking time off, but she’s actually going on holiday tomorrow by herself to stay with a group of strangers. How many of us have done that? She’s taking some big steps. Soph’s really trying, and I think it will lead to some exciting adventures.’
‘Thank you, Bella!’ I said, blowing her a kiss.
‘It’s true,’ chipped in Harrison. Christ. It seemed everyone has something to say about my sad love life. I helped myself to some more prawns and took a large gulp of my favourite Laurent Perrier Rosé champagne.
‘She wouldn’t normally consider going away at such a busy time, but I think this break will do Soph good. That’s if she doesn’t spend the entire time checking emails, of course!’ Harrison added, laughing loudly.
‘Girl, switch that phone off as soon as you get on the plane and go and find yourself some hot Italian ass!’ shouted Monique.
Oh dear God.
With that, I think my mother was about to faint. I had a feeling when I got back from this holiday, she’d be quizzing me not just on developments with my love life, but also on my choice of new friends.
After singing “Happy Birthday,” cutting the Lola’s red velvet Showgirl birthday cake, toasting my thirty-ninth year with copious amounts of bubbly and taking even more group photos on my phone, I headed home to finish packing and prepare for my 7.30 a.m. flight.
Before I left, Mum pulled me to one side and handed me a large paper gift bag filled with some casual clothes she’d picked out for me. She knew I had a room full of clothes already, but she always tried to encourage me to loosen up with my dress sense.
‘For once, Soph,’ she’d said, taking my hands into hers, ‘try to relax. Forget about your Gukey this and your Dolce and Banana that. Just be like the old you. The you before you became successful and went all fancy. This is a holiday. A chance to f
orget about work for a few days. Switch off that bloody phone and go and enjoy yourself for a change.’
Gukey and Dolce and Banana… Typical Mum. Zero interest in designer names or their pronunciation. I thanked her for the birthday gifts, gave her a kiss on the cheek and promised to do my best.
I unzipped my suitcase and flipped up the lid, glancing over what I’d packed so far.
There was a lot of overly fancy stuff. Maybe Mum had a point. We were going to be cooking most days and staying in the villa, so that red Gucci wool skirt adorned with the iconic ‘GG’ gold logo hardware at the top was probably not going to be appropriate.
I took everything out of the suitcase. Time for a rethink. Let’s think casual and simple. I reached into the bag Mum had given me. There were leggings, some comfortable-looking cotton tops/mini dresses—all from the high street. Okay, I’d pop those into a plain black case. Not this Louis Vuitton one. I went to the ‘casual’ section in my dressing room and pulled out some jeans that only had a subtle logo at the back and a few plain tops.
The organisers had said that sometimes people liked to dress up in the evening for dinner, but maybe Mum was right. Maybe I could allow myself a few days to be ‘off-duty’. I always had to wear fancy clothes for work and have my hair, nails and make-up and everything looking immaculate. For once, maybe I could just relax.
Think about it. I was going away with strangers. They wouldn’t know anything about me or what I did for a living and wouldn’t have any expectations. I didn’t need to impress anyone. I could start afresh. This was the perfect opportunity to just ‘be’. Return a little bit to the old me.
Before I’d started going out with Rich, I’d looked very different. It was the pre-ghd, keratin treatment era, so my thick, curly hair hadn’t been as smooth as it was now, and my dress sense was very simple. I wasn’t into fancy stuff at all. Even when we were at college, he’d always worn expensive clothes. So when we had begun dating, little by little I’d started getting sucked into that world. And of course, once I got into beauty PR, it was all about glamour and projecting the ‘right’ image, so wearing designer clothes became the norm. It was expected. It signified ‘success’. I knew that so many clients said how much they loved my handbags purely because of the designer logo they’d spotted or had gushed about my shoes because the trademark red soles.
The Middle-Aged Virgin: A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel: Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles... Page 7
