Free Love in a Warm Climate by Helena Frith-Powell

could he leave all this behind? The breasts that have seen better days, the nipples that never really recovered from breastfeeding , the knees with an inexplicably useless layer of skin just above them that seems to have arrived from nowhere, the unwaxed legs and bikini line, the out-of-shape arms, the buttocks that are at the other end of pert. And I haven’t even started on my face.
    Sophie Reed, née Cunningham, mother of three, thirty-six years old, saggy, sad and single. And a sex-free zone. What happened to my libido? Nick was right to complain about that. It’s not like I’m not aware of the issue myself. My sex drive is like one of those 80s pop stars that you used to be so familiar with but who then just vanished off the face of the earth. When I was trying to get pregnant I was keen on it, then while I was pregnant I liked it – my whole body was somehow on heightened alert.
    But after that my libido turned into Adam Ant and my husband had an affair. How long did it take? I suppose since Edward I have totally lost interest in Nick and any sex life with him. It’s almost as if the love I used to have for the father has been transferred to our son. Not in any sexual way of course, but all my affection and adoration. I could spend hours gazing atEdward, but I never really notice Nick any more. Or if I do notice him, it’s because he’s done something to annoy me like not putting his clothes in the laundry basket or nicked the bit of the paper I wanted to read. When did it all change?
    There was a time though when he was everything to me, when I adored him and he adored me. Is this all my fault? Should I have made more of an effort to be sexy and seductive and lost the baby weight and had my hair dyed blonder and done all those things high-maintenance yummy mummies do? I suppose it never occurred to me that he would go off me. I have always been pretty, and vaguely thin, and attractive. Boys always liked me. Up until now that is. I still look OK, but I am no longer thin. My weight gain has been insidious: it has happened without me noticing, each baby leaving its marks in the form a few kilos. I don’t look after myself like I used to. I never have facials, I hardly ever paint my nails, I have forgotten where to buy leg wax and don’t even think about matching underwear even though I now live in the land where it is practically obligatory. I have become the second lowest priority on my list, just above my husband.
    I drag a brush through my hair; it is still thick, blonde and long, so at least I have that going for me. Thankfully alopecia hasn’t set in. Yet. I did read somewhere that you can lose your hair from shock or go grey overnight. I guess if that were going to happen it would have done so already. But maybe the shock of Nick’s infidelity hasn’t reached my hair follicles yet.
    I still can’t believe it. Nick and infidelity. Those words just don’t fit together. My solid, dependable, Irish rock of a husband has slept with another woman. He has betrayed me, betrayed all of us. And the worst of it is that I only had two weeks to enjoy this French dream before it happened. I can’t believe my new life, that started with the New Year, is already over.
    â€œMummy, quick, come here, quick, quick.” Thankfully I can drag myself away from assessing my own state of decay as all three children are shouting from the kitchen again. I run from the bedroom, throwing my nightie back on as I do so in case the postman decides to show up carrying a large package.
    â€œWhat is it?” I gasp, expecting to find an axe murderer in the house or at least some blood somewhere. But they are all staring at the television.
    â€œYour boyfriend’s on TV again,” says Emily, pointing at the screen.
    I look at the small television I have had since I owned my first flat in Fulham and that now sits on the counter in our French kitchen and is fully hooked up to Sky