L’île

“Seriously, what are you wearing?” The man with whom I had been trying to secure a friends-with-benefits type of relationship for the last six months—without any success, which was driving me increasingly mad—was asking me. Piqued in my vanity* and mortified, I turned around and told him, with spite, that this was none of his business, which of course was an absolute lie.

Because, if you want to seduce someone—whether the someone in question is a pathetic idea, or not—you might want to listen when he tells you that a potato bag isn’t the most enticing garment.

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It was Christmas Time in London and waves of shoppers were pressing up and down the creaking old stairs of Liberty. I was on the hunt for decorations that would bring spirit to the gigantic Christmas tree that had just landed in our home, courtesy of Mr. McTavish, for whom nothing is ever quite big enough.

Towering over me he was, ever the avid shopper, quite the opposite of the image I’d had of him three years ago when I first saw his face on the dating app where I’d met him.

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There is the life that we seem to live, and then there is the life that we actually live. One might think I am this accomplished woman on the go, happily surrounded by her (certainly slightly over the hill, but) charming future husband, or her fabulous friends (of whom, obviously, she has many), and that I am all perfectly well-adjusted to the delights and the misgivings of existence.

While some of it might be true, this doesn’t take into account any of my moments of solitude, nor the inner monologue that’s constantly rolling inside of me.

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[Last week I went to a hiking retreat, one of these things made for people with considerable means, to which I was invited by a publicist who probably didn’t realise I wasn’t really an influencer anymore. Even though I am a WOPTDGLBSI (Woman Of Principles That Doesn’t Get Lured By Swanky Invites) now, I couldn’t resist the draw of finding myself in nature. 

Okay, and also in expensive spas.

The good news is that these kinds of events always have me coming back with my arms full of stories.

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It was so gorgeous walking in the streets of Paris with my dear sister, reunited as we like to be, philosophizing about life—as well as the latest fashions. We had rented a lovely place right in the Marais for a few days that promised to be rather special.

As time goes by, my sister and I look more and more alike. It’s as if our features, smoothed by the passage of time, and by our deepening natural bond, are melting into one another. 

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BAM! I bought the shoes. More like, CHA-CHING! bought the shoes. They were SO expensive. But it was one of those moments. They catch your eye, your heart starts racing, you’re afraid someone else is going to get them so you take out your credit card like you’re Magic Jordan and you dunk, and it feels a little bit like an out-of-body experience.

I left carrying them against my chest, all wrapped in the silk papers, the silk papers wrapped in shoe bags, the shoe bags in the shoe box, and the shoe box in the store’s bag, and I started waiting for it.

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I believe that inside of us nests a free and quiet soul. In our purest state, we live out of our intuition, we follow our senses.
There is an ethereal, serene, boundless quality to our existence…
And there is creativity in everything we do.

But we live in the world. We have bustling lives and we have families and we have to make money and we have to be citizens and, and, and…

It’s true that I might have been a terrifying girlfriend, sometimes. Since my very first love story, I was staunchly confident, terribly assertive, and I genuinely thought I knew it all. It’s true that I found all these boys exceedingly romantic, with their flowers and their presents and their puppy-dog eyes. 
 
Me—past the passion phase—which I liked short and intense, I saw no reason for all the fuss.
 
I was just cool like that. I didn’t expect much from them.

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I remember after I met my boyfriend, my friends would ask me, where did you meet him, and how did you do it? I was, like them*, an absolute disaster at dating, I was in my forties, and I had a track record that felt a little bit like The Northman’s**.

I remember before I met him. Friends would tell me, enough with boys. You need a man. You’re a woman for f%@k’s sake! You need a real man who will care for you.

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