It’s our eighth holiday this year, and it’s only June. Aren’t I lucky, lucky, lucky?
We’ve come to Greenland this time, pretty much the only place in the world he hasn’t been. But I wanted to go somewhere for my birthday that he hadn’t been with the first wife. I mean, she’s of no consequence obviously – sure, she’s got his kids but they’re grown up and living their own lives, at that age where they really don’t want much to do with their parents. When we first got together, I was determined to have some with him, but he’s getting on a bit now and I don’t fancy spending my life surrounded by good-looking young nannies while I age visibly and get knackered.
He’s downstairs at the bar drinking whiskey as usual, 4 o’clock in the afternoon but do I say anything? No, I don’t. I’ve come up to the suite his PA booked to kick my heels off and drink something cold and healthy from the minibar. View, check. Luxury linen, check. Monsoon shower and his and hers marble sinks, check. It’s all here. Christ, I’m so bored I could die.
I fetch a glass of something stronger from the minibar – so what, he never checks the bill – and lie back on the bed, imagining for a moment that I’m here with someone young and gorgeous. Someone who isn’t a grumpy old man, who doesn’t mind if I don’t bleach my hair, who makes me really laugh instead of the Monroe giggle I’ve been churning out for the last two years.
But – and here I give myself a severe talking to in front of the mirror – the kind of person who has a zest for life, a devil-may-care attitude and has put the time into getting a fit body would never have become rich as Croesus. We would not be standing here thinking about a run by the sea; we would never be able to afford this view.
I’ve made my choice. And I’ve chosen this view.