HER OWN BEST GIFT
Fiona Bennetta blue-eyed brunette of just over fifty, still shapely despite a tendency to plumpnessstands by the window of a five-star luxury suite, sipping hazelnut liqueur and reflecting.
Well, here I am… Divorced, middle-aged, alone, in a hotel for lovers. At least its a proper suite, not some motorway hotel overlooking the car parknow that wouldve been utterly tragic.
Shes quite certain romance ended about twenty years ago, wherever her marriage and her childrens teenage years left it. Men drift through her life from time to time, but every dalliance seems to end in disappointment, just bordering on despair, and shes concluded that love stories are simply not for her.
Then He appearsa digital knight in shining armour. His messages are so charming her cheeks flush and her posture straightens unconsciously. Shes tempted to frame them and stick them on the fridge, partly to reread, partly to keep herself away from actual fridge raids. Sometimes Fiona wonders if her admirer secretly attends a poetry group, or just has far too much time on his hands.
She becomes Fee again. She buys a dress that leaves her colleagues gnashing their teeth with envy, a bra priced like a flight to Paris, and even dusts off her gym membership. She throws herself into squats as if the fate of civilisation depends on it.
If I die of lunges tomorrow, bury me in that dress. Let my ex stew in regret, she deadpans to her friends.
The first meetingwonderful. Details stay off the record, but lets just say Fionas delighted with the younger, happier woman beaming back at her from the mirror the next morning.
The second date, though, falls apart. They choose a charming little seaside town for maximum romance. Fiona plans, worries, preparesbut he, at the last minute, is struck low by a bout of high blood pressure, so shes left alone, in an unfamiliar hotel, in an unfamiliar town. Clearly, such stress takes its toll. Fate seems to wink at her: Steady on, love.
She settles at the window with her liqueur, talking herself round:
Ah well. Imagine telling the grandchildrenGranny, how did you rediscover your youth? Well, darling, in an airport car park, waiting for a man and his blood pressure tablets. Romantic, isnt it?
In the morning, she heads to the spa and decides: Thats it, loveenough chasing. From now on, celebrations for one. Im going all out. The spa therapist insists her skin is glowing. Fiona inspects her reflection and concludes: luminous, definitely, though likely more from massage oil than actual youth.
The city tour is a delight. The guidea tall, silver-haired man with a velvet voice. Next to Fiona, an elderly lady in a tracksuit natters away, but Fee only hears that velvet narration. The guide discusses ancient battles, and Fiona muses: for centuries, men have fought over cities, and womenover attention. Some things never change.
You really must try the apple tart, the guide says, locking eyes with her as he leads them to the citys best patisserie.
The strudel is heavenly. So much so Fiona almost falls in love againalbeit with pastry and apples. Strudel, unlike men, never lets you down, she thinks with a smirk.
Then comes shopping: an amber pendant, a turquoise dress that hugs her chest so snugly she winks at her own reflection. Its so daring she doubts shell ever actually wear it. Then again, why not?
On the plane home, Fiona gazes out the window. The town below shrinks away, and with it, those lingering romantic expectations.
Well then perhaps she and her digital suitor will meet again, perhaps they wont. Life, mercifully, doesnt end here.
Ahead is a wardrobe overhaul, a couple of holidays, and, maybe, another slice of apple tart. With or without a man.
And if not with a man, then at least with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream, she chuckles, closing her eyes and drifting off, utterly at ease.
