Amanda is high on the pleasure of being in a roomful of people over the age of seven. She’s not drinking – ‘on medication for my back’ – but she’s never needed alcohol to release her inhibitions. I first met her when she was 30, after she’d burst out of a strict Mormon community and run away to Berlin. Now, several men and one child later, she’s 40 – and as outspoken as ever. “Sarah!” She screeches to me as soon as I enter, bearing my uncertain party offering. The lemon sponge I’ve baked is scorched on the outside, and a squelchy mess on the inside – in other words, the cake version of recently separated me.
I approach warily. With her black fringe and beady eyes, statuesque shoulders and all-round American splendour, Amanda is a cross between Katherine Mansfield and the Statue of Liberty. “I hear you’re divorced? Well done!” Her forthrightness is a relief considering everyone else has been avoiding any mention of Scandinavia (my ex is Swedish), art (my ex is an artist), and men (my ex was a man).
On my way here, I’d been feeling all wrong. Dress too short, boots too high, socks riding down, bra riding up. Emerging from the underground, I heard a voice.
“I noticed you on the train five stops back. You look – mmmh!” Dark brown eyes, a deep French voice, a hint of stubble, an exchange of looks – and suddenly I felt okay. That’s all it took.
Now it’s Amanda inspecting me. “You look great. Divorce suits you.” This kind of forthright is perfectly okay. “I never liked your husband. Handsome, but a bit uptight.” This is even better: how delicious it would be if everyone denigrated your ex right after a break-up, however subjectively!
“I’m not sure I like you though,” she muses. This forthrightness is less okay. “You’re nice… but your attention strays if a good-looking man walks into the room.” As if on cue my dancer friend Zak approaches, with his neat button-down Uniqlo shirt and his stylish cowboy boots. “Pumpkin Tiramisu?” He proffers a gorgeously gooey plate that puts my divorce-sponge to shame, and he hugs me in a ‘sorry-about-your-break-up’ way.
“See?” says Amanda accusingly. She grabs Zak’s champagne and swills the lot. “What about your back?” asks Zak, aghast. “Screw my back! My babysitter’s staying over, so I’ve gotta make the most of my freedom, right Sarah?”
Friend or foe? Who knows. But it feels okay to stand and drink champagne with the Statue of Liberty, listening to her advice. “Internet dating,” she nods, as the bubbles and muscle relaxants merge swiftly in her bloodstream. “You started yet?”
“I’m not ready for that!” Truth be told when the Frenchman from the train asked for my phone number, I literally ran away. The thought of re-entering the sexually charged jungle makes me feel weak.
Amanda ignores me. “No time to waste. Get back out there before you lose your looks.” She starts on another champagne. “But avoid the older ones. Men over 50 can be problematic.”
“Too used to being looked after?”
“I mean in bed. I’m talking limp. Does nothing for your self-esteem.”
“I’m not ready!” I look longingly at the safe corner full of my gay male friends and my girlfriends.
“For a good time in bed, target late 20s, early 30s,” she states. “And for God’s sake don’t tell them your age. You don’t want to be branded a cougar.” She eyes me up like a horse dealer. “You could get away with knocking seven, eight years off your age.”
“But they can Google me!”
“Well, don’t tell them your last name before you’ve slept with them. Just make sure you give them the time of their lives. If you’re good enough, they might overlook the fact you weren’t born in the 1980s.”
Zak listens on, appalled and fascinated, a rabbit caught in a cobra’s stare, and I dart to the kitchen to dump my embarrassing cake in the bin. When I return, Amanda is flying across the room on a roller-chair. “Long live divorce!” she cries, spilling a trail of champagne behind her.
Words by: Sarah Quigely
Photographs: Getty Images
