Aged to Perfection

1. The First Day

ONE

The First Day

Tuesday, 1 January, 10.30am

Happy New Year! It’s time for my seventh decade body audit.

Hair on head – longish and honey-coloured because I’m worth it.

Pubic hair – unfashionably natural. I reckon if a guy is lucky enough to be facing my pubes, he’s not likely to stop because of a few silver highlights.

Chin hairs – they’re so devious. They creep up on you and grow long quietly overnight.

Waistline – pretty trim after my year of travel and trekking. But I can hear my menopause fat. ‘I’ve missed you,’ it’s saying, ‘let me pad you out again. Have some more chips. Ooh, those chocolate brownies look so good.’

Face wrinkles – I don’t have any if I don’t wear my contact lenses.

Eyes – bloodshot from last night’s excesses.

Legs – I should cover them up and stop putting people off oranges. But then again, who gives a damn? I’ll wear what I like.

Boobs – nipples still pointing ahead, but is the left boob drooping at a different rate?

Back fat/droop – who knows? What I can’t see won’t hurt me.

Head – still not got the hang of ruling the heart.

Heart – was shattered into a million pieces but almost put back together.

Audit result: not bad. On Instagram, they’d say, ‘looking fabulous at sixty’. I wonder if I’ll face Catherine Deneuve’s ‘Arse v Face’ dilemma soon? Yes, but I think I’d opt for small arse/wrinkly face. I’ll be laughing when I get a wolf whistle from the back and shock when they see the front.

And now – deep breath – last year’s love life audit.

Love interests – zilch.

Butterflies in tummy – what are those?

Sex – twice (practically a born-again virgin).

Dating skills – more out of date than the batteries on my vibrator.

Heartbreak – one. A bad one. A really bad one. A really, really bad one.

Emotions – contained. Just about. I’m covering the cracks in my soul with lashings of faux nonchalance.

Audit result: poor. Drastic action required.

Last night, I made a resolution after I did my usual NYE disappearing trick. Not for the first time, I couldn’t bear facing that awkward moment at midnight when you have to wait for couples to kiss first before they get to you, the singleton, the odd number, the spare wheel. Instead, I welcomed the New Year sitting on the loo with a glass of fizz, listening to the revellers outside, and shed a few tears. Other women were being cherished on the other side of the door, so why not me? Was I so unlovable? The pain I was an expert at hiding came bubbling up. I ached for a tender loving midnight kiss and longed to be someone’s forever love: the one, the missing piece. Over the years, I’ve spent a few New Year countdowns hiding but I didn’t think I’d be doing it when I’m sixty. I thought I’d be sorted by now. One half of a kissing couple. Not still searching for someone to smooch.

I cleaned up my face, applied more lippy, jutted out my chin and decided to start the year with a positive attitude. No more celibacy for me. The world may think I’m invisible and past it because I’m sixty, but I disagree. There’s so much I still want to do – make love in a forest, drink martinis in a skyscraper bar in Shanghai, dance in a flash mob, and laugh at Sarah Millican’s bawdy jokes till I pee. Being age-appropriate is way overrated. Much better to grow old disgracefully.

Leila gave me the idea for the dating challenge last night. Her NYE party was so much fun, as my vampire eyes will attest. This year’s theme was movie characters, and Leila’s new house in Hampstead, a huge LA-style modern house with double height entertaining space and lots of glass (a snooper’s dream if it wasn’t surrounded by trees), was the perfect setting. Three Indiana Joneses were in a manly huddle practising their whip technique. Forest Gump was dancing with Holly Golightly, and the sight of Hannibal Lecter groping Hermione Granger was plain creepy. ‘No way!’ was all anyone could say as Trey, the magician, smashed Marilyn Monroe’s phone with a hammer, then brought it back to life with a gentle rub. And Dragon, the fire eater, nearly set his tiny loin cloth on fire.

Leila was stunning in her Jessica Rabbit costume, her ample boobs popping out and making eyes pop. Grace and Ajay were Ghostbusting, and I was pleased with my space outfit – bikini top and mini skirt made of foil, worn over a gold lurex body suit. Until the foil started crinkling and ripping. I was aiming for groovy Barbarella but ended up a Pound Shop hula girl.

We were having a quiet moment on a sofa, watching the dancing, when Leila persisted with her dating idea.

‘Why don’t you just try it? One date every week for a year. You might find your soulmate,’ she said.

‘I know you want me to be happy and I love you for it, but I’m perfectly fine as I am. I don’t need a man to make me complete,’ I said.

‘You might not need a man, but you do need to open your heart again, Sophia Stone. It’s been over a year since you-know-who … you run at 100 miles an hour and pretend you’re fine, but I know you better. You deserve to be happy and loved.’

‘I am happy and loved. I don’t need a man for that. And don’t mention The Traitor. I DO NOT want to hear his name.’

‘We can’t let Ro … sorry, The Traitor, ruin your life. He’s not worth…’

‘Just stop, Leila. Stop.’ I showed her my palm, and she backed off about him, but not before reminding me how broken I was this time last year. We were quiet for a bit.

‘So, what about the dating idea? Why not just make a New Year resolution and do it?’

‘Because one date a week sounds like hard work, and I really need to concentrate on breathing life back into my business.’

‘Come on, you don’t need to worry about your business. Your clients love you. They won’t even buy washing up liquid without checking with you first in case it ruins the magic Sophia vibe in their kitchen. And what about the couple who called you from Colombia to ask if you approved of a wall hanging they wanted to buy for their bedroom?’

‘I know. I love it when they come to me for emergency interior design,’ I said, smiling.

‘See, you’ll be fine. And you can always reinvent yourself. How many career changes so far?’ She started counting on her fingers. ‘There was the PR agency, the jewellery store, the wedding planning company, the management consultancy phase … what was that job you did after uni?’

‘Trainee archaeological illustrator. That was a great job. I got to travel around the world and draw ancient artefacts.’

‘I was so jealous of you. I was stuck in a dead-end shit job filling in forms for a book wholesaler. But you inspired me to take a risk and follow my dreams,’ she said.

‘Aw, you never told me that before. It’s so lovely to hear I inspired you. And look at you now. A successful sculptor and painter.’ We hugged in mutual appreciation. Leila’s been a constant nearly all my life. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

‘Hey, don’t forget I’m also lay therapist to my clients so that’s seven careers to be precise.’

‘OK, then, treat finding a man like one of your projects. I challenge you to do it. It’ll be so much fun, and I bet you’d like more sex,’ Leila said, winking.

‘Guilty as charged, your honour.’

* * *

This morning, I’m clear about what I want. Spending yet another New Year crying in the loo made me realise relationships are not worth the heartache. I’ll take on the dating challenge and give it my best shot, but I’ll focus on having sex. Sod finding a soulmate. Sod finding Mr Right. Sod finding The One. I don’t need to hand over the keys to my heart and happiness to a man in order to enjoy life.

Is it weird to have sex just to avoid feeling too much? Yes, putting it like that does sound a bit bonkers, but millions of people have casual sex just to experience a temporary, often false, intimacy. Why can’t I turn that on its head and use sex to avoid intimacy? I have to protect myself from more damage, even if it means settling for less. One day I might rip off the plaster and risk it all again, but right now, I’m taking back control while keeping my soft core well-hidden.

My life is perfect, so why spoil it? I’ll stay single and still live life to the full, and if I’m lucky, I’ll meet fifty-two sex machines. This year I’ll master the art of having marvellous, mind-blowing sex without emotional entanglement. At the end of the year, I will have had the best sex ever and spiced up this year’s diary. Win-win. Kill two birds with one Sophia Stone.

To check everything was in working order for my upcoming busy sex life, I dug out my old vibrator from the back of the wardrobe, changed the batteries, and gave it a whirl – nothing like morning sex even if it is with a mechanical toy – and I can confirm I am still a sexual being. A sexy goddess. At sixty. No velour slippers for me, thank you.

P.S. I can’t help wondering. Is it actually possible to keep dating, have sex and not fall in love? I’m determined to prove it is.

12.30pm

I couldn’t face driving, so I’m on the train up to Harpenden, going to yet another New Year family lunch on my own. I have a love-hate relationship with this time of the year. It’s exciting to think about all the positive possibilities a new year brings, but it also makes me reflect on life and I don’t always want to face up to some of those reflections.

Mum and Dad are nearly eighty and who knows how much longer they’ll be with us. I remember when they both turned seventy, the sense of their mortality hit me hard, and I realised I could lose them at any time even if they are exceptionally healthy. It made me want to cherish my time with them even more. I know I still crave their praise like a little girl, yearning for their attention.

When I was in Bali, the group therapy leader asked me if I felt excluded as a child because my parents were so in love and into each other. And did I feel lonely because I didn’t have a sibling for the first ten years? Rubbish. He also suggested I had mummy issues, whatever that means. I do sometimes feel I’m not enough and I have to bite my tongue when Mum obsesses over my weight or looks, but all mums do that, don’t they?

My niece and nephew are growing into lovely young adults. I’m so happy Sara’s kids bring her joy, though it stings when she lords her perfect family over me. Our sibling rivalry has always been balanced by our once close bond, but recently it’s made me feel like the inadequate older sister who just can’t get her personal life together. I long for the days she looked at me with admiration instead of reproach. I try to connect with her but increasingly she keeps me at arm’s length, probably because she feels guilty for what she did. I wonder if we’ll get sweet Sara or sour Sara today.

And me. I’m so lucky I have a great career and loyal friends like Leila, Grace and Ace. On this sixty-first year of my life, I’m entering a new phase and it’s daunting not knowing what’s ahead. Part of me wants to wallow in the past, to still be angry at The Traitor for his treachery. For his cheating. For his breaking my heart.

I couldn’t talk to Leila about him last night, because even now, over a year since we broke up, thinking about him makes my stomach turn, the bitter taste of infidelity and disappointment lingering in my mouth. Much as I try, I can’t unsee finding him in bed – in my bed – with someone else. But unsee it I must. The sharp pain has dulled now, but it still hides inside, waiting to pounce every now and then. He’s left a permanent scar and I’m wary of fully exposing it again. I miss that unguarded part of me but protecting myself means living without abandon. I won’t let anyone break me so cruelly again.

11.30pm

When I arrived at the house earlier, Dad was putting out the rubbish. He looks frailer, and his hair is the colour of snow. It’s hard to imagine he was once a tough young officer leading a platoon of soldiers. My heart broke a little bit.

Sara was exhausting and yes, a total bitch. Forget sweet or sour. We got downright nasty Sara today.

‘Decided to spend New Year’s Day with your family for a change then?’ she said as soon as I walked in.

Jack and Charlotte jumped up excited and gave me lovely hugs after taking their presents. I bought them the clothes they’d asked for, which looked exactly like the baggy sweatpants and top combo they were already wearing. They’re not so playful now they’re teenagers but still a joy. How can such sweet kids have sprung from Sara’s loins?

‘I was only away for one New Year,’ I said as I gave Mum a hug.

‘Hmm. You look good in that dress,’ Sara said.

Wow, a compliment.

‘Aw, thanks, Sara,’ I said, my face warming up.

‘I just don’t understand why you can’t get a man,’ she added.

I should have known there’d be a sting in the tail. Mum and Dad looked at each other, as if to say ‘not again’. Mum went into hyper mode.

‘Have a drink, darling. And there’s food on the table. Don’t eat all the chocolates though. You want to keep that lovely slim figure. Come and help me set up this iPad,’ she said.

I sat between Mum and Dad for a while and showed them how to use it. Sara was quiet, Laurence watched TV, and the kids were on their phones.

‘Anyone made any New Year resolutions?’ Mum said.

‘I have,’ I said.

‘Are you giving up chocolate? Do try and keep to it this time, darling. Remember that year you ate a whole tin of Quality Street in two days?’ Mum said and puffed out her cheeks, mimicking being fat. Sara laughed – the skinny laugh of someone who’s never had to watch their weight.

‘No. I’ve decided to go on a date every week for a year.’

‘Woohoo! Go Sophia,’ Laurence said. Sara gave him a dirty look and he hung his head in shame.

‘That’s undignified for a sixty-year-old,’ Sara said. I bit my lip and ignored her.

Mum’s eyes darted between me and Sara. ‘No, it’s not. It’ll be fun for your sister. Good for you, Sophia,’ she said. I showed her a few profiles on a dating app, while Sara stared into the distance. ‘Look at all these men, Henry. They all want to go out with our Sophia.’

‘That’s nice … how’s work, Sophie love?’ Dad asked.

‘I’m seeing a potential new client this week. I hope he’s not into wallpaper. I don’t want a divorce citing irreconcilable wallpaper differences on my conscience,’ I said, laughing.

Sara rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, messing about with wallpaper and cushions sounds very stressful. Being a nurse in a GP practice, now THAT’S stressful, but you don’t hear me complaining,’ she complained.

‘That is complaining?’ Laurence said, and Sara glared at him again, so he went back to watching TV.

‘Did you remember to bring your travel photos?’ Dad said.

‘Yes, I’ve finally sorted them. You’d love the Himalayas, Dad,’ I said.

Everyone gathered round to look at my pictures except Sara, who started scrolling on her phone.

‘Life’s too short to sit through other people’s holiday photos,’ Sara said.

‘Sophia’s not other people,’ Mum said.

‘Tremendous,’ Dad said after gasping at the majestic Himalayan mountains. ‘Look Betty, love, we could go there for my eightieth,’ Dad said as Mum’s eyes widened.

God help us.

Sara piped in out of nowhere. ‘I don’t know why you can’t hold onto a man, but I’m just grateful you didn’t come back with a new one. I can’t take the drama of another breakup.’

I was stunned by her cruelty. She’s always had a tendency to be judgemental, but lately her words have a sharper edge. I withdraw more with each caustic remark. I wish we could be how we used to be before resentment built an impenetrable wall between us.

I recreated my NYE disappearing act and hid my humiliation in the bathroom. Is it wrong to want to strangle your sister? Where is the sweet girl who used to save up her pocket money to buy birthday presents for me? The one who fought off a mugger in Barcelona because he’d tried to grab my bag. More than anything, I want that sister back.

Mum came in after a while and gave me a hug.

‘You mustn’t cry, darling. Don’t mind your sister. She doesn’t mean it. I think she’s going through a rough patch with Laurence. She’s so tensed up all the time. Why don’t you talk to her? You’re so good at helping people with their relationships. You always know the exact right thing to say. She’ll listen to you.’

‘I’ve tried, Mum. Sara just makes excuses not to see me.’

‘Well, try again. Now fix your makeup, darling. We can’t have you looking like that,’ she said, true to form. I know she wants me to look my best, but still … at least she approves of my new trim figure, so I didn’t have to suffer any ‘observations’ about my body.

Mum is right about one thing. I am the CEO of Lay Therapy Services PLC. For some reason, people do ask for my advice and listen. How many times have I helped Leila over the years with her husbands? And I can usually bring harmony to my squabbling clients. How come I can give relationship advice to others with surgical precision, when I’m so clueless about my own love life? I should make a concerted effort to apply my brilliant advice to myself. But that’s irrelevant now I’ve given up love for good. My advice to myself is: have fun. And lots of sex.

After lunch, I fell asleep while watching TV and I had one of my sofa dreams. I was in an orgy with fifty-two men in an S&M club, and I said, ‘This is going to be the year of amazing sex. This year my sex life will explode. I will be born again. I will not be a born-again virgin. I will get back onto the dick wagon.’ I woke up feeling flushed and sweaty. I looked around and there was only Laurence there on the other sofa.

‘Did you discover Jesus while you were travelling, Sophia? You were mumbling about the Virgin Mary and being born again,’ he said.

Wednesday, 2 January, 6.30am

First day back at work in this new year. I missed my morning routine while I was away. I love my quiet cup of coffee, contemplating the day ahead. Working with my clients gives me a sense of satisfaction that’s hard to explain. There’s a kind of alchemy in taking their wants, combining different materials, mingling light and colour, and visualising the finished creation. It’s like therapy, but with colours, textures, and fabrics.

Some people (like my sister) think my job is mere decorating, but for me, it’s more about creating a home that people will cherish. They let me into their lives and homes and, sometimes, even their hearts. I know I’m not changing the world or doing an important job like a teacher or doctor but knowing that I’ve contributed in a small way to improving other people’s lives makes me proud. And I love the look of wonder on my clients’ faces when the transformation is complete.

Right, time to get going, otherwise, tomorrow’s meeting won’t live up to my glowing description.

11.30pm

It’s a lovely new year and a lovely new me. I’ve made appointments for a facial, eyebrow shaping and haircut, to get myself in tiptop shape for the dating challenge. I might even dye the silver pubes pink to spice things up.

To kickstart the dating project, I wrote a poem. There won’t be any willies in this diary like my teenage ones (do you remember my poem about Premature Paul in sixth form?). No, this diary will be about proper, plentiful adult dicks. I’m going to call a dick a dick, so to speak.

It’s time to end the dick drought

Dating more men is what it’s all about

Will the dates be fascinating and super fun?

Or will I get more satisfaction from a cream bun?

Will a kiss turn one of them into a prince?

Or will I wish I’d offered him breath mints?

Will he give me his full attention?

Or just be after my pension?

I hope he won’t be too old to get it up

I hope he’s not a member of the impotence club

I don’t mind if he’s of the older vintage

If his equipment hasn’t suffered from shrinkage

I know I want the ideal man and then some

Or at the very least someone to make me come

Shelley and Byron have nothing to fear.

Thursday, 3 January, 11.30pm

Went to see a potential client today. Andrew, a tech whiz kid in his thirties, is the embodiment of geek chic. He must have made a mint writing apps if he could afford his amazing waterside apartment near the Tate Modern. He wanted me to design a new kitchen for him and asked if it’s possible to have heating under a marble surface. I told him underfloor heating is fine for marble. He stared at the floor for a second.

‘What if it’s not under the floor?’ he asked.

‘Where were you thinking of? On the walls?’

‘Erm … no … I was thinking under an island worktop? Erm … my partner likes the feel of marble on her skin. You know, on her back?’

‘Oh … oh I see.’ I paused. ‘I’ve never been asked for that before, but I’m sure I can make it work.’

‘I think you might be the woman for the job then,’ he said as we shook hands.

Hurrah. After being away for so long, I need more new clients like Andrew if I’m to get my business back on track. Most of my lovely clients have been waiting for me to come back, though I bet the thing they’ve missed most is not just my design skills but the free couples counselling I throw in as part of the service. The happiest of couples can easily turn into feuding enemies when it comes to deciding on the right shade of white. An interior designer is for life, not just for wallpaper.

P.S. I wish I had someone who cared enough to warm the marble for me.

Friday, 4 January, 11.30pm

I’m all apped up. Joined London Soulmates and Ladybird.

Me

Height: Can’t reach the top shelf

Age: 60 (should I have lied?)

Hair: Honey (out of a bottle)

Eyes: Twinkling

Physical attributes: Fit

Education: Swot

Superpower: Photographic memory for handsomeness

‘Truly incredible woman,’ The New York Times

‘Greatest interior designer of our generation,’ Elle Decoration

‘She’s my kickass heroine,’ Wonder Woman

‘I work hard every day to look like her,’ JLo

‘Our highest scoring member ever,’ Mensa

‘She has a great sense of humour,’ Dawn French

You

Age: 45–61 (just so I can say I’m up for older men)

Height: Must help with the top shelf

Education: Swottier the better

Loves: fun, friends, frolics, films, family, and alliteration

I called Leila to get her opinion.

‘Honey, is it a quick one? There’s a gorgeous man here longing for me,’ she said from her bed and turned the camera to Jude who scowled.

‘What do you think of this for my dating profile? Desired qualities for a man: articulate, adventurous, glass half-full, smells nice, energetic, fit, intelligent, youthful, sexy, confident, funny, attractive, open-minded. Any superpower a bonus. What do you think? Is that enough?’

Jude scoffed in the background. What’s his problem?

‘Yes, it’s enough. In the same way that Imelda Marcos’s shoe collection was enough,’ Leila said, then grappled with Jude who grabbed and switched off the phone.

Rude.

Is that too much to ask for? I don’t think so. I’m getting excited about meeting lots of lovely men. I want someone to long for me. And hopefully there’ll be sex soon. Luckily, menopause has not affected my vagina. It’s still moist and willing.

Saturday, 5 January, 1.30pm

First meeting of the Brunch Bunch this year. We were missing Grace who went to Monte Carlo on New Year’s Day, but Ace is in town after visiting family in Jamaica, and he came along, though I’m not sure why as he kept fidgeting, twisting his wedding band and sighing like he didn’t want to be there. Usually, he rocks the ‘just got out of bed’ tousled look with his carefully unruly afro and silver jewellery, but today he actually looked like he’d just got out of bed, with puffy eyes and a jumper that had seen better days. I put my arm around him and asked if he was OK, and he said he was just tired. When I mentioned his trip to Jamaica, he said, ‘Just the usual’. I mouthed to Leila, ‘What’s up with him?’ but she shrugged. We watched him for a bit, but he was distracted and didn’t notice.

‘Thanks for all the lovely men you tried to palm off on me at the party,’ I said to Leila.

I’d been enthusiastic when Leila told me she was introducing me to a few single men at her NYE party and was hoping I’d hit it off with one of them. OMG. How could my best friend think they were good matches for me? I appreciate your dedication to finding a man for me, Leila, but can you please find someone who makes my cheeks flush and my vagina throb? The Divorcee was rather attractive until he started telling me he was exhausted by his children, and desperate to find ‘help’. I thought I was being interviewed for the missionary position until I realised he wanted to fill a nanny position. Then there was Cement Man. How much can one person talk about his cement company? Quite a lot, apparently. When he finished his story about an ‘absolutely hilarious concrete pouring mix-up’, I thought I might be petrified.

And last and least was Dick Pic Man, who decided to Airdrop a picture of himself to me. Later he crept up behind me and whispered, ‘Would you like to see the real thing?’ Now, I like to look at a penis as much as the next person, but not as a calling card. I overcame my ingrained tendency to be polite and said, ‘No, I don’t want to look at your shortcomings,’ and walked off in a huff.

* * *

Leila shrugged and turned to Ace. ‘I invited all the single men I know. Malcolm, the divorced one, is interesting. He runs a gallery in Mayfair and might be exhibiting my new sculptures, but she didn’t like him.’

‘I see. The deal was I babysit his children and he gives you free gallery space?’

‘Ha ha, very funny, Sophia,’ she said. ‘Where do you think she should go to meet guys, Ace?’

‘I can’t help you there. My last date was with Kelly,’ he said, barely smiling, then he looked around with darting eyes.

‘You must have done something right. Here you are together, thirty happy years later,’ I said. He let out a long sigh, said ‘Hmm’ then studied the menu even though he’d already ordered.

‘Anyway, there’s no need for any more matchmaking, thanks. I’ve registered on two dating apps already, so I’m starting my New Year’s resolution as of today.’

‘What New Year resolution?’ Ace asked.

‘Leila challenged me to go on one date every week for a year.’

‘That’s my girl. You’ll find love in no time,’ Leila said. She was pleased with herself for talking me into the dating challenge, just like she was at school when she persuaded me to spend my pocket money on crisps so she could win the full set of Troll Dolls.

‘Oh no, I’m not looking for love. It’ll be pure fun and sex. I don’t need the relationship stuff. Ever again.’

Leila’s jaw dropped and Ace stared into his empty coffee cup. Sometimes he still looks as shy as he did when we were kids playing in each other’s back gardens. He was always the one to look away first when we had staring contests.

‘What? Who are you and what have you done with Sophia?’ she said, agog, and felt my forehead pretending to check my temperature.

I smiled.

‘You’re just afraid of getting hurt again. Forget about the past, honey, and look to the future. Anyway, I know what you’re like. You’ll soon change your tune when you meet someone you like,’ she said, satisfied with her analysis of my situation.

She doesn’t know the new me. I’m absolutely certain I don’t want a relationship. That ship has sailed. I’m through with it. It’s done and dusted. I’ve reached the end of the road.

I didn’t want to discuss it, so I started reading out the ‘Dick Drought’ poem. Ace went to the loo after the first verse, probably embarrassed by the girly talk.

‘I love it. You’ll be fighting them off, honey,’ Leila said, laughing.

‘Not sure about that. That’s more your department. You always had more boys after you at school than I could dream of, and you’re on your fourth husband. How do you do it?’

She wet a finger and sizzled it on her arm. ‘Seriously, look at you. Your body was off the scale in the Barbarella outfit. You’re smart, you have your own business, and you can write a funny poem. You’re an absolute catch. What’s not to like?’ she said as Ace slid back into his seat. ‘She’s a goddess, isn’t she, Ace?’

Ace nodded.

‘I love you guys,’ I said.

‘And we love you. Your trouble is you’re too picky,’ she said.

‘I lied. I only love you,’ I stage-whispered in Ace’s ear.

Sunday, 6 January, 10.30am

Two likes!

Just two measly likes. Wow, I am popular. I distinctly remember how it was for Leila when she started dating after she lost Darius. She was inundated with offers and had to narrow her filters to fend them off. When I entered my criteria, the app kept flashing a warning, ‘Your chances of meeting The One will increase if you have fewer filters’. It was basically saying, ‘You’ll never meet anyone if you’re that picky, love’. I was being patronised by an app. So, I left it as open as I could bear. And still just two likes – not even a message.

My first liker was recently divorced and said his children had persuaded him to join a dating site. Pity they didn’t persuade him to clean up for the photos. All the pictures had been taken on his sofa, wearing grimy tracky bottoms and surrounded by crisps packets, which didn’t dovetail with his claims of liking travel, the gym, and good food.

No, I don’t fancy dating a crisps receptacle, thank you. I deserve better. I want someone who tries harder to be the best version of themselves. Why aren’t I getting a higher quality and quantity of likes? Is there something wrong with me or am I being too sensitive? I know I have to grow a thick skin if I’m going on dating apps, but the approval-seeking Sophia buried deep inside me yearns to be wanted. I must not allow that Sophia to scupper my year of dating. Will get a grip and continue work on cultivating a tougher hide.

The second liker could have been a dream for all I know, but like a lot of others, he wore a hat and sunglasses, so I have no idea what he looks like or what he’s hiding. #NoHatsPlease #EnoughWithTheSunglasses

1.30pm

Checked profile. No more likes. Why? Is Leila right? Am I too picky? I don’t think so. I just have standards which I’m not going to drop in order to get a man. Much as I want to be picked, to be the popular hot sixty-year-old everyone messages, any encounters have to feel right for me.

11.30pm

Felt sad earlier remembering lovely Darius. Leila was so happy when they got married, especially after the painful divorces from Brian and Ali. It’s shocking how life can change in an instant. A lorry’s brakes fail, and your husband is gone. I thought she’d never get over it, but she bounced back and started dating after six months. She’s just not happy when she’s single, and her need to find love overrides everything else.

Still, I wish she hadn’t rushed into marrying Jude after just a three-month romance. They were all loved up and cooing over each other on New Year’s Eve, and I’m thrilled to see her so happy again, but I’m worried it won’t last. She gives her heart so freely. I wish I could protect her from ever getting hurt again, but all I can do is be there if it falls apart. And at the same time, I so admire her eagerness to take another leap, as scary as it is. Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to risk my heart again too, but not yet. Not for quite some time.

Seeing them together reminded me of those early blissful years of marriage, when I basked in the glory of James’s love, and I was so sure we would be together forever. We were the golden couple: in our twenties, successful, confident, and deeply in love. And when the time came to make our coupledom into a family, we took it for granted that it would work out for us, like it does for millions of others. We were trying for a baby in blissful ignorance that it was never going to happen. When the doctors said I had polycystic ovaries, I had no idea what it meant and that eventually it would destroy our relationship. But after the infertility diagnosis, something shifted between us. The light of love in James’s eyes gradually faded, replaced by disappointment and blame.

We’d tried for so long, but after a while, when each month brought blood over and over again, our hopes and dreams curdled into resentment, sadness, and accusation. He denied it, but I felt his growing bitterness towards me. He blamed me and I blamed myself. In the end, he couldn’t forgive me, and he left me for someone who could give him what he wanted most in life: a baby of his own. His flesh and blood to take his genes forward into infinity.

The day I came home to find him gone crushed my spirit. For months, I wandered our empty house like a ghost, sobbing into his abandoned shirts, tormented by my failure and the void where our child should have been. My soul felt fractured, my hopes of a family destroyed. My biggest fear had come true. I was incapable of the most natural thing in the world because my body had betrayed me and there was nothing I could do about it. I pictured myself elderly and alone, with no family to comfort me. Perhaps I didn’t deserve a child, or I was being punished for some unknown failing within me. I thought no one would ever want me again, and I was destined to grow old alone without the comfort of love.

I was distraught for a long time but as the months passed, I forgave him, and myself, and let go of my anger. I’m at peace with my body now, not only for how it looks but for what it can and cannot do. I refuse to be defined by an absence, but every now and then, seeing happy couples triggers that old grief, reminding me of the life I could have had but lost. But I believe it also pushes me to live a bold adventurous life. I’m more than the sum of my biology. I can still have a full and happy life, and nurture through my friendships and my work.

The hole in my centre is benign now. It’s there but it doesn’t hurt. Not often. Time may have eased the pain, but the insecurity has been fixed into my psyche. I developed industrial strength emotional armour so I could avoid ever exposing myself so fully again. Were all my relationships tainted after that? Did the men I was with think me unlovable or did I push them away at the first hint of real intimacy? I wish I knew.

P.S. One more liker but he had no photo. Why do they do that? Anyway, I don’t need a man when my menopausal internal central heating keeps me so warm.

Monday, 7 January, 11.30pm

This morning, I discovered a new white hair on my chin. It had grown at least two centimetres long overnight, the devious creep. I hate that feeling when you rub an exploratory hand over your face and get stabbed by an overzealous protrusion. Even worse, you know it’ll jab your friends when you kiss their cheeks. I value the wisdom age has brought, and the way I just don’t care about how I look as much as I did when I was younger. It’s liberating, comforting, and life-affirming. But piercing insidious fat white chin hairs are a step too far.