HarperImpulse
For Primrose, my very own passport to happiness
‘I don’t usually date women over the age of thirty. But I’m making an exception for you. You don’t look your age – so it’s OK. You can easily pass for twenty-eight.’ He grins at me with the confidence of someone who thinks they have paid an exceptionally gracious compliment and I can’t help but feel strangely flattered and irritated all at the same time. If it wasn’t for his overly white veneers keeping me fixated on his mouth and the golden nuggets of wisdom that might come out of it next, I’d have long ago made an exit. As it is, we’ve only just finished the starter course.
‘Are you always so flattering?’ There’s a heavy hint of sarcasm to my tone but he doesn’t appear to notice. He’s too busy swirling the wine in his glass and continuing with his running commentary on why younger women are more appealing. Ironic really, given that he’s thirty-eight years young himself, which, thanks to his hair implants and copious fillers, I’m not supposed to notice.
He’d seemed so normal in our email exchange, at least in the sense that he didn’t appear to have an overly inflated sense of self. Yet in person he insists on dropping his achievements into every other sentence. I briefly wonder if it’s a cultural thing – he’s German – but quickly dismiss that thought as he tells me, with a very straight face, that he would like to write his life story because men ‘world over’ would benefit from his knowledge of how to seduce and attract any woman they desire. Perhaps I’d be able to take that idea more seriously if he was doing a better job at winning me over. As it is, I see straight through him. He’s lonely, he’s hung up on his ex and he’s tired of his sales director role at a mid- range hotel group. Let’s face it, he’s hardly setting the world alight. But then, neither am I for that matter.
I never dreamed I’d find myself in this situation at thirty-three years of age. I used to joke about the cliché cat woman and now I’m beginning to feel like one – without the cat. I don’t love being single and carefree no matter how much I try to convince others, and myself, that I do. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ‘need’ a man to feel complete – my life is busy enough. But being in a partnership is a bit like wearing a favourite bra; it’s uplifting, comfortable, it makes you feel secure and you’re somehow less vulnerable to life’s challenges when there’s that extra support.
I blame Jay. He’s gotten a lot of the blame these past three years, but it is his fault. We had it all, the great relationship, the holidays, the house. The ring on my finger that I thought would be there forever…
If it wasn’t for his ‘I need to focus on my career not tie myself down’ crisis, I wouldn’t be alone, perpetually broke and clinging to a job that doesn’t hold the glossy glow that it once did.
I’d always just assumed that by my early thirties we’d be happily settled, perhaps with a couple of children, and at least have ticked living abroad off my bucket list. Hell, I even thought I’d own a 4x4 by now.
But no, instead I wake up every day hoping for a miracle – some kind of catalyst or key to kick-start a much-needed domino effect. I refuse to believe that this is the life destiny has in mind for me. Not my one-bedroom flat that’s barely big enough to swing a hamster, nor the disastrous stream of unsuitable men I keep getting set up with and don’t even get me started on the grey roots, frown lines and thick, wiry hairs in inappropriate places that have decided to suddenly take residence on my being. Where did I go? Everly Carter with the crazy brunette curls and full lips.
This shell of a life I’m living isn’t fun, it isn’t fulfilling, and it isn’t me. I feel that I’m out of touch with that happy, adventurous woman that I was all the way through my twenties, excited by the prospect of what life might bring and dreaming of far-flung places I’d be visiting with Jay. I realise lately that I’m fed up. I’m tired, I’m lonely and I’m unhappy. There, I’ve said it. I’m unhappy.
‘Do the kids you teach ever annoy you?’ he asks suddenly, making me wonder how the conversation navigated itself from his rather detailed romantic conquests to my current teaching job at a comprehensive school.
‘Of course they do,’ I retort with a wry smile, thinking of my earlier biology lesson and the little shit of class 10C known as Terry Whittaker. There’s something very disconcerting about hearing a fourteen-year-old calling you a ‘MILF’. Especially when the connotation indicates that you’re old and a mother. Talk about rubbing it in.
‘They’re just kids though and so I don’t let it get to me.’ That’s not strictly true, because I do sometimes let it get to me – like the month-long period of crying in the school loos during lunch hour. And all because a pupil asked why I wasn’t married – the day after Jay, my fiancé of five years had told me he could no longer see a future with us. But I’m not about to let my date, Florian, know that.
‘Have you been to Switzerland?’ I ask quickly and randomly, changing the subject before the conversation gets too deep and I start to unravel into a pathetic mess over my ex. He looks at me oddly, as if I’ve asked something very meaningful and complex. ‘Seeing as you’re German’ I add rather lamely, as if by explanation.
‘Yes, when I was younger. I skied a lot.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment and I start to fantasise about visiting Zurich just as his face suddenly lights up and he launches into a running commentary of his Swiss escapades. I realise in that moment that this is what I’m missing. Fun. Excitement. Spontaneity. And mostly, adventure. A little spark begins to burn inside me, and I grin as a crazy idea forms in my mind.
He doesn’t even notice as I discreetly tap my mobile into life and open up a travel website. I’m nodding in all the right places, smiling when he smiles and laughing when he laughs. Ever the egoist – he’s too wrapped up in himself to see me scanning flights. It’s laughably easy to excuse myself as our main course arrives and he takes the opportunity to charm the attractive young waitress serving our food.
Before I know it, I find myself in the toilet with my clutch purse and mobile, impulsively booking flights to Switzerland for the coming week. It’s school half-term – it’s late spring and I have little to look forward to except lazy lie-ins and re-runs of television series I’ve already seen. Why didn’t I think of this sooner, I muse to myself, as I tap in my credit card details.
By the time I return to the table he’s already halfway through his main course and I internally seethe at the lack of consideration – although he has the good grace to stand as I approach. I’m torn between a hasty retreat or being polite and staying for the entirety of the meal despite knowing I have zero intention of seeing him again.
I notice his suggestive wink at a group of women on a nearby table and instantaneously decide to make an excuse to leave because quite honestly, I’ve been insulted enough for one night. I’m too long in the tooth to be wasting time on things that don’t make me happy. And I’ve been doing way too much of that in all areas of my life – as my current predicament suggests. Florian is not a happy pill. He’s a fuckwit and I’ve had enough of those lately to last me a lifetime.
I join him as he sits back down, and he gestures to his plate with his knife. ‘The steak is good, very tender.’
