Im nearly 60, yet after six years of marriage my husbandwhos thirty years younger than mestill calls me my little wife every night and makes me sip a mysterious brew that leaves me absolutely breathless each time.
My name is Gwendolyn Harrington. Im 59, and I never imagined Id fall in love again at my ageso fiercely, so whimsically, like a child discovering a new playground.
When I first met Jack, I was 53 and he was only 23. Hed just taken a job as a personal trainer at the Newham gym where Id signed up just to keep busy after my divorce. Tall, bronzed, with cheek dimples and a grin that made the knees of an oldtimed mother of two wobble.
Hed come over to finetune my form, and whenever his hands brushed my shoulders or hips I turned a shade of pink that would make a schoolgirl blush. After three months he asked me out for a coffee. I laughed, Boy, youre younger than my youngest son. He winked, So what? The heart doesnt check the passport.
We started seeing each other. I expected a brief fling, something hed outgrow and move on to someone his own age. But a year passedhe hadnt left. Two yearshed moved into my spare room. Three yearshe got down on one knee right there in the gym, in front of the dumbbells and everyone else.
My sons were gobsmacked. My girlfriends rolled their eyes and tutted. The neighbours whispered, She bought him, Hes waiting for her will. We simply lived, and we were happy.
The wedding was tiny, just the closest family. I wore a simple white dress (yes, at 56 I finally allowed myself to be a bride). Jack was in a tux, eyes glistening with happy tears. When the vicar said, You may now kiss the bride, Jack leaned in and whispered, My little wife, onto my lips. And ever since, thats what he calls meevery evening, every night.
Then our little secret began.
Each night, when its just the two of us, Jack pours me a glass not wine, not brandy. He whips up a special concoction, calling it his youth elixir for my queen. It tastes sweet, honeyed, with a hint of herbs. I drink, and half an hour later Im floating.
Its not drunkenness. Its something else. My body feels light, my skin hypersensitive, my heart thudding like a 20yearolds. I burst into laughter for no reason, chase him around the house in his shirt, dance to old records, belt out karaoke tunes. He watches me with adoring eyes, repeating, Look at my little wife my tiny, wild girl.
I asked what was in the potion. He just smiled, A secret. Safe. Just for you.
One night I peeked. He was adding drops from a tiny dark bottle. The label read: natural aphrodisiacs, damiana extract, maca, ginseng, Larginine and something else I couldnt read. The dosage was enough for an entire football squad.
I pretended not to see a thing. Because, you know what? I like it.
I love feeling 25 again at 59, a lover in the bloom of youth. I love it when he scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom, murmuring, Youre my little wife, and Ill never let go. I love waking up to his homemade breakfast and the way he looks at me as if Im the best thing that ever happened to him.
Last week we marked our sixth anniversary. He set the living room aglow with candles, cranked some 80s hits, and showed up in the same jeans and tee he wore on our first meeting. He placed the familiar glass of elixir before me and said:
Gwendolyn, I dont give you this to make you younger. I give it to you so youll always remember youre my little wifeat 60, at 70, at ninety. Even when your hair is silver down to your waist, even when were shuffling with canesIll still pour you this drink and say, Drink up, love, because Im falling for you all over again today.
I drank it to the very bottom.
And I was back sprinting around the house in his shirt, laughing until tears streamed, loving him until dawn.
Let the neighbours gossip. Let them not understand. Jack and I have our own recipe for an endless honeymoon. The main ingredient isnt in that little bottle of herbs; its him, and the way he looks at me.
He calls me my little wife. Every night.
Its been six years now.
And I knowits forever.
