My beau was sophisticated, intelligent and exuded the allure that comes with a rarefied lifestyle.We ate in restaurants that my male peers could neither afford nor be afforded a reservation; we enjoyed the best seats at the opera and luxuriated in first-class travel.Prince Talleyrand, Napoleon’s foreign minister, who was catnip to women, fathered a child in his 60s.
They say they saw it coming, those celebrity tittle-tattles who follow every whisper of Hollywood gossip.
The glorious Technicolor love boat of Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas has, allegedly, been navigating the rocks for some time. Theirs was a marriage that was doomed from the start.
At the time, I sincerely believed, to paraphrase Mae West, it’s not the age of the men in your life, it’s the life — or high life — in your men.
For, mea culpa, money was an attraction; when I was 30, I fell for a successful financier of 55 — the same age Michael Douglas was at his wedding to Catherine.
I was a size 8, but he told me I was as fat as a barrel.
I would dissolve in tears until I began to interpret his attacks as a form of control exercised by a man who was growing insecure.
By then, my male contemporaries had married and started families, as well as successful careers.
To my chagrin, I now saw them and their wives in the swish and swanky restaurants and hotels I had thought my exclusive province.
Worst of all, my once cool and carefree George Clooney became something of a dyspeptic George Formby as he fussed over dirty spots on the window pane, creases on the sheets and any use of cream or butter which he insisted would give him a heart attack.