The Middle-Aged Virgin: A Chick Lit, Romantic Comedy Novel: Newly Single And Seeking Spine-Tingles... Read online

  The Middle-Aged Virgin

  Olivia Spring

  Hartley Publishing

  First Edition: July 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Olivia Spring

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and happenings in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, locales or events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  www.oliviaspring.com

  Follow Olivia on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram: @ospringauthor

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  FREE Book

  A Message From Olivia

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedicated to A.A

  Prologue

  ‘It’s over.’

  I did it.

  I said it.

  Fuck.

  I’d rehearsed those two words approximately ten million times in my head—whilst I was in the shower, in front of the mirror, on my way to and from work…probably even in my sleep. But saying them out loud was far more difficult than I’d imagined.

  ‘What the fuck, Sophia?’ snapped Rich, nostrils flaring. ‘What do you mean, it’s over?’

  As I stared into his hazel eyes, I started to ask myself the same question.

  How could I be ending the fifteen-year relationship with the guy I’d always considered to be the one?

  I felt the beads of sweat forming on my powdered forehead and warm, salty tears trickling down my rouged cheeks, which now felt like they were on fire. This was serious. This was actually happening.

  Shit. I said I’d be strong.

  ‘Earth to Sophia!’ screamed Rich, stomping his feet.

  I snapped out of my thoughts. Now would probably be a good time to start explaining myself. Not least because the veins currently throbbing on Rich’s forehead appeared to indicate that he was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Easier said than done, though, as with every second that passed, I realised the enormity of what I was doing.

  The man standing in front of me wasn’t just a guy that came in pretty packaging. Rich was kind, intelligent, successful, financially secure, and faithful. He was a great listener and had been there for me through thick and thin. Qualities that, after numerous failed Tinder dates, my single friends had repeatedly vented, appeared to be rare in men these days.

  Most women would have given their right and probably their left arm too for a man like him. So why the hell was I suddenly about to throw it all away?

  Chapter One

  ‘Aahhhhhh,’ I said as I sank my head back into the pillow. ‘This feels so good!’

  Nothing beats the sensation of climbing onto fresh sheets and snuggling up under a warm duvet on a cold January evening. Well, taking your bra off at the end of a long day comes a close second, as does devouring a slab of sticky toffee pudding with creamy M&S custard. But right now, this was utter bliss.

  ‘Another busy day at the office?’ asked Rich as he scrolled through some floor plans on his iPad.

  ‘Definitely,’ I sighed, sitting up and turning to face him. ‘It was non-stop.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Rich, gazing into my dark brown eyes. ‘I can tell you’re dying to tell me all about it.’

  I chuckled. ‘You know me so well.’ I took a deep breath, ready to rattle off a lengthy list of today’s activities. ‘So, this morning I had a breakfast meeting with the beauty director of Vogue and lined up some great features for our clients. Then I went back to the office to finish going over the launch activity proposal for the new limited-edition lipsticks MIKA Cosmetics are bringing out with two massive influencers this summer—’

  ‘Remind me of their names again?’ asked Rich, putting his iPad on the duvet beside him to give me his attention.

  ‘Céline, the beauty director of Aspire magazine, and then Amelia, the mega blogger I was telling you about before, who has 5.5 million Instagram followers. Ringing any bells?’ I asked, scanning his crumpled face.

  ‘Um, not really,’ he replied, ‘but carry on…’

  ‘So then I had to rush over to Mayfair to Daniel’s new flagship salon—’

  ‘Who’s Daniel again?’ interrupted Rich.

  ‘Daniel!’ I huffed. ‘You know? The celebrity hairdresser who just opened his salon on Mount Street? We organised the massive launch party in November?’ His face still remained blanker than a fresh sheet of paper. ‘He does all the A-listers and models? Adele? Kate Moss? Jourdan Dunn? Charges five hundred pounds for a haircut?’

  Good God. Rich must be tired if the penny hadn’t dropped by now. We’d spent months working on that launch, and literally every newspaper, magazine and website had covered it.

  ‘Ah yes!’ he replied finally. ‘Bloody hell! He really charges five hundred pounds for a haircut? Does he use solid gold scissors and sprinkle your hair with diamonds afterwards?’ He laughed, clearly amused at his own joke.

  ‘Ha-ha. Very funny, Rich. Daniel is legendary. He’s styled the hair of every superstar you could imagine, has a career spanning over four decades and is still at the top of his game…’ I saw Rich’s eyes beginning to glaze over.

  ‘Carry on, Soph,’ he said. ‘I’m still listening.’

  ‘After that, I had dinner at The Shard with the CEO of an Australian beauty company. Then, when I got in, as you might have heard, I was on the phone to Viktor, the president of Purity Skincare in Canada, as we had to discuss some amendments for Ava’s contract…’ Yep, I’d lost him again…

  As a partner in a top architecture firm and bona fide ‘man’s man’, Rich had about as much interest in celebrities and popular culture as an arachnophobe has in cosying up with a giant tarantula. But despite this, as part of our evening routine, he always tried to listen to the updates of my day at the office, even if, as tonight proved, what I told him often went in one ear and out the other.

  ‘Ava is the hot new star who’s tipped to win Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars and is into green, clean living,’ I clarified as I reached for my brush and started running it through my glossy black shoulder-lengt
h hair. Nope. His expression still remained empty. ‘Well, Ava is becoming the new face of the brand, which is really exciting.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for that, Soph,’ replied Rich. ‘And exhaustion is a small price to pay when you’re running London’s most successful beauty PR agency.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I reflected on what we’d achieved. Last year had been our most successful yet, and even though the new year had just begun, I was confident that we would do even better in the next twelve months. ‘I love what I do—there’s no way I’d work all these long hours otherwise. But after a fifteen-hour day, having the chance to relax in bed is like heaven.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ said Rich.

  ‘After my meeting with Daniel, I did, however, make a quick pitstop to buy this,’ I said, putting my brush down and peeling the duvet back slowly to reveal my new black silk nightdress, which clung suggestively around my toned size eight figure. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh…erm,’ stuttered Rich as he quickly grabbed his iPad and fixed his gaze firmly on the screen. ‘It’s nice…but I…I better get back to these plans and then go straight to bed,’ he said, stretching his arms out towards the ceiling and feigning a loud yawn. ‘Early start in the morning and all that.’

  Well, that went down like a lead balloon. Not really a surprise, as I was used to the excuses by now, but it was worth a try. Maybe it was for the best anyway, considering how tired I was.

  I pulled the covers up to my chin and turned around. Then, just as I was about to attempt to go to sleep, the phone rang. WTF? It was 11.30 p.m., which was already a good half an hour past my scheduled bedtime.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ Rich barked, clearly irritated about me taking another late-night international call in bed.

  I picked up my iPhone from my mirrored bedside table. As Henri’s name flashed across the screen, I realised it wasn’t a client call after all. My stomach tightened.

  ‘Salut, Sophia. Ça va?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Henri,’ I said apprehensively as I repositioned my pillow and sat up straight to help me focus. ‘Is everything okay? It’s not like you to call so late.’

  There was a long pause. It seemed like Henri was trying to compose himself before he could speak. And it wasn’t because he was thinking of how to translate his thoughts, as his English was flawless. No. Something was wrong.

  ‘I’m afraid I—I have some bad news,’ Henri stuttered. ‘Albert has had a stroke.’

  The room started to spin. I struggled to keep a firm grasp of the phone, and my body began to shake. A wave of questions flooded into my brain.

  ‘What?’ I snapped. ‘When? Is he going to be all right? How—’

  ‘I’m afraid he didn’t survive. The doctors tried, but there was nothing more that could be done. He’s gone, Soph. He’s dead.’

  This couldn’t be happening.

  ‘I…I…I can’t believe it.’ I paused, desperately trying to think of the right words. ‘I’m so sorry, Henri.’

  ‘Thanks, Sophia,’ he said. ‘The funeral will be next Thursday in Châteaumerveille. We’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’

  Already? Goodness. This was so much to take in.

  ‘Well, of course I’ll be there, Henri,’ I replied.

  ‘That means a lot. I’ll send you the details when I have them. Let me know what time you’ll arrive, and I’ll come and collect you from the station.’

  How was he so strong, when I felt like my whole body was about to shatter into a million pieces?

  ‘Will do. Henri, I am so, so sorry. Please pass on my condolences to Marie and Geraldine too. If there’s anything I can do or anything you need, please call me.’

  Henri thanked me, his voice wavering. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain he was feeling.

  It was difficult to put into words how I felt about Albert. He was like a second father to me. Eighteen years earlier, when I was a twenty-year-old student teaching English as part of my French degree in a small town called Châteaumerveille in France, I’d bumped into him one day in the street and struck up a conversation.

  As soon as he’d heard I was from London, he’d excitedly invited me to join him and his wife, Marie, who I later learned was the town’s most popular doctor, on a trip to the South of France that weekend along with his two young children, Henri, who was just five at the time, and Geraldine, then seven. But when my mum had freaked out about me going away with strangers, I’d agreed to accept the invitation to dinner at their home the following Sunday instead, which then became one of our rituals. And for the nine months that I lived there, it was always the highlight of my week.

  Even when I’d returned to London, our friendship had continued. We’d still see each other every year, either in London, Paris or Châteaumerveille, and we spoke at length at least once a month. Whether it was offering his relationship and career advice or recommending a good bottle of red to impress clients, Albert had always been there for me.

  Rich tried his best to console me, but I needed to be alone. I retreated to the living room to lie down on the sofa. After what felt like hours of staring at the bright white ceiling in total shock and wondering why, despite my sorrow, I couldn’t seem to bring myself to cry, I went into autopilot. I picked up my iPad and booked my Eurostar ticket to Paris and then the two-hour train journey to Châteaumerveille.

  Next, I clicked on iCal to log the dates on my phone. Damn. I’d forgotten. I had a full day of meetings next Thursday, including one with a big potential new client flying over from New York to meet with me.

  Fuck it. There was no way I was going to miss saying a final farewell to my dearest Albert. For once, securing another big beauty account would just have to wait.

  It was tough, but somehow I got through Albert’s funeral.

  He had a good send-off. Over five hundred people attended the service. A huge turnout by any standard, but particularly for such a small town. He had been clearly loved, and had touched many people’s lives.

  Albert was gone. I still couldn’t take it all in. How was it possible for him to be ripped away from us at just sixty? That was no age at all.

  This wonderful man had had a massive impact on my life. He was the one I could always count on for honest, non-judgemental advice. I confided in him more than my best friends and certainly my parents. But what now? Where would I be without his guidance and love?

  With Albert, I always felt like I could be me. I was just Sophia. Not ‘Sophia, the cool and in-control boss’, ‘Sophia, the reliable long-term partner’, ‘Sophia, the successful daughter’ or ‘Sophia, the strong friend’. And that meant so much, because each of those ‘titles’ came with a list of expectations.

  Generally, life was great, but sometimes I found it hard to admit to my parents, Rich or my friends that I struggled. It might seem like I had everything under control at work, and that was mostly true, through trial and error and doing my job for so long. But I also had moments where I didn’t know which way to turn and didn’t want to shatter the illusion they all had about me always having my shit together, so I’d put on a brave face and soldier on. But with Albert, somehow I never had to worry about that.

  No subject was off limits. No emotions were too deep or raw to express. I could tell him if ever I was nervous about pitching for a big account, or I had concerns about my relationships. He would listen intently, then, once he was sure I had finished pouring my heart out, he’d share his words of wisdom. He was like some sort of life magician. I don’t know how, but he seemed to know the right way to resolve a problem or a challenge.

  He wouldn’t always tell me what to do explicitly. Sometimes he’d wanted me to learn a lesson. Not in a bad way. More a case of him recognising that I would grow if he sowed a seed in my brain to help me figure out the answers for myself.

  Sometimes I’d sit at my desk in the evenings and we’d Facetime for hours. He would read my face instantly and know whether I was happy o
r sad. I couldn’t hide anything from him. And I didn’t ever want to. Our bond was special.

  Albert was a father figure. My mentor, confidant, dearest friend and life guru all rolled into one. His smile—it was infectious and would instantly wipe away any sadness I was feeling. He was the kindest, must jovial, loving person I’d ever known. And now I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do without him.

  As I stood on the freezing cold platform, waiting for the train to arrive, my thoughts turned to our last conversation on New Year’s Day, just a few weeks before I’d received the fateful call from Henri. He’d wished me health and success for the year ahead and then got a bit serious:

  ‘Ma chère Sophia,’ he’d said solemnly. ‘Remember, life is short. You only live once. You must enjoy. If you are not happy, you must do something to change it. And this métro, boulot, dodo—this ‘train, work, sleep’—it is not good.’

  I thought he’d finished, but then he continued, still with an uncharacteristic sombreness in his voice: ‘I am proud that ma petite Sophia has become big and successful Sophia. But rappelle-toi that it is happiness and amour, not work, that are most important.’

  I took a moment to consider his comments. I understood his concern. Yes, I did work a lot. Every time we spoke, whether it was morning, afternoon or evening, weekday or weekend, I was either working, just finished work, or going to work. But life in a fast-paced city like London is totally different to a tiny town like Châteaumerveille. Especially for someone ambitious like me. I was making my mark in the PR world. Carving out a successful career. Building an empire. I couldn’t do that without putting in the hours. The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary. That was the motto I lived by, and that was how I’d gotten to where I was today.