Fifty Is Not a Four-Letter Word Read Online Free Page B

be-all and end-all. He doesn’t come home and bang on about Mrs. Chadwick’s sciatica or Johnny Philpot’s
     latest sports injury. Whereas I go on endlessly about my job, my staff, the sales figures, and the interfering suits on the
     top floor. He comes home and he relaxes. I come home and worry. He’s strict, though: no smoking in the house—no ashtrays,
     even—organic food, that sort of thing. And he’s a bit anal when it comes to precision and making lists. But he also listens.
     I’m too busy talking or thinking to listen. The only thing in my favor is that at least I’m aware of some of my faults.
    I smile. “You’re gorgeous, too.” And I mean it. He’s in great shape for fifty-two. Not a lot of hair left on top, but shaved
     closely to his head, it’s not noticeable. In theory, I still fancy him a lot. In practice—maybe I’ve lost the knack. Maybe
     . . .
    The bell rings, and Jack races off to answer it.
    • • •
    Cocktails and laughter, but what comes after? Just for once, Hope, I tell myself, go with the flow. And I do. I start with
     the pink champagne, then move on to the mojitos. I snack on giant prawns with creamy mayonnaise and lamb chump with mash.
     I flirt with Rupert to annoy Anita, and because Rupert won’t even notice I’m doing it; and with Mario of Mario’s Greek down
     the road because he’s sixty-two and still sexy and because he gives good kleftiko. Mario’s forever harassed wife, Sofia, is
     building up a business empire based entirely on her secret recipe for hummus. She started making it for the restaurant, and
     now she’s supplying Sainsbury’s. “My very own Shirley Valentine,” Mario says, laughing, as we attempt Greek dancing to “The
     Israelites” by Desmond Dekker & the Aces. “Come with me to Skyros, and I will introduce you to my favorite feta-producing
     goat. If she gives her blessing, I will divorce Sofia, carry you all the way to Thessalonika, and wed you at the top of Mount
     Olympus.”
    “I accept.” I giggle, skittering off toward more mojitos.
    I see that Tony, the rat-catcher who comes and gets rid of our annual ant infestation—and whose accounts of exterminating
     giant rodents utterly transfix—is doing some kind of chicken dance with Sharon, who waxes my legs and wanted to give me a
     Brazilian as a birthday treat. I said my husband would never forgive me, although in truth I never even asked.
    I glance at my watch: 11:45 p.m. and Olly’s still here. He’s being chatted up by local vamp Vanessa the Undresser, as she’s
     known to the Neighborhood Watch committee on which she and I both serve. I don’t think half the men on the committee are even
     a teeny bit interested in traffic calming or the rise in muggings in the area; they turn up for the sole purpose of seeing
     how little Vanessa will be wearing on any given evening. If Vanessa were to resign from the committee, attendance would plummet
     and the whole thing would fall apart.
    In her early thirties and divorced with two kids, Vanessa sports a small tattoo on the swell of her substantial bosom, a bosom
     she’s currently thrusting in Olly’s direction. Olly’s not even looking embarrassed. Something altogether new has come over
     him. Instead of examining the floor, as usual, he’s looking straight into Vanessa’s eyes. And now, glancing confidently down
     toward her breasts, he’s casually sliding an arm around her waist and leading her to the dance floor. My throat catches. My
     beloved boy, my precious one and only son, the only person in the world for whom my love has never wavered, is becoming a
     man. When Jack’s lovely, wise old mum was alive, she said to me, “A husband? Pah! He’s just some man you met. But a child,
     no contest. A child is your flesh and blood.” No offense to Jack, but it’s exactly how I feel. He’s mine, not yours, I want
     to scream at Vanessa as jealousy slashes at me like a scythe.
    The show must go on. Cuban
son
is filling the