She poured herself into her new J Brand jeans. Jeans were timeless and she’d resolved to expand her collection of wearable jeans to two… OK, these were so tight she could hardly breathe, but they held her arse in position and she was pretty pleased with the outcome. The downside was that all her fat was pushed upwards. A white muffin rode over the top of the jeans, but it had to go somewhere. She decided it was better to push her fat up to her stomach where with careful dress choice she could hide it. Hopefully her boobs would distract from this imperfection. She had the technology to strap them up and out. But as she stood there half naked scrutinising herself in the mirror, she laughed when she found herself making another promise to cut out carbs and sugar for a month.
She grabbed her new loose-fitting peasant top out of the Fenwick’s bag and slipped it on. She admired her skills. She still had it. It was perfect, low at the top, but baggy around the middle. It hid the fatty tissue roll, drew the eye towards the boobs and then the face. She loved her new hair, blonde to the roots, light and bouncy, and all the ends intact. She ran her fingers through the unrecognisable silkiness. She could easily pass for her early thirties, easily – in candlelight.
Christ, she thought, get a grip, Stella, you are only going out with a young nanny from down the road. Why does it matter so much! She wasn’t sure she knew, but she did know she was enjoying how she felt, like she was worth something. She tossed her hair in the mirror again and shook her head. ‘Because I’m worth it,’ she thought and as she looked at herself with a critical eye, she thought she wasn’t too bad… not exactly Jennifer A, but there was some semblance of the old Stella in there somewhere.
She often wondered what would happen if Jake left her, fell for some bimbo, and she had to find someone else, could she bear it? Maybe with her new look there was a chance she’d survive, but often her only hope was that she could find a man with a fetish for fatty rolls (there must be a website). Right now he really seemed so preoccupied with work. He’d kept his commitment to make it home for The X Factor two weeks running, though he did spend most of the time on his phone. But at least he was trying. Other than that she’d barely seen him. She wondered how long his indifference would last. These things, she knew from experience, go in phases. Maybe when he saw how good she was looking, he’d make some time. But then again, would he be around to notice?
By the time her train limped into Shoreditch High St, Stella had, at every single lingering stop, seriously considered turning straight around and going home. She was a married 40-year-old mother of two children. What business had she gallivanting around East London with a stunning millennial in her mid-twenties?
Approaching the exit barriers, she’d almost decided once and for all to turn on her heel, when she heard a squeal (yes, an actual squeal of excitement) and her name echoing through the brightly lit hallway. Coco was skipping towards her, her shiny hair curled and bouncing, her eyes bright and wild.
‘Stella!’ she yelled, hugging her. ‘SO glad you made it!’
My god, that smell: shea butter with a coconut tang. It made her mouth water. She pulled herself free. A little embarrassed that anyone watching might have got the wrong idea.
‘Hi, Coco, yes, I’m here. I made it – just!’
‘What do you mean “just”? You’re SO funny. You’re looking great… there is something different about you! What is it… I know, your hair… have you done something?’
Pleased, but determined to hide it, she replied, ‘Just had some highlights put in, decided it was time to sort out my roots. I swear to god having dark roots makes any blonde depressed. Sometimes these things just creep up on you. Everything’s fine and then the next day you wake up with four-inch roots. And to think some people call it a trend nowadays… to let your roots grow out, I mean. I might be a child of the Seventies but I always think the blonder the better.’
Coco giggled as she grabbed her arm, and teased, ‘It’s a little early to be showing your age, Stella. I think you will find balayage is all the rage nowadays… but you look phenomenal.’
Stella laughed freely. ‘Anyway, sod the hair, what’s the plan?’
‘We’re heading east. Bethnal Green.’
Stella look around, concerned. She didn’t know there was anything east of Shoreditch, except Essex and the sea.
‘There’s a party going on. Very intimate. Very beautiful. Unlike anything in Wandsworth, I promise, but very lovely people with a great attitude to life. Artists and creatives. People who make their own way in the world. They are inspiring. I thought you’d enjoy that.’
Whilst this was exactly what Stella had decided she needed, she now found the whole suggestion quite pretentious. Besides, she was already miles from home, from the kids, but she feigned nonchalance and agreed. ‘I can do East London, Coco. You are talking to a journalist who worked in Soho for ten years. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing that can shock me out here…’
Coco’s announcement that it was just a short bus ride was a minor setback. Stella didn’t have the resilience to admit she’d not been on a bus since they got rid of conductors. But she jumped on and they settled in for the journey. Stella found herself surprised again at how easy it was to talk to Coco, and how much they had in common, even though their lives were so different. Coco was so interested in everything she had to say. She asked questions. It was so refreshing! For once she felt like more than a mother, and launched into reminiscences of her life as a journo. She wanted to show Coco that she was more than a depressed mother and wife, and she thought, quite frankly, who didn’t love a chance to talk about themselves (… except Jake, a thought she quickly dismissed).
Coco pulled some mini bottles of vodka out of her bag. Stella’s first thought was ‘If I start drinking now I’ll never make it through the night.’ Her second was ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, I’ve got to let go of all these shoulds and cants if I’m going to enjoy this adventure!’ As the bus rattled to another halt, there was a rush of alien-looking millennials with facial hair and discordant fashion choices (yes, people were wearing dungarees and Doc Martens) getting on board. People were heading out for dates and fun. They both downed their first shot of the night and Stella relished the warmth as the vodka tumbled down her throat and warmed her insides. Her lips were burning. She licked them as Coco watched her smiling encouragingly.
‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Coco. ‘You never talk about him. What is there to know about this delicious husband of yours… Is he hot, like you?’ she joked.
‘Jake, hot?’ she laughed. ‘I never really think about him like that any more. When I first met him I thought he was the hottest thing I had ever seen. I laid eyes on him and just knew I had to have him. He was cool, indifferent, hot and at the centre of every party. We met at uni and once we got together we were like Sandy and Danny. At the time, it was love’s young dream.’
Stella felt a surge of loss and regret.
‘And what happened to all that magic?’ pushed Coco. ‘Are you going destroy my future? Tell me love never lasts?’
‘No, but things obviously change. Life gets in the way. I look back at the all-night parties, the fun, the holidays – the Nineties was one long party. We had no responsibility. Once we’d left uni and had jobs, we travelled whenever we wanted, we stayed out until all hours, we screwed all night. That’s the nature of our twenties – we don’t know how lucky we are and then it’s over before you notice. Responsibility creeps up on you. Jake has a demanding job, I have two children to bring up, and it’s just not what it used to be. We’re not who we used to be. I still love Jake, of course. I just want something different.’