A GIFT TO HERSELF
Susan Wilkinson a charming, blue-eyed brunette in her early fifties, curvy (albeit tending gently towards plumpness), stood by the window of a five-star suite in Brighton, sipping hazelnut liqueur and pondering the state of things.
Well, look at me now… middle-aged divorcée, completely on my own in a hotel designed for couples in love. At least I splashed out on the suite if Id ended up in some roadside Travelodge with a view of the car park, I might have offered myself up for a Channel 4 documentary on Tragic British Women.
Susan was convinced romance had shuffled out of her life about two decades ago, around the time her kids started slamming doors and hit their own awkward teenage years. Men would crop up now and then, but things usually fizzled into disappointment, flirting dangerously with the borders of existential gloom. Eventually, shed decided that relationships just werent in her wheelhouse anymore.
Then He arrived her virtual suitor. His messages left her cheeks rosy and her spine straighter than the queens own sceptre. They were so lovely she was tempted to print them out, frame them, and stick them on the fridge partly for inspiration, partly to discourage random snack raids. Sometimes she wondered if hed signed up to a poetry evening class, or if he just had way too much time on his hands.
She became Susie again. Bought a dress that made her coworkers faces freeze in envy, splurged on a bra costing as much as a weekend in Cornwall, and even set foot in a gym. She attacked squats with the vigour of someone believing the fate of Western civilisation depended on her glutes.
If I keel over doing squats, please bury me in this dress, shed gloomily quip to her mates. Let my ex gnash his teeth at the funeral.
The meeting happened. It was a roaring success. Details are classified, but suffice to say she actually enjoyed catching her own reflection in the mirror afterwards there she was, Susie, looking at least a decade younger and unmistakably content.
It was the second date that went pear-shaped. Theyd chosen a charming little seaside town for maximum romance factor. Susan planned, prepared, fretted and then, right at the last moment, he was struck down by a monstrous case of high blood pressure. So there she was alone, in a strange town, in a fancy hotel room. Clearly, these sorts of shocks no longer came for free. Karma was wagging its finger: Dont get cheeky, love.
Susan settled herself by the window with her liqueur and aimed for logic.
Well, never mind. It makes for a decent story for the grandkids, doesnt it? Nana! How did you kick off your second youth? On the short-stay at Gatwick Airport, waiting for some bloke to swallow his statins. Pure poetry.
In the morning, she toddled off to the spa and made a radical decision: Thats it, madam. From now on, youre throwing yourself a party! She vowed shed properly let her hair down. The spa team declared her skin was radiant. One glimpse in the mirror, and Susan suspected the radiance was mostly down to grapeseed oil, not the hands of time.
Her city tour was a delight. The tour guides name was Martin (because of course it was), he was tall, silver-haired, and sounded like he learned his script from a BBC period drama. There was some gran in joggers yakking away nearby, but Susan only had eyes (or rather, ears) for Martin. While the guide droned on about medieval skirmishes, Susan mused: men have been fighting for cities for centuries, and women well, women do battle for attention. As they say, the great British equilibrium.
You really must try the apple tart, Martin insisted, steering the group into the citys best patisserie and locking eyes with her.
The tart (strudel? tart? who cares?) was divine. Susan nearly fell in love all over again this time with pastry and apples. Well, she thought, at least you can always count on dessert unlike men.
Next up, retail therapy: a silver locket and a turquoise dress, which hugged her figure so brazenly she gave her own reflection a conspiratorial wink. It was so bold, Susan doubted shed ever dare wear it outside her bedroom, but that didnt stop her from buying it.
On the flight home, Susan peered out of the airplane window. The city below faded, and so did the last dregs of her starry-eyed expectations.
Oh well… maybe she and her mystery man would cross paths again, maybe not. Life, blessedly, wasnt finished yet.
There was a new wardrobe on the horizon, a couple of cheeky holidays to book, and (with or without a chap in tow) perhaps another tart apple or otherwise.
And if Im solo, then at least Ill have a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side, she thought, grinned, and dozed off, completely at peace.
