Age Perfect: Age Perfect, #1

By Suze E Prescot

Once a woman reaches a certain age, she becomes invisible, no matter how attractive she is. And so, widow, Gen, does not expect her TV crush to even notice her, not when he is surrounded by more age-appropriate opportunities. But Sam does notice her, and how.Once a woman reaches a certain age, she becomes invisible, no matter how attractive she is. And so, widow, Gen, does not expect her TV crush to even notice her, not when he is surrounded by more age-appropriate opportunities. But Sam does notice her, and how.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suze E Prescot
• Release date: Apr 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215793817

Suze E Prescot

Suze E Prescot is a former teacher and university lecturer.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Akaleidoscope. An overused metaphor or simile, but justifiable in this case. The noise, the colour, the heavy aromas; the stimuli were almost overwhelming. It was a combination of a fairground and a market, with bizarre costumes and faces, like something from George Lucas’ creative mind. And of course, there were plenty of tributes to Mr Lucas, too. Hundreds of people, many dressed up in costumes repeated ad infinitum , passing me all of the time where I stood trying to be unobtrusive. I had lost count of the number of Mr Spocks I had seen, all accompanied by some version of Kirk, or McCoy, or Scottie. Star Wars gave us Obi Wans from all generations, added to a plethora of Darth Vaders, Princess Leias, Lukes and Hans, and innumerable Storm Troopers. There were GOT devotees – a myriad of Jon Snows and Daenerys - and zombies; more vampires from cloaked Draculas, through blonde Spikes, to shimmery pale Cullens, than you could shake a stake at; and in a cute, probably inadvertent, parody of the whole Comic-con thing, some people were dressed as Big Bang Theory characters. So many fans, some from shows I didn’t even know.

Bright, colourful displays hawking merchandise and ‘stars’ and video games; stands which seemed to serve only to promote something new, giving away carrier bags, pens, keyrings. Interactive groups, allowing role-play or the chance to handle featured gadgets. People shouting, people laughing, people arguing for who was the best character; groups jealously criticising each other, or alternatively asking where the costume had been sourced. And the smells; body odour, some raw and nasty, some cloaked with strong cheap knock-off perfume or overused body spray which was even nastier. Mostly I ignored all of it, unless some heavily-perfumed individual got too close and choked me, or some group ventured past in a line and almost knocked me flying.

I’d never been to a comic convention before; not because I didn’t want to, but, well, first, they cost money; hard-earned money which could be better spent on something useful rather than something so frivolous; and secondly, I thought I was too old. I had been a huge Star Trek fan since the original series was first broadcast in England, but by the time ‘Trekkers’ became a thing, I was an ‘adult’ and beyond such fandom; in public anyway. Had my husband been that way inclined, it would have been different, but although he enjoyed film and TV, and admired some actors, he was as pragmatic – some may even say cynical – a man as you could wish to meet. He had no time for the celebrity culture; his admiration went as far as being willing to watch a film that a particular person was in because he had enjoyed their last outing. He tolerated my exposition of this actor’s latest interview, that one’s latest extra-film activities, and viewed a lot of their supposed examples of charity, candour and compassion with a jaded eye.

Keith died two years ago; actually, it was twenty-five months, three weeks and five and a half days, but after almost forty years of marriage, who’s counting? He had cancer; for the second time. He had developed prostate problems sixteen years ago. At first he did nothing – other than get up to pee several times a night – but then it began to be painful for him to ejaculate, so he went to the doctor. He was diagnosed with prostatitis and treated for that; the cancer arrived later. He was already seeing the doctor for the infection, so when the aggressive cancer was found, he was fast-tracked for treatment. He was lucky; he had surgery and radiotherapy and got the all-clear, but afterwards found getting an erection difficult. By that time, he had had quite enough of doctors and hospitals, thank you very much; and the idea of discussing something so intimate was anathema to him. He tried the little blue pill, but found it didn’t really help him. I understood and told him it didn’t matter. I was working long hours as a teacher and my libido had taken a hit as I reached the peri-menopause, and so, in fact, it really didn’t matter. We were still loving, caring; we still kissed and cuddled and held hands. If we were happy, that particular aspect could take a back seat. It changed little between us.

The return of the cancer was a shock. It wasn’t in the same place, obviously, but irrationally, you still don’t expect lightning to strike twice. This time, it was equally as aggressive, but on this occasion, he wasn’t as lucky. I was able to retire early from my teaching job having paid extra into my pension pot from the early days, and cared for him at home – which was hard work. He hated being a patient; hated me doing anything intimate for him. It wasn’t a problem with me, per se. It was two things, I think. For one thing he hated being unwell, vulnerable, weak; secondly, he felt it was a betrayal of his role; that he should be the one looking after me, not vice versa; and nothing I could say could change that mindset. It was actually easier when he went into the hospice, even though we both knew it meant the end was near, because that particular issue no longer caused us stress.

Around this time, I emerged from a relatively easy menopause with a surge in my libido despite not taking HRT. Unable to find satisfaction in any other way, I started reading romances – something I had done only when poorly in the past, generally preferring thrillers. Initially these were ‘clean’ romances, where kissing was the most physical thing that occurred; you know the type of thing:

"...he carried me into the bedroom.

The next morning... "

And I expropriated Keith’s e-reader as he no longer had any interest in it. But then, through the e-reader sales pages, I found the more explicit ones, gradually moving on to those with more and more detail. Much more graphic than I had ever expected to find in the written word, I was able to find some relief. Then I began writing my own.

I had always written stories, but never finished them. There are about twenty at home ranging over thirty years. But now, I had long moments spent with Keith – especially at the hospice - where he was semi-conscious, and I wanted to be with him, but was unable to interact with him; I started writing, long-hand. In three months, I had written eighty thousand words. That story languishes in its notebook. It isn’t good enough for publication. But then I started again, and eight months after his death, I published my first story.

I’m a pantser, which means I have an idea – characters, vague story arc – but that can all change when I write; the characters determine where the story goes, and it can change drastically from my initial idea. I’ve had some really good reviews, but it’s a hard job promoting your stories, so I’m not what I would call successful.

My grieving for Keith had begun when he was diagnosed for the second time. The doctors told us from the outset that the prognosis was poor, and despite my innate optimism – which I kept up in front of Keith the whole time – I mourned from that day on. I would go for long walks with the dog and howl and wail in fields, rocking on the ground, while Axel (the dog) alternated between investigating and inspecting his surroundings, and trying to comfort me. The pain and distress of his final weeks, also meant that Keith’s death – although heart-breaking – was met by me with some relief. I was almost cried out, and after the funeral, exhausted; all I felt was a deep sense of loss. A void or an emptiness. There was a permanent sense of incompletion, that there was always something I ought to be doing; but I adjusted, slowly, and then used my writing as a tonic, putting words on the page until I lost focus and wept or walked for a while, before going back to it.

Anyway, through my writing I had ‘met’ a lot of ladies (and gents) on a well-known social media site, most of them in the USA, and when I decided to pull myself out of the well of grief I was in danger of drowning in, I made some plans; I would spend a month travelling the US and meeting these ‘friends’ – if they wanted to