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By the window was a silver dressing table where I sat every morning to get ready. The drawers below were filled with all the make-up, skincare, nail polishes, products and tools I needed to ensure my hair and face look immaculate. I also had shelves either side showcasing some of my perfumes (one of the perks or running a beauty PR agency)—just like a mini Space NK display. I always enjoyed getting dressed in here. It was where the ‘magic’ happened. Where I transformed myself.
This was definitely a pinch-me-is-it-real kind of room. Sometimes I couldn’t believe that I had all of this stuff. I still had moments where I felt like that naïve twenty-five-year-old starting out in business who didn’t have a clue what she was doing but pretended she did.Fake It Until You Make Ithad been my motto. But now I was doing okay (I don’t know if anyone can ever truly say they’ve ‘made it’), and the feeling of faking it hadn’t gone away. Dressing up to look the part does help, though. It’s like you’re getting into character, ready to play the role of ‘businesswoman’. My clothes were like my armour. The shield that protected me. They told the world that I was a success and worthy of acceptance, even if inside, I often didn’t feel like I was.
On the subject of dressing, I needed to pick out something for tonight. I headed over to the evening wear section, scrolling through the options.
Nope, too formal, too long, too sexy…hold on.Too sexy? Aha. Yes. I’d forgotten about this one. I pulled it off the rail and held it up. It was a daring black mesh dress I’d tried on in a little boutique in Fulham. Across the boob area, it had a black bandeau, and then a little skirt sewn in that just covered my bottom, leaving the midriff and leg area exposed except for the mesh.
At first I’d thought it might be a bit too much for a woman in her late thirties. But when I’d tried it on, it had fitted perfectly and I’d instantly loved it. As if to solidify my decision, whilst I was in the changing room, I’d heard another woman asking the sales assistant where the black mesh dress was, which was clearly the one I was trying on. I knew it was the last one and that I liked it, so I went ahead and bought it.
Yes, I thought, running my fingers over the mesh. Although tonight I’d be at my parents’ and not at a glamorous event, it was my birthday, so it was the ideal time to give it an airing.
I headed to the shoe rack and selected my favourite blue suede Louboutins, then grabbed a black Chanel clutch bag from the shelf. Twenty minutes later I was good to go.
When I arrived, Harrison was in the living room chatting to Dad. Seeing them together just reminded me of how alike they looked. Both were six foot four—although Dad might be an inch or two shorter, now I think about it—with dark cropped hair, brown eyes and well-groomed beards. As always, they looked dapper in dark blue jeans, and tonight, both wore navy-blue jumpers. I wondered who’d sent the uniform memo to whom.
My elder sister Marilyn, also blessed with the tall genes—at five foot seven, I took after my mum, who was a petite five foot four—was looking glamorous with her signature Mac Ruby Woo red lips and Carey Mulligan-esque pixie-cut black hair as she brought the food into the dining room with my seventeen-year-old niece, Jasmine. Bella and Roxy were already standing in the corner laughing with Monique, a straight-talking New Yorker I’d met through work about a year ago and struck up a friendship with.
I whipped out my phone from my clutch and started taking some photos. With her tall model physique, dressed in loose black trousers and a zebra-striped top, as always Bella was towering over Roxy, who was wearing a fitted red mini dress and of course her favourite knee-high boots. Monique was sandwiched in between the two, her platinum-blond cropped hair and striking green dress reflecting her confident, spirited personality.
I surveyed the light and airy room, which had old family photos in gold frames on each of the deep burgundy walls. As always, Mum had ensured that everything wasjust so. The oval pine table was hosting a generous spread of dreamy dishes, including everything from fried rice to noodles, and the aroma of the sweet-and-sour sauce that accompanied my favourite tempura prawns filled the air. Mmmm.
I started making the rounds, hugging everyone and thanking them for their birthday cards, gifts and best wishes and taking lots of photos along the way. Then Mum, who was looking beautiful as usual in a ruffled gold dress, almost matching the golden highlights scattered through her long brown hair, which she’d pulled into a chic bun for the occasion, shouted from the kitchen:
‘Dinner’s ready! Everyone at the table now, please. And don’t worry, Soph,’ she added reassuringly, ‘I’ve checked all the glasses and washed them twice, so they’re perfectly clean.’My mother knows me so well.
I took my normal seat at the end of the table. The others filtered in at a steady pace. It would be a little more cosy than usual, as we didn’t normally have nine people eating at one time, so a few extra chairs had been added to fit everyone in.
After taking some pics of the spread, I started helping myself to the food, piling everything sky-high onto my plate. As the guest of honour, surely I had the perfect excuse to eat like a pig.
On the whole, I’m a very healthy eater. My diet in general consists of eating lots of oily fish like sea bass as well as seafood (especially prawns) and chicken, with lots of vegetables, salad and typically potatoes, brown rice and occasionally pasta. For a weekend treat, cake is definitely my vice.
There are a few things I’m not so keen on, though. I don’t really like cheese (unless it’s melted on a pizza, of course). I like eggs, but only the egg white—not the yolk. Eggs in cake and ice cream, etc., are obviously fine. I don’t really do red meat often either, so I generally steer clear of burgers, sausages and pork. Although an occasional bacon sandwich is okay. I like salmon, but only sometimes…
Thinking about it, there wasn’t much logic to my food preferences. Some might call it fussy, but that’s just me. I like what I like, and my friends and family are just used to it. My mum had definitely come up trumps tonight with prawns cooked in multiple ways, plus some lovely chicken, rice and noodle dishes. I couldn’t wait to get stuck in.
I’d barely sat down and thanked everyone for coming before the interrogation started.
‘So, Sophia,’ said my mother, resting her hand underneath her chin. ‘How’s it all going on the man front?’ Oh no, not again. I already didn’t like the direction of this line of questioning…
‘Umm,’ I said, trying to keep my cool. ‘Well, it’s not really, Mum. As you know, I’ve only just broken up with Rich.’
‘Come along, darling,’ she scoffed. ‘That was what, three months ago?’ she added as if twelve weeks was more than enough time to get over a long-term boyfriend. ‘Remember, you’re thirty-nine now. There’s no time to lose if you want to find a man. It’s not going to be easy, so don’t waste time getting back on the horse.Especiallyif you’re still even contemplating kids—although, it’s probably too late for that now.’
‘That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell her, Gloria!’ said Monique, jumping in. ‘Honey, take it from a fifty-four-year-old single woman like me. The older you are, the harder it becomes, and you’re not getting any younger, sweetie. You need to start pushing out some babies.’
And so the kidterrogation began.Again. For fuck’s sake!
‘Come on, ladies,’ Dad chipped in as if he’d heard me screaming in my head. ‘I’m sure Soph will be just fine.’
My father was always very protective. The most affectionate of my parents, he never tired of saying how proud he was of me. I was the first person in his family to go to university and the only one to run their own business. Before he’d retired, his office, where he’d been a foreman for a building company for forty-five years, had been a bit of a shrine. He’d collected dozens of articles on me, like the one from the SundayTimesbusiness section and my double-page profile inPR Week, and displayed them on his walls. In his eyes I could do no wrong, so he was going to be firmly in my corner for this debate.
‘Pfft!’ fired back Monique. ‘That’s a typical male response! It’s okay formen. They have no biological clock. Look at Ronnie Wood, Mick Jagger and all those other horny old men still shamelessly getting girls knocked up in their sixties and seventies. Sophia, trust me, girl. You need to find you a man fast and get reproducing.’
‘Seriously, guys,’ I huffed. It had been bad enough being quizzed by Fertility Felicity at Paul’s party. ‘Give me a break. It’s my birthday, for goodness’ sake. I wish everyone would stop bloody quizzing me about my love life, or lack thereof, and the status of my ovaries. Even if youareright, it’s not that easy. I can’t just step out on to the street and grab the first man and ask him to impregnate me. Well, not without getting arrested for harassment, anyway.’
‘Listen,’ replied Monique, running her fingers through her vibrant hair. ‘I’m not saying it’s a walk in the park. But, honey, you’re a successful businesswoman. You’re used to making shit happen. Pulling rabbits out of a hat. This will be child’s play in comparison.’
‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ I replied, curious to hear the magical solution that she was going to propose that would result in the imaginary Mr Perfect knocking down my door.
