forty today. I’ve come home as usual to an empty house. No one to show off my new dress to. No one greeting me at the door with a cake, some new perfume or tickets to a show. Oh, I’ll be going out at the weekend. My friend Lucy has arranged some kind of get-together, but not even she knows my exact age because to me it only marks forty years of making stupid mistakes.
I dump my shopping bags full of comfort treats on my sparkling new breakfast bar. Bottles of sauvignon blanc, ready-made coronation chicken, raspberries and cream, and a vast bar of Belgian chocolate. I run the bath and fill it with oils and bubbles while I take off my clothes in front of the mirror to take a good look. Three stone less of me since I hit thirty-nine. Nice, straight white teeth. Nose a little neater. A new woman, really.
It may all sound a bit solitary and sad but there’s no need to feel too sorry for me. This is bliss compared with this time last year, a birthday which was far more traumatic than this one. Mooching peacefully round my lovely flat tonight, a few irons in the fire for the weekend, food, drink, a great DVD to watch later, believe me, it’s all good.
The night of my last birthday was the night my fiancé chose to leave me. Gave no clue, no reason for his betrayal. Just fell out of love, I guess, though Lucy and the others all reckon there must have been another woman. Either way, I came home that night and he had literally vanished without trace.
Maybe what he saw back then was the old, fat me who’d let herself go and took him for granted. But the irony is there’s nothing like sheer misery for losing weight, which leads to an unintentional make-over. So what he was missing was my new body, wardrobe full of size 10s, a different hairstyle, all topped off with a touch of Botox here and there. Basically he was missing the new me.
But the worst thing was I never knew what frustration felt like until he left. Does anyone know how many calories you burn stroking yourself to a frenzy night after night?
I’ve been celibate since he left, unless you count my Rampant Rabbit. I rejected the idea of internet dating, though I did try a speed-dating night once. But I was still fat then. Lucy came with me, just for a dare, and she pulled some bloke, but I didn’t.
I even took the plunge and went for an interview at an older women’s escort agency, though I never told Lucy this. They were very enthusiastic about taking me on, actually. Loved my curves, they said. My big mournful eyes and juicy lips. The extra weight was attractive to many men, they said. And they were so keen that they sent me then and there on a date with a very large, very rich businessman called Colin who had a moustache and spent dinner ogling my cleavage, then pawing at my breasts in his hotel room, then when I undid my blouse for him he nuzzled into my bosom and started sucking my nipples – to fulfil his mummy fantasy, I suppose, but that was fine by me and I was really getting turned on.
I’d never been sucked by a man with a moustache and its stiff hair rubbing on the skin of my breast was weirdly mind-blowing, like some kind of furry animal nibbling at me, but bizarrely he wouldn’t let me touch him, wouldn’t let me near his fly or his cock or anything, so while he was sucking away at me I grabbed his hand and pushed it between my legs and made him rub up and down over my pussy which made him buck and groan and bite me all the harder, and it was pretty pervy in a good way. In fact, I was on the point of coming when his mobile phone buzzed underneath me. It was his wife, and that was the end of that.
‘It’s time to move on,’ Lucy says to me frequently. ‘Anyway, we’re all sick and tired of hearing how that bastard was the love of your life.’
Not Colin, obviously. She means Jamie. And she’s right. I’ve bored everyone rigid with my misery. So this year my new body and I intend to enjoy ourselves. It would be a waste of all this super subtle work, otherwise. These slim, toned legs want to open and wrap around a man. These big bouncy breasts want a man’s, or men’s, lips to suck them. But men aren’t handed to you on a plate, are they?
Lucy means well, but she’s always busy with her own life, dropping in and out of mine when she smells a party. She’ll never understand how he broke my heart.
Tonight I want to be alone. I dim the lights, just have Miles Davis serenading me. Then I slip into the bath with a sigh, sinking into the whispering bubbles.
A man on a plate. How would that be? My legs fall open as I imagine him. My toes curl round the taps as I try to picture him, but he always has Jamie’s face. I want him to stride into the bathroom, heave me out of the water, throw me down on the cold hard floor and fuck me right there, all wet and slippery.
The foam covers each breast. I push them upwards through the bubbles and my nipples harden. I can be proud of them again. Jamie used to love sucking them. I used to wear tight, low tops, until they got so big that I looked like a cheap barmaid. But, even when they were huge, Jamie still used to rip at my clothes, fondle my tits, scrape his chin over my soft skin and bite on my nipples until desire rose and blossomed inside me and I screeched at him to do it to me, wherever we were.
But even while he was fucking me back then, only a year ago, he must have been planning his escape. Maybe he was finding me so repellent he had to think of someone else while we were at it, someone slimmer and more confident. Someone like the old me.
I can feel desire seething in me now as I part my legs under the water, find my hand soaping my pussy. I push myself upwards in the water. My tits are like cream cakes, the nipple a dark cherry popping on top. That reminds me. Food.
As I’m sinking lower in the water, my fingers crawling up inside me now, I think I can hear the front door banging. My eyes snap open, heart thudding. As I rise like a mermaid out of the water, everything, the steam, the tiles, the taps, swims before me. I wrap a towel round me and pad out into the living room, feeling faint from the too-hot water. The towel grazes my still hard nipples. No sign of anyone. Must have been the wind. Back to the bath?
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