From men to mid life crises, from Botox to Brazilians, from infertility to infidelity, every week Jacqui Leigh gives her personal take on being a fortysomething woman
Divorce left me penniless and my period's late...
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It's 9 am and I’m walking towards the coffee shop at the station, half awake and in desperate need of caffeine and a big fat croissant.
In a zombie like state I am drawn by the fragrant scent of roasting coffee which fills the air as soon as I step off the platform. Oh, and Daniel the guy behind the counter with whom I’ve struck up a little friendship. Shy and scruffy and a little exotic looking. Mmm. I wonder if he is even thirty years old. When it comes to age am I supposed to have a cut off point? Older than my children obviously, but since Monica’s only eight...
I swerve reluctantly at the last minute. I’m not supposed to be buying coffee any more. Divorce and moving costs have devoured my savings and left me broke. Despite having kept all the bills from my solicitor I can’t bear to work out the total. At a rough guess, give or take a few hundred quid, extricating myself from my toxic ex-husband has cost me £14,000.
Which means that while I’m wondering if I can really allow myself that crappily made top from H&M, my matrimonial solicitor is buying herself another Prada handbag with my money.
Money well spent? Yes, obviously, if the alternative is still being married to him. Doing it amicably was never an option for us. But I have one piece of advice for those of you on the same rocky road to freedom. Just remember, as you fight over every last penny, that the person who will get your money is not you or your kids, not your ex, but your solicitor. While you struggle to raise a family on a single income she will be shopping at Waitrose and booking her summer hols in the Maldives.
Unless you are seriously wealthy, know that you are paying hundreds for every letter slowly and laboriously written out in long hand by your solicitor ready for the girls in the typing pool. Because why use email when a letter takes a good hour or two of bill-able time? Anyway, don’t get me started...
I stop and look back. I’m feeling wiped out and a cup of Nescafe at work just won’t cut it. I need a big frothy cafe latte made by Daniel’s capable hands.
But I can’t. A month since we moved and my bank account is being drained by direct debits. I should have my sort code tattooed on my forehead. Like a nasty case of liposuction, every penny of my earnings is being vacuumed up by direct debits. The simple and hassle free way of paying bills is actually a stealth bomber, pouncing without warning just when you thought you were safe and leaving you with a nice unauthorised overdraft.
Except that I’m tired and a bit queasy and in need of something to line my stomach. I’m hoping that this is just too many early mornings and stress and nothing to do with my period being late.
At forty four and a half, these scares should be a thing of the past, right? But how else to explain the non appearance of my usually clockwork-like period?
I’m either pregnant with Fred’s little muscular spawn or it’s the start of the menopause. I definitely need that latte.
- Fred's not boyfriend material, and neither are many of the guys in our Only Way Is Essex boyfriend quiz, which is exactly why you're going to do it...
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