Today's Reading
"So, I met this new client yesterday," she tells me, climbing onto one of the barstools beside the kitchen island. "Fergus. He's South African, owns a pecan farm. Recently divorced." She opens her eyes wide.
"Right," I say, refusing to fall for the bait. Lottie runs her own business designing high-end treehouses, so she's always meeting interesting clients. I wouldn't have believed there was a market for forty-grand treehouses, but apparently, there is.
"I think you should meet him," she says.
"But I don't even like pecans," I say, being purposely obtuse. "If he were a walnut farmer, or even almonds, then maybe, but pecans? Not for me."
"Anna, seriously. You're just his type; I showed him a photo of you, and he wolf whistled."
"Yuck."
"Well, it wasn't a wolf whistle exactly, more of a whistling exhale, like 'Phewough!' "
"You are not selling this guy," I say, laughing now.
"It doesn't need to be a big deal, just a casual drink." She pauses, watching my face. "Any night you want, I will come over and babysit. I'm only twenty minutes away."
As I transfer the sunflowers to a vase, Lottie takes them from me and starts rearranging them herself. Watching her, I can't help smiling.
"I appreciate the thought, Lots, but honestly, I don't want to date. I am very happy on my own."
"You're very happy, are you?" Lottie asks, narrowing her eyes at me, then blowing a blond wisp of hair away from her face.
"I am perfectly content. Work is going well, the kids need me more than ever. I don't see a hole in my life that needs filling." Lottie raises an eyebrow at me, and I reach across the kitchen island to slap her shoulder. "Filthy woman."
"Even if it's not dating, I think you should get out more, take an art class, join a book club, something just for you. Your life can't be all about work and the children, then sitting on your sofa scrolling Instagram while watching Netflix."
"But there's so much TV I haven't seen yet," I say, pulling a goofy face as I open the fridge and take out a bottle of wine. "And I know no one will believe I've moved on until I'm seeing someone, but that is society's expectation, it has nothing to do with what I need. I am in my hibernation era."
I know there are plenty of women on Instagram who got divorced and took up running or weight lifting or started their own aromatherapy candle business. They look and feel better than ever, phoenixes risen from the ashes, embracing their "new chapter." I am not a phoenix. I am a dazed pigeon, looking for crumbs. But I am fine with that; being a phoenix looks exhausting.
Dan has moved on. Everyone knows Dan has moved on. Bath is a small place, and friends have seen him out on the town with various women. My colleague Kelly swiped past him online two weeks after he moved out, which was awkward. He's now dating some twenty-five-year-old called Sylvie, though I doubt it will last. I imagine he's having too much fun playing the field, after sitting on the bench with me for so long.
"Surely you miss"—Lottie smacks her lips—"you know..."
"What, sex?" I ask, pouring us both a glass of white wine, then I remember Lottie isn't drinking because she's four months pregnant, so I tip the contents of her glass into mine and start making her an elderflower spritzer with crushed ice and a wedge of lime, just the way she likes it.
"Yes. You don't need to be looking for a boyfriend or a husband. You could just join the apps, have some fun."
"Having sex with some random man I met on the internet is not my idea of fun," I tell her. "And weirdly, no, I don't miss it as much as you might think."
"My friend Tasha didn't have sex for five years and she got vaginal atrophy. Use it or lose it, sister."
" 'Use it or lose it'? Who are you?" I say, laughing at her as we carry our drinks and a bowl of crisps through to the living room.
I take the too-low armchair and offer Lottie the couch. Looking around the room, I feel a tinge of embarrassment. Lottie is family, she wouldn't judge or care, but she must notice how differently we live these days. It's not that her house is bigger or more expensive than mine (though it is both those things), but Lottie's home feels loved, cared for, full of complementary color schemes, while mine feels a little like my bikini line: neglected.
...
