She was right: women seemed to have come on leaps and bounds recently in make-up artistry, creating cheekbones, eyebrows, and a flawless finish that defied nature and made Photoshopped magazine pictures seem plausible. Of course, for this one night only, we looked pretty darn good too but the women she was talking about were something else. There was a certain air of ‘supermodel’ style about them.
Today’s role models are a tough act to follow. Instagram and Snapchat ‘celebs’ promoting buff bodies and clean eating make for a tougher aspiration. I’d thought clean eating was washing your salad before chucking it in a bowl until Megan told me it was the latest fad diet. Admittedly, I’d then tried it – desperate to keep up.
‘You can’t tell how old anybody is any more,’ Megan said.
‘That’s because people have fillers and Botox and get their lips done,’ Kate chimed in.
‘You’re one to talk.’ If it was available, Kate had tried it – not that I was a stranger to the odd minor filler here and there.
‘Well, I’m forty; I’m talking about younger women. I mean, look how skinny they are – where do they keep their organs?’ She was gawping at the same waif-thin, seemingly ageless group at the bar that Megan had pointed out.
‘You’re forty-three! And haven’t seen a double-figured dress size in your life. You’re basically an older version of those girls but still you look as good.’ Kate was exasperating sometimes and I was beginning to wonder if she’d start quoting Snow White villains in her next breath. Megan had stood in a bemused silence throughout our exchange.
‘An eight, not a double zero. The only curves those girls aspire to would have to be made from silicone.’
I smirked. Kate was a handful but she wasn’t a bitch. ‘Oh my goodness, you’re jealous.’
‘I’m not, I’m—’
‘Don’t worry, Kate, you’re still the fairest in the land,’ I said in a mock-babying tone, earning myself a weary glance.
‘You could always join in Charlotte’s PT sessions with me,’ Megan said, looking over at me nervously. She was sweet. And brave.
‘Are you kidding?’ Kate scoffed. ‘This body hasn’t exercised since 1994! I dread to think what would happen if I lifted more than a glass of champers.’ We giggled but I knew there was something off.
Changing the subject, I turned my attention to Megan. ‘Do you think you’d want to meet someone else? In time, I mean.’ I’d assumed she’d want to but hadn’t considered the possibility that Mike had put her off men for good.
‘I don’t know. I’m still processing what’s happened so it’s hard to think about it at the moment. I’d like to think I’ll meet someone who treats me right. I always liked the idea of being married.’
Kate snorted. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
I shot her a glance.
‘Oh come on. Who likes being married?’
‘James is a wonderful man,’ I said. I was surprised by what she’d asked.
‘That doesn’t answer the question.’
‘Of course I like being married,’ I said for clarity.
‘And I didn’t get the chance, but I wanted to.’ Megan shrugged.
‘Are you saying you’re unhappy with Carl?’ I asked, feeling we were getting to the bottom of her issue.
‘I’m just saying, things can fizzle out a little.’ She drained her glass. ‘I’m going to the bar.’ She stalked off.
‘Well, that was odd,’ I said to Megan.
‘All marriages have those phases, I imagine,’ Megan said. Mine hadn’t, but I kept that to myself.
‘I suppose. So, doesn’t anyone in here take your fancy?’ I asked, changing the subject.
She cast her eye around the room at the many carbon copies of intrusive-dancer-bloke from earlier. ‘Hmm, not really. I suppose I’m awaiting my very own Tom Hardy.’
‘Tom Hardy? Really?’ I giggled. I think it was the wine as girly chat was never my forte.
‘Well, who would you be holding out for? If there was no James.’
It had been a long time since someone had caught my eye. I thought for a moment, flicking through a mental database of stereotypically handsome gentlemen who would seem acceptable: Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, and so on. I could only think of James – nobody else came close. ‘Paul Newman,’ I blurted out eventually before adding, ‘in his time.’
Megan pulled a face to say it was an acceptable answer just as Kate returned with three mojitos.
‘Sorry that took a while – the barman had all the gusto of a sedated sloth! Anyway, what was that about Paul Newman?’ she asked, handing out the drinks. Apparently she’d cooled off.
‘He’s Charlotte’s dream bloke,’ Megan answered on my behalf. Kate scrunched her nose.
‘Well, who would you pick then?’ I asked.
‘Well George C, obviously. Though there’s something about Jack Nicholson,’ she mused.
‘I get that,’ I said.
‘I’d go with Leonardo DiCaprio,’ Megan said. ‘He’s basically a younger version.’ She giggled.
‘Oh, dear girl, you’ll realise one day. The mature ones are the best ones,’ Kate said.
‘I’ve literally no idea what she’s on about,’ I whispered to Megan. I really didn’t – Carl was two years her junior. Her ex-husband, however, was a much older man.
‘Carl doesn’t notice me any more,’ Kate said suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, opting for a more sympathetic tone this time.
‘I don’t know. His face used to light up when he came in from work and he’d wrap me up in those big burly arms and kiss me like it had been an eternity since we’d last embraced . . .’ She smiled, wrapping her arms around herself.
‘You’ve read too many romance books! And those things don’t last for ever, Kate. Life happens and we have to get on with that too. Is this what your downer on marriage and younger men has been about?’ She could be so petulant at times.
‘Maybe. I don’t know. Carl just comes in from work, asks about dinner, then slobs out in front of the television. Henry used to twirl me around and whisk me off at the drop of a hat; he made me feel like I was a
