A GIFT TO MYSELF
Anne Sutton, a pleasant-looking blue-eyed brunette just turned fifty, curvy but leaning a bit towards plump, stood gazing out the window of a five-star hotel suite, sipping hazelnut liqueur and thinking to herself:
So this is where Ive ended up Middle-aged divorcée, alone, in a hotel designed for lovers. At least its a suite, not some dodgy motel staring at a car park that would have been the absolute limit of embarrassment.
She was quite certain romance had come to a close about twenty years ago, around the time of the last slamming doors and her childrens stormy teenage years. Men had occasionally breezed through her life since, but things inevitably ended in disappointment bordering on depression. Eventually, Anne concluded that relationships just werent for her.
But then he appeared the mysterious online gentleman. He messaged her in ways that made her cheeks blossom pink, her posture straighten of its own accord. Shed had half a mind to frame his notes and stick them on the fridge as much for inspiration as to keep herself away from that very fridge. Sometimes Anne suspected her suitor was either the head of a book club or simply had too much spare time.
She was Annie again lively, hopeful, daring. She bought a dress so gorgeous her colleagues faces twisted with envy, a bra that cost as much as a weekend getaway, and even joined the gym. She did squats with the determination of someone trying to single-handedly hold up Western civilisation.
If I drop dead from all these squats, bury me in this dress. Let my ex eat his heart out, shed joke darkly to her friends.
The day of the meeting arrived. It went splendidly. The finer points neednt going on record, but suffice to say, the Annie reflected back at her in the mirror afterwards seemed younger and positively radiant.
The second meeting, however, did not go to plan. Theyd chosen a picturesque seaside town for a touch of extra romance. Anne had planned, fretted, even lost a bit of sleep over it but he, at the last minute, was struck down with a blood pressure crisis, leaving her stranded, alone in a hotel, in a city not her own. Sighing at her reflection, Anne thought: Clearly, you dont get away with this sort of stress for free. Fate seemed to raise its eyebrow: Steady on, love. Dont get cheeky.
Anne took her glass to the window and attempted to reason with herself:
Oh well. How would one even tell this story to grandchildren? Granny, how did you recapture your youth? In an airport car park, waiting for a man and his blood pressure tablets. Now, thats romance for you.
In the morning, she retreated to the spa and made a decisive pact: Right, love, enoughs enough. From now on, celebrations are for your benefit only. Time to truly let loose. The spa ladies assured her her skin was glowing. Anne glanced in the mirror and decided it was more the massage oil than the bloom of youth.
The city tour was unexpectedly enchanting. The guide was tall, silver-haired, his voice pure velvet. There was an elderly lady nattering beside her in a tracksuit, but Anne only heard him. He spoke of medieval battles and Anne mused, men had been fighting over cities for centuries while women simply vied for a bit of attention. A sort of balance, really.
You must try the apple crumble, the guide insisted, ushering their group into the best tearoom in town, eyes glinting towards her.
The crumble was heavenly. It nearly made Anne fall in love again this time, with pastry and stewed apples. At least with a crumble, she smirked to herself, you know exactly what youre getting, unlike with men.
Afterwards came shopping: an amber pendant and a turquoise dress which hugged her chest so snugly she caught herself giving a playful wink in the shop mirror. It was bold, even daring, and Anne doubted shed have the nerve to wear it. Though that, naturally, didnt stop her from buying it.
On the plane home, Anne gazed out the window as the coastline faded, her romantic hopes slipping away with it.
Well perhaps theyd meet again, or perhaps not. Life, thankfully, didnt begin or end there.
Ahead lay a fresh wardrobe, a couple of holidays, and potentially another slice of crumble. With or without a man.
And if without, she grinned softly to herself, then at least with a scoop of proper Cornish vanilla ice cream, and drifted contentedly into a doze.
The thing Ive learned, scribbling this down: sometimes you have to be your own best company, your own gift, and the one who throws the party no grand gestures required.
