Private Relations

She looked at it and felt a jolt, a shock which became paralysis.

That face reflected in the mirror. It… couldn’t be hers. Those lines, like the roots of some virulent weed, sprouting from the corners of her eyes. Her skin, once smooth, was now dappled and deep pored. She touched the faint liver spots scattered at the edges of her cheeks. Like decaying pages in old books.

In desperation, Kirsten pouted her unpainted lips. They remained thin, the veins beneath painfully visible.

An involuntary whimper. The face she was looking at was not new to her. It was identical to the one she had studied yesterday. She meticulously prepared it then, just as she had since adolescence, yet felt nothing amiss. All that time she was contented with the person in the mirror, contented because she was content.

Until today.

Only today did she see herself anew, did she see herself as he saw her.

Old.

Not that fifty was old by modern standards. She was physically fit and had remained disciplined. Maintained standards. Was still an attractive, dignified woman.

But still looking fifty.

And that, of course, was why he had grown jaded. Embraced the cliché. The flash cars, designer wardrobe, twenty something intern – culminating in a pre-dawn walk-out. Her waking to find empty drawers and a half hearted note.

Spineless bastard.

That was what, three days ago?

Hard to know.

Blurred.

Grabbing the half empty glass, Kirsten slumped onto her bed. Once more the tears fell from her false lashes. They blotted the surface of her silk robe like the first drops of autumnal rain on the last day of summer.

How could it have come to this?

She had been the perfect wife. Sure, there were no kids, but that wasn’t her fault. When the test results arrived, she had been fully supportive, told him that it didn’t matter, that she had never wanted children anyway, which was true at the time.

Natural really, that her replacement would be younger, of child bearing age. Fucker’s at that age. Worrying about his legacy.

Kirsten picked up her phone and stared again at the woman’s Instagram profile. 

Chrissie Page.

Bitch was nearly thirty years younger than him. Pathetic really. Sad even.

Utterly fucking heart-breaking.

When he first recruited Chrissie, Kirsten had casually remarked how they could almost be mother and daughter, so alike were they. But he had avoided any further conversation. Left the room. The signs were obvious in hindsight.

Always are. So, turns out he had a type. Should’ve seen that coming.

Kirsten felt stupid, felt her stomach contract. He had decided her future. The injustice was painful.

It was not as though Kirsten had never been propositioned herself. She’d been knocking back offers on an almost daily basis her entire career, even when she was single. Working in PR it went with the territory.

Back when she first started out the other girls on the events circuit used to mock her for settling down so young. They couldn’t understand it, Kirsten was in her prime. She needed to make the most of what she had, which for them meant using the daytime gigs to load out their evenings with more lucrative, individual clients.

But not Kirsten. She was professional. Loyal. She had her man.

Had.

An eternal fear gripped her.

She was now alone.

Alone. Perhaps forever.  

No, she wouldn’t be on her own for long. She still had something to offer. And the apps made it fool proof.

Make that a proving ground for fools.

It was either that or she was back to scrummaging in the bars with the other middle-aged divorcees.

Kirsten took another gulp. She remembered her twenties. Back then she could take her pick. Men were drawn to her. Took no effort.

Of course, that all changed once she hit thirty. She felt the pendulum swing away. Conscious of time advancing, her relationship with unfamiliar men changed; flirtation minimised in favour of more probing conversation.

Suitability.

Compatibility.

Dependability.

Sensing they were being vetted, men invariably became guarded, often arrogant. It was an unspoken relief then when she did find the right man.

Kirsten drained her glass.

Fuck it. Didn’t need him. Two could play at that game.

She opened the app, tapped in her location, and surveyed the results.

No.

No.

No.

Then a face she recognised. A celebrity! Low level, but still famous. And rich.

Without thinking she swiped right.

“INSTANT MATCH”

Kirsten felt an old, familiar stirring.