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‘Hi,’ I say, sitting on the stool next to him. ‘This is so fancy, do you come here often?’
I’m joking. Obviously. No one ever actually says, ‘Do you come here often?’ He looks a little surprised that I take a seat. Was I supposed to ask his permission?
‘No, I haven’t been here before actually. I’m not the kind of guy who comes to places like this, if I’m honest.’
‘OK,’ I say, thinking it odd that he suggested it then. I’d never come to a posh hotel bar like this either, they reek of affairs.
‘What are you drinking?’ I ask, presuming he’s just a little nervous.
‘A Pisco Sour.’
‘Great, I’ll have the same.’ I gesture to the barman to bring me one over.
‘Just a drink though, OK? I’m not up for anything else,’ he says, sternly.
I am so stunned, the best response I can give him is my jaw falling open.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. But I don’t like leading people on.’
‘I literally just walked in the door. Maybe I don’t fancy you either, thought of that?’ I say, stepping down off the stool.
‘Well, I suppose if you’re doing well and in a position to be picky, then that would make sense.’
‘Doing well? What? Just because I swiped right on your weird photo doesn’t mean I was gagging for you, it’s just dinner.’ I should walk away, but after dealing with Shane Bower and my boss, I’m done with not arguing back to misogynistic arrogant men who think it’s their God-given right to belittle women. Screw him.
‘I bet you’re married with kids and looking for some young piece of ass to fuck before you go home to them, aren’t you?’ I continue, a little surprised by my own vitriol.
‘Woah. Firstly, no, I’m not married and I don’t have kids. Secondly, what the hell does swiping right mean?’
‘What do you mean, “what the hell does swiping right mean”? Tinder. You know what I mean.’
‘Tinder? I’ve never been on Tinder in my life,’ he says, looking genuinely baffled.
I look properly at his face.
‘You’re not Al, are you?’
‘No, I’m not Al. And I take it you’re not a hooker?’
‘No! No, I am certainly not a hooker.’
He follows my eyes to the other end of the bar, where a guy with shorter brown hair in a grey shirt is angrily tapping away on his phone and simultaneously looking towards the door. I get my phone out of my bag. I have five messages from Al, each describing himself in more detail and asking ‘Which one are you?’
‘I’m Jason,’ he says, reaching a hand towards me.
‘Tara,’ I say, realising I am wildly attracted to him.
The barman brings over my drink.
An hour later, Jason and I have drunk three Pisco Sours, eaten two bowls of crisps, a bowl of olives and torn up three swanky bar mats. We’ve talked about politics, how much we miss our childhood dogs, and even had a heated but jovial altercation about the correct way to make a good Bolognese.
As we appear to be having an unexpected but sensational connection that feels like a date, I notice the real Al leave with a woman in a very tight dress.
‘There you go,’ Jason says, ‘Al did alright in the end. In one hundred pounds’ time it’ll be like it never happened.’
‘I made a lucky escape,’ I say, sipping the last of my drink, allowing my eyes to flirt for me. ‘So you’re single, you don’t have kids, you don’t sleep with hookers and you don’t use Tinder. You were also just sitting in a bar alone on a Friday and not waiting for someone. Now tell me, what is wrong with you?’ I ask, cheekily.
‘Hey, I love hookers. I just didn’t fancy you.’
I affectionately thump him on the leg.
‘I’m old fashioned, I guess. And hopeful. I don’t use Tinder because the idea of it doesn’t sit right with me. I think I’m single because I’m picky and I pick the wrong women. And I’m sitting here alone because my publisher summoned a meeting to assure her that my book was coming along, and after a right royal rollicking I have been sitting here and pretending it’s all fine for the last two hours.’
‘Your publisher? You write?’ I ask, finding that painfully sexy.
‘Actually no, I’m a photographer. But I’m doing my first book and I stupidly agreed for there to be a lot of words as well as pictures. My deadline is in three weeks. My assistant has locked me out of the Internet and I’m about to crawl into a cave to get it finished.’
‘What’s the book about?’
‘Well my work is usually centred around people, and mostly people not being who they seem. I did a big story for The Times Magazine about multi-millionaires who live like they’re on the dole, and it got picked up as a book. It’s great, but the article was a thousand words and this will be around forty thousand words and I seem to write approximately ten words every seventeen hours.’
‘Wow. I read that article, it was fascinating. Your work is amazing. Why would anyone not spend all that money? It’s bizarre,’ I say. ‘I have so many questions I don’t know where to start.’
‘Good. Then don’t. I don’t mean to be rude, but until tomorrow morning I would like to pretend it isn’t happening. Can we talk about anything but work?’
‘Sure. I don’t mind,’ I say, really enjoying the idea of that. My life consists of only work and Annie, and as much as I love them both, a night off would be nice.
‘But sorry. I should ask you what you do, shouldn’t I?’ he says, realising it might be rude not to.
‘Yup, you probably should. I work in TV. Documentaries. I love what I do, it’s challenging and diverse but the details can wait. You’re right, it’s Friday night and we have other things we should be talking about, don’t we?’
‘We do?’
‘Yes, we do. You said you date the wrong women, so who are these “wrong women”?’ I ask, hoping he doesn’t describe me.
‘Just that. Wrong for me. I’m extremely turned on by ambition and success, so go for women who have achieved a lot, but the downside of that is that they never seem to want kids. And I’m one of those guys who is desperate for a family. I want to fall in love and have babies. But I’m starting to think that’s the unsexiest thing a man can say, because whenever I say it I get dumped.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling like a piece of old meat that’s well past its sell-by date.
‘See? That’s what happens. I tell women I want kids and they make that face. The perils of being an old-fashioned man in a modern woman’s world.’
‘No, I think it’s nice you want kids, and you want to do it properly. And that you think it’s a woman’s world,’ I say, pushing my empty glass gently towards the other side of the bar. ‘I actually have a kid. A girl, Annie, she’s six. I mean, there’s no way on earth I’m having another, no way, but she’s my world.’
‘Who’s her dad?’ he asks, bluntly.
‘Wow, you went straight there, didn’t you?’ I say, stunned by his nerve, but also relieved by the idea of getting it out the way. I think of Sophie, in that hideous marriage where her entire life is a lie. I’m not doing that. If this goes anywhere, he’s going to have to take me for who I am.
‘A guy called Nick. I never caught his surname.’ I open my eyes wide and raise my eyebrows, as if to say, ‘Go on, bring on the judgement.’
‘OK, that’s … was it a one-night stand, or something more sinister?’
‘Oh no, nothing sinister. A one-night stand. A very quick, very nice one-night stand where one of my eggs got jiggy with one of his sperms. And before you ask how he reacted, he doesn’t know. I never told him.’
I don’t look up. Fuck it. I’m forty-two. I’m a mother. I’m very specifically looking for someone to be a part of mine and Annie’s life and if he can’t take the truth about me, then what’s the point in us having another drink? I prepare myself to be rejected.
He calls the waiter over.
‘Can I get a bottle of champagne, please?’
‘What’s that for?’ I ask, a little confused.
‘If this works out, I just got a free kid.’ He thumps my leg back and laughs.
This guy is fucking brilliant.
Stella
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and force myself not to look away. There is a reason I don’t do this very often. It’s impossible to forget someone whose face you see every time you see your own. At times it seems cruel, at other times I’ve felt so lucky that when I need to see Alice, I can.
I scrunch my nose up and widen my mouth, but I can’t quite manage it the way she used to. It was the only way people could really tell us apart, by her smile. It was her own, even I couldn’t do it so sweetly.
Our mum used to say that she was the rose and I was the thorn. Part of the same flower, but with a totally different effect on the world. My spiky nature was hidden by her softness. Now I’m exposed, without the petals of her personality to hide behind. It’s a daily struggle not to prick anyone who comes near me.
‘Why are you wearing that?’ says Phil, coming into the bathroom.
‘You made me jump, I didn’t hear you get home,’ I say, snapping myself out of Alice mode. He puts a tube of toothpaste into the little cup by the sink, and starts unwrapping a new razor.
‘Did you get dinner? I was going to make tuna bake?’ I say, realising he’s been to the shop and wanting to distract him from his question.
‘I got chicken. Why are you wearing that, Stella?’
He is referring to the skirt I have on. A purple and blue vintage circle skirt with a bird print on it. It was Alice’s. Her favourite item of clothing. I can’t bring myself to chuck it out and I wear it all the time, even though it makes Phil really angry when I do.
‘It’s just a skirt, Phil,’ I say, walking huffily into the bedroom. Come on, Stella, don’t snap, I think to myself. What would Alice say? I try to be more like her. More reasonable, more kind, more happy. Even though I want to bite him, make him sting. There is a bomb inside me that is ready to explode. But if it goes off, I’m not sure anyone would survive the destruction. So I swallow hard, channel Alice, and try to put out the lit fuse.
‘Maybe it’s time to get rid of her clothes?’ he says, knowing he is on dangerous ground.
‘Sure,’ I say calmly. ‘And why don’t I just shave off my face while I’m at it?’
‘OK, Stella, don’t be like that. You need to let Alice go. It’s time.’
I walk calmly into the kitchen.
‘How would you like the chicken done?’ I ask him. He follows me in.
‘I don’t think it’s healthy for you to wear Alice’s clothes any more, OK?’
‘I could breadcrumb it? Or do a stir fry?’ I get the wok out of a cupboard.
‘Stella, for fuck’s sake, will you listen to me. Take that skirt off!’
‘Fine,’ I shout, slamming the wok on the work surface. I pull the waistband open and push the skirt to the ground. Stepping out of it, I pick it up and I screw it into a ball, then smash it into the bin. ‘There, OK? Happy now?’
Phil looks at me pitifully, and shakes his head.
‘Now, would you like breaded chicken, or a stir fry?’ I ask him, very calmly, standing in my knickers, holding a spatula.
‘You need help, Stella. You seriously need help.’
With that, he storms out of the flat, and slams the door. When I know he’s gone, I get the skirt out of the bin and put it back on.
I think I’ll do the stir fry.
Cam
Lying on her bed, Cam watches Mark sleeping, his hairless body glistening with post-sex sweat, his muscles like a mountainous desert of smooth, sweeping vales, orange from the glow of streetlights flooding the room. He is the perfect lover. The kind of lover authors give to rejected housewives in filthy novels. He’s perfect for what Cam needs right now.
She wonders if she should kiss him gently as he sleeps, but reminds herself of the boundaries of such relationships. Sex should be tackled with abandon; affection should be handled with care.
Instead, she reaches for her computer. Having a younger lover is the kind of blog fodder she can’t deny herself.
The mid-to-late twenties, it’s such a prime age for a guy, don’t you think? Post-teenage disaster, pre-any desire to sow their seed and have children. Often at the peak of fitness, finding their way in the professional world and working their way through women like a snow plough with a penis.
I love them. For women like me, dare I tell you again – thirty-six, single, happy – they really are quite the gift. I recently found myself one whilst queuing in Whole Foods. I was buying organic frozen pizza and he was buying protein shakes. Our eyes met, we made general chit chat and an hour and a half later we were in bed. It wasn’t our stilted conversation that pulled us together, it was lust. Just lust. If you judge me for that, then I don’t think you understand how mutual adult relationships work. It’s healthy and consensual; there really is nothing to have an opinion about.
But we love it, don’t we? Judging other people’s sexual choices, especially if they have an air of controversy. We laugh, we question, we put on our halos and tell anyone doing anything we don’t do ourselves that they’re wrong or weird. But really, if it feels good and everyone is happy (and legal), then who is anyone to say it isn’t right?
How is it that such a private and intimate act, like sex, gains so much social traction? It excites people in the physical sense, but it excites them even more when they can gossip about someone else’s deviances. It makes no sense when society is as diverse as it is, that some still feel uncomfortable when others don’t behave in a way that is considered ‘normal’.
But we were just told what was normal, weren’t we? It was written in the books before we were born, that monogamy was the way to go, that we are supposed to find ‘the one’, get married, have kids. But maybe monogamy isn’t for everyone. Maybe some people, like me, really don’t have any fear of being alone. In fact, it’s the end goal.
I’m so happy not to be normal. At thirty-six, I have no intentions to settle down. There are some people in my life that find that unbearable. I can’t be any other way.
There are more single women in their thirties and forties than any other point in history; we are the fastest-growing demographic, but being single doesn’t mean you want, or deserve less sex. My choice is to have a younger lover, to give me the physical attention that I crave, but the emotional freedom that I rely on. That’s my choice, and as I sit here looking at a beautiful creature, asleep in my bed, here when I need him, gone when I don’t, I feel proud not to be normal. In fact, I recommend it.
Sweet dreams,
Cam x
Tara
At 11.36 p.m. we’re outside the Sanderson, getting off with each other like we are very much not on a London street in full view of anyone walking past. ‘Come back to my place,’ Jason says gently. ‘We can watch TV together. I’ll lend you some pyjamas. We can talk about feelings?’ He pushes even closer into me and puts his hands on my face. ‘Or we can just fuck in this doorway and deal with how much I fancy you that way.’
He kisses me. Our mouths taste exactly the same and go together like jigsaw pieces. Like when you’ve been trying to open a door with the wrong key for ages and when you finally use the right one it just slots in so easily that you realise how wrong you’ve been getting it for so long. My sexual desire powers down into my pants like the lights and music on the set of a TV gameshow. My crotch is pulling me towards this guy with a force that feels as good as sex itself. This is the connection I’ve been pining for every Saturday night that I’ve spent alone after Annie has gone to bed. Feeling cold, empty and rejected by my own choices after yet another shit date the night before. All I’ve wanted is to at least feel genuinely turned on. An actual, full body, one hundred per cent real impulse to shag someone senseless, rather than just because of a distant hope that sex might give us the connection I’m looking for.
I pull away. ‘Old fashioned’, ‘wife and family’, ‘a free kid’. His words ring in my head. If this is really happening, then it can wait.
‘Stop,’ I say, stepping out onto the street and away from him. ‘Let’s stop. Let’s not do this tonight. Let’s wait.’
‘Oh God, you’re crazy?’ he says, his mouth glistening under the street lights.
‘I’m not being crazy. Let’s not do this tonight. Let’s go out again, next Friday? Date. The “old-fashioned” way?’
Even if I never see him again, I can at least walk away from this amazing night with no sexual shame.
‘I want to see you again,’ I say. ‘I just think it’s OK to be sensible sometimes.’
‘You know they still had sex in the old-fashioned days?’ he says, adjusting his crotch but giving me a smile that shows he understands. ‘At least let me get you a cab?’
‘No, I’ll get the train, honestly a cab will take ages, I don’t live far from the station.’
‘Where do you live anyway?’ he asks.
‘Walthamstow,’ I tell him.
‘Walthamstow, I’ve never been. Maybe next Friday will be the night I take the Victoria Line all the way?’
‘Maybe you will,’ I say. ‘It’s a pretty sexy train.’
I loop my arm through his, and we walk to the station.
‘Take my number,’ I say, when we get to Tottenham Court Road tube. ‘I promise I am not trying to make a polite excuse, I really want to see you again. I want to do this again.’ I kiss him, showing him that without any doubt I really do fancy him. After a few seconds, he pulls away and takes his phone out of his pocket. He taps in my number as I tell it to him.
‘Is text sex allowed?’ he says. To which I laugh and nod my head.
‘Any text is allowed. Just text me.’
‘I will,’ he says. ‘Answer the text.’
‘I will.’
He kisses me again and doubt nearly makes me say, ‘I’LL COME BACK TO YOURS AND RIDE YOU ALL NIGHT.’ But I think of my feelings, I think of Annie, and I manage to control my urges somehow. As I walk away, I feel so good about myself – wildly turned on and like I could turn back, rip his clothes off and shag his brains out in the middle of Oxford Street – but also, so good about myself.
Just as I get to the bottom of the escalator, I get a text.
Tonight was perfect. Can’t wait to do it again. Jx
I stop. I have one bar of signal and want to send a reply before I go further underground. I’ve made my point, there isn’t really any need to hold back any more, I don’t want to leave him with any doubt about how I feel, so I just go for it.
I’ll not be so polite next time. I’ll want more of what happened in that doorway. I wonder if you’ll have any special requests?
I press send and a speech bubble pops up right away but my signal goes. It’ll be something nice to read when I get back above ground.
Jason
Jason is still standing at the entrance to the train station, hoping that maybe she changes her mind and comes back out. But seeing as this isn’t a Richard Curtis movie, he soon realises she really has gone. He’s disappointed, until he gets Tara’s text.
‘Any special requests?’
How incredibly hot. Jason can’t believe his luck. She’s clever, funny and sexy as hell. He fancies her more than he’s fancied anyone in ages, but he wants to play this right too.
‘Any special requests?’ Hmmmmm. Maybe it’s a little too soon to tell her that he loves the idea of her whipping her hair all over his body? It’s just his thing, he can’t explain it. It’s nothing seedy, or weird. He just loves women with long hair. Of which she had plenty. Long, thick brown hair. It was the first thing he noticed but luckily sense got the better of him and he didn’t entertain the idea out loud. He could really do with some sex though; it’s been a while since anything notable. He texts back.
I think we’ll …
And just at that moment, a cyclist crashes into him. The guy falls off but quickly picks himself up and gets back on his bike and speeds off. Was he embarrassed? Escaping someone? Jason doesn’t give a shit, all he cares about is the fact that his phone flew out of his hand and disappeared down a drain.
Tara, and her number, gone.
FUCK.
Tara
As the train passes through Seven Sisters, I look around me. My carriage is empty. I’ve got that heaviness inside me. That dull thud of my libido like a heart thumping in my underwear. I could wait until I get home to give it what it wants, but then here I am. Alone on a train. Gently drunk and reeling off the back of an electrifying encounter. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this fluttering of excitement. Why wait?
I see a copy of the Metro on the seat and lay it over my lap, then slip my hand inside my trousers and then into my underwear. My head falls back against the wall of the train and I think about Jason’s body pressing against mine. I imagine us in that doorway, naked now. My legs wrapped around his waist as he pushes me against the door, not caring if anyone sees. Totally locked into my fantasy, I rub hard, it feels so good. My knees fall apart and I feel cool air filter through my pubic hair as the newspaper falls to the floor. The train starts to slow. I’m running out of time, but I can’t and won’t stop. I press harder, think harder, breathe harder until I come harder than I have in a long, long time. The train slows down. I know I have to move. Just one more second in this moment.
I hear a sniff.
My eyes bounce open and I see a kid – white, blond, in a tracksuit. He’s holding a phone. Taking a picture? Or God, is he actually filming me?
‘What the fuck?’ I scream as I launch myself at him. But as the train stops I’m jolted forward and end up face down in the aisle with my trousers around my ankles. The youth’s feet disappear as he runs off the train.
‘PERVERT,’ I scream to a closing door.
What the hell did I just do?
2
Cam
Over a breakfast of black coffee and scrambled eggs on toast with an enormous dollop of ketchup, Cam is sitting at her kitchen table wearing a t-shirt and knickers, making a few finishing touches to the column she’s been writing since Mark left to go to the gym at nine a.m. As she’s reading through it, searching for missing commas and spelling mistakes, her doorbell starts ringing so aggressively she thinks there must be a fire. Launching herself into her bedroom to pull on some leggings, she runs to the intercom saying, ‘What? What?’ only to hear her sister say, ‘Cam, it’s Mel. We were on our way to the Heath and thought we’d come to say hi.’
She buzzes them up, instantly hearing the stampede of Mel’s three children racing up the stairs. She opens her door and in pelts Max, eleven, Tamzin, nine, and Jake, four. They all run straight to the window and start naming all the London landmarks that they can see in the view.
‘Morning,’ she says as they pass her. ‘MORNING, AUNTY CAM,’ they shout in reply.
Behind them comes Mel, trudging up the stairs, weighed down with beach bags and a cool box. ‘Here, let me help you,’ says Cam, rushing to help her.