The Last Year of Being Single

by Sarah Tucker

  ‘No, he likes you for your mind, Sarah.’

  She paid. I offered, but she paid. As we left the restaurant I felt rather sorry for her. I don’t know if she really loved John but I wanted to tell her that he wasn’t worth her time, her love or her sympathy. That any man who could treat her so badly didn’t deserve such a sweet, gracious girl. That he was much more deserving of someone who could be as emotionally ruthless as say…me. Anyway, she kissed me on both cheeks and said it had been really fun and turned round towards Victoria Station.

  I never saw her again after that. John told me months later that she had thrown a few plates when he told her that we were seeing each other, and that she had cut her wrists and threatened on numerous occasions to kill herself. And that she had started to write a letter to me but had never finished it. Somehow wish she had.

  11th November

  The Friday.

  Message received:

  Hi there. Love you. P

  xxxxx

  Respond:

  Love you too.xxxxx

  Message received:

  What are you doing today?

  Respond:

  On a training course. In Sussex.

  Message received:

  Have fun. Love you.xx

  Respond:

  Will do.

  What am I doing? Betraying the sweet guy I’ve known for five years with someone I know to be both devil and deep blue sea entwined. Perhaps it’s the danger and immorality of it all that attracts me. I’ve never done anything very wrong in my life. But surely this is morally wrong? Well, no, I’m not married, am I? And Paul hasn’t proposed, has he? And we’re not having sex, are we? And we haven’t for years, have we? So why not? Amazing how you can logic things out so quickly when you want to. Even when you’re wrong.

  I think that’s what men do with their logic. Men automatically think they are right all the time. It’s their mothers. They bring them up to think they can do no wrong. Firstborn are the worst. I can understand why Herod wanted to get rid of them. It was nothing to do with Christianity. It was probably the fact he got so pissed off with men who were first sons being boorish and phenomenally arrogant all the time. I blame the mothers. Anyway, when Paul does something wrong he makes me think it’s my fault. Somehow my behaviour leads to him behaving the way he does. So it’s nothing to do with him. It’s natural. It’s nature. It’s excusable. No, not even that. It’s right, and validated, and therefore I must be in the wrong.

  Problem is, this screwed-up logic is catching, so now I validate actions which really are morally wrong. Like the phone call. Like the meeting with John. It’s wrong. But, hey, I haven’t had sex with Paul for years. He isn’t treating me well. We haven’t been getting on recently. But I love him. But he doesn’t understand. So be discreet. And flirt with someone else who makes you feel sexy and wanted and womanly. But that’s not wrong. That’s just being natural. It’s nature. It’s right.

  Woke up at eight a.m., knowing I was doing the right thing. Full of the joys of spring despite it being November. Speak to Karen about how I feel. Karen listens. Says nothing. Says it’s natural and it’s nature and I’m right and Paul should treat me better. I tell her what I want her to hear so she validates my feelings and ideas. But I’m using male logic here. So I’m right and I know it.

  Karen—‘You’re right. Go for it.’

  Sarah—‘I’m being logical and doing what’s natural—right?’

  Karen—‘Go for it. Whether you’re right or not. Go for it. A man in your shoes would have left years ago. No sex? No sex is ridiculous. You’ve tried to talk but he won’t talk. You love him, you say, and he loves you, he says. But actions speak louder than words, and his words are empty. There’s something wrong with him, Sarah. Deal with it. Face it. You are. Just not straight. John is a crutch. He may not be Mr Right either, but at least he’s Mr Right Now and he’ll sleep with you.’

  John’s asked me over to his little yellow cottage in Redhill. For a drink. After work. I tell Paul I’ll be late home. He’s already working late, so he won’t miss me. He says he will and makes me feel guilty by saying he was thinking of cancelling his night out with the boys. I say, no. You enjoy it. You have fun. I’ll be OK. Some boring course about customer focus and how you can get more by giving more. The irony is wasted on him.

  I speak to newspapers about editorial. Meet advertising company in Kings Cross with posh offices. Fantasising about John and his little yellow cottage. He has told me about his cats, Hannah and Jessica. Hannah is fluffy and scatty and lovely. Jessica is beautiful and proud and arrogant. He loves both of them. His tone softens when he talks about them. He talks in the same tone as when he talks about English beer…and my legs. I feel honoured.

  I go out at lunchtime and buy a short red skirt. I never wear short red skirts, but for some reason, in November, I consider this to be a practical buy I believe I will get lots of wear from.

  We are having a dinner party tomorrow. The day after I visit John’s cottage. Paul has invited some of his friends.

  Smoked salmon with avocado? Or fresh figs with parma ham? Decisions, decisions, always decisions. Then chicken in white wine, or coq au vin? Same thing but one has more mushrooms than the other. Fruit salad, cheese and biscuits. Marks & Spencer chocolate sponge pudding. Individual portions with cream or ice cream or crème fraiche? Port, choccies and more port and cigars. Big fat ones for his big fat broker friends. U2, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. I like Paul’s musical taste much more than I like his taste in friends.

  J Day. Seeing John tonight at his place. John at his cottage. Wonder if he has a blue room in his yellow cottage. I’ve seen Nicole Kidman in The Blue Room, and wonder if the yellow cottage will be anything like that. Will he jump on me? Will he try to seduce me? Or will he be cool, in his yellow cottage, with his two cats purring at me?

  What shall I wear? What do you wear for someone who looks right through your clothes anyway? What’s the value of buying clothes when they don’t notice what you’ve got on? Knickers are another complete waste of time and material. If the sex is good they’re ripped off—even if they are La Perla—so it’s best just to go with the M&S thong. Or something rippable that doesn’t take half your thigh with it. Stockings and suspenders are too obvious. Trying too hard. And for women with huge cellulitey thighs who have to make them look sexy somewhere. If you’ve got good legs you don’t need to fuss and truss them up. They look great naked.

  So I’m wearing trousers. Suede hipsters. Joseph, half price in the sale. With hippy belt. Local shop—Blue Lawn—where everything looks good on me. No sales, but ten per cent off coz I buy so much there. Blouse. Blue Lawn. Semi-translucent. Same ten per cent. No bra. Knickers M&S, soft cotton. £4.99. White. Cut across the cheek. No stockings, suspenders.

  Showered with lots of oil. Aromatherapy. Mix of orange and ylang ylang and patchouli. With a touch of lavender. On all the pressure points. Behind the ears, knees, elbows, ankles. Back of shoulders, front of shoulders. In between breasts. Round belly button. Basically anywhere I want him to kiss. Touch. Stroke. I digress.

  Shower. Oil. Clothes on. Send text message:

  Message sent:

  I will be ready for you at 6pm. Where do you want to meet?

  No answer. Wait ten mins. Still no answer. Have meetings. About three—back to back. So busy. Everyone remarks how nice I smell, look. Do I fancy a drink? No, thank you. Are you meeting anyone tonight? No, why? Coz you smell, look nice. Etc etc.

  Still no answer.

  Message received:

  Got message. Have been very busy. Can meet at 6.30pm at Victoria Station. OK with you?

  Message sent:

  Yes, fine. Where at Victoria?

  Message received:

  Platform 13. What are you wearing?

  Message sent:

  Trousers.

  Message received:

  Not meeting you then.

  Message sent:

  But they’re sexy.

 
Message received:

  Top?

  Message sent:

  Translucent. No bra.

  Message received:

  Will meet you at 6pm. BE ON TIME. xx

  Ahhh. Two xx. Is xx a snog or a kiss on both cheeks? Or just a friendly xx flirtation or something more? I thought x was a kiss on both cheeks. Surely xx is a snog?

  Message sent:

  U2 xx

  Nothing. But I’m seeing him half an hour earlier, thanks to the top and lack of bra.

  Time is dragging in the afternoon. Go out for something to eat as am feeling faint with excitement and anticipation. Paul hasn’t phoned again and is definitely going out with the boys tonight. The ‘boys’ being three guys he has known for five years, all of whom work in banking, all of whom are marginally less materialistic than him, but getting there. And all of whom think women should be seen and not heard, unless they are coming, and preferably very loudly, and with them underneath (but this is their favourite position because they have all told me at one time or another in the kitchen when they have been drunk at the end of one of Paul’s pissy pretentious dinner parties). They also like the idea of two girls together, perhaps twins, and always me and some other girl, possibly even their girlfriend. I think they are all wankers.

  They go to a local pub or club and drink and get drunk and don’t chat up girls. I go out with my friend Catherine to pubs and clubs and drink Diet Coke. Two glasses. Then dance for two hours. Then another Diet Coke. Then another two hours’ dancing. We never chat to guys, just dance. If we get surrounded by about four or five males, which sometimes happens, we stop dancing. Move to another spot and dance there. It works. We lose about four pounds in body fluid and probable fat and have a good time, with ears buzzing, knowing we’ve frustrated a few egos if not broken hearts.

  Anyway, Catherine is with her yoga instructor tonight. Bonking in the back of a car outside Pizza Hut. In a remote place where neither her boyfriend or any of his label-conscious friends would be so low as to go. She has been going out with Freddie for seven years. He is in sales. He looks as if he is in sales. He drives a big shiny BMW. Last year he drove a big shiny Porsche. Next year he will drive a big shiny Ferrari if sales are good. He treats Catherine like an appendage. Pretty thing on his arm. She’s bored and likes the yoga instructor because he has a fabulous body and is very flexible. The aerobics instructor is called Liam. He lives in Basildon but wants to move to Leigh-on-Sea, which I think is silly. Liam in Leigh. Sort of naff. Or perhaps it’s a marketing ploy. Anyway, he’s ambitious, and I think he thinks Catherine has money as well as a fab body—which she doesn’t, but I keep telling her to tell him she has.

  Liam has a squeaky voice, a bronzed body, which is usually oiled or looks oiled, and a long blond ponytail which she likes to pull. She is very much in lust and is walking on air and not thinking straight at the moment. Women who are in lust are interesting as girlfriends. They talk about sex as though it’s food. Women who are in love are dull as dirt. They don’t talk at all. They just smile and stare occasionally into the air and you want to poke their eyes out for being so self-satisfied. And dull.

  I have told Catherine about John.

  ‘Have you done anything yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you going to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Think about Paul, Sarah.’

  ‘I have. That’s why I’m seeing John.’

  ‘Aren’t you happy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he’s nice.’

  ‘He’s also very controlling and an emotional bully and he doesn’t want me to be me. He wants me to be what he wants me to be, which isn’t me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. Same with Freddie.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, I can’t be that. He wants his mother. A nice Irish Catholic who dotes on her children and her husband and is the matriarch and the peacekeeper. I don’t want to be that. I want to be a travel journalist and have fun, and lots and lots of wonderful sex in very sexy places with someone who loves and lusts after me. And stimulates me mentally and is on a spiritual keel with me, and smells nice. And has nice eyes. And big hands. And a nice bum. And good pullable hair. And says all the right things at the right time to the right people. I know it’s asking a lot.’

  ‘It is. He doesn’t exist.’

  ‘He does. Just not in Chelmsford. How is Liam?’

  ‘Vigorous. He came round to the house last week. Freddie was away on business. He just ripped off my clothes on the doorstep and took me in the hallway. And then on the stairs—hurt the back a bit—and then in the bedroom. Then we fell asleep for a few hours. Then he woke me up by going down on me. Then we had a shower and I went down on him. Then we went into the kitchen and did some 9 1/2 Weeks things with cucumbers and yoghurt and honey. Then we had another shower again and did it there. He’s very strong…’

  ‘OK OK. So you had a good time.’

  ‘I’m coming to the good bit.’

  ‘The good bit?!’

  ‘Yeah, well, he gave me a sweet as a small token of love. And I didn’t have the heart to eat it. And when Freddie came back, you know what the bugger did? He saw it on the kitchen table and ate it. Greedy pig. And, do you know, that night I noticed scratch marks on his back, and he couldn’t explain them away, and he eventually admitted that he’d been with a girl and she was rather forceful, but that he was sorry and wouldn’t do it again? And, do you know, Sarah, I don’t give a fuck?’

  ‘Did you say that?’

  ‘Of course not. I played upset. He got upset. We went out for dinner and had a kiss and cuddle and went back to bed and made love. But it’s not the same any more. All I could think about was Liam. I hate being in the same bed with Freddie now.’

  ‘This is what I’m concerned about, Catherine. If I take the plunge with John, how will it make me feel about Paul?’

  ‘Has Paul promised you commitment. A ring?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you holding on? It’s five years. You don’t have a sex life. You love him, that’s why you are with him, but what future do you have? Go for it, Sarah.’

  So Sarah did.

  Six p.m. On the dot. Platform 13. Victoria Station. Biting lip. And index fingernails. Stop it. Stop it.

  Message received:

  I’m behind you.

  Turn around. ‘Hello, John.’

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’

  Kiss. Kiss. Both cheeks. Not a snog. Xx was right, then.

  ‘We can catch the 6:10. Do you have to be back home early tonight or do you have a pink ticket?’

  ‘I can be back late, but I must be back. OK?’

  ‘OK. I can drive you home. Just round the M25 and A12—right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  Train journey conversation:

  John—‘Had a good day?’

  Sarah—‘OK. Busy. Meetings.’

  John—‘Me too. You look nice. Like your nipples.’

  Three people in the carriage look up from their papers. One Daily Mail. Two Telegraph.

  Sarah blushes.

  Sarah—‘Thank you. I can’t see your nipples, but I’m sure they look great too.’

  John—‘Erect. Like yours. It’s the nipples that do it for most men. It’s not the breast size. It’s the nipples. The pertness of them. I’m a bum man. You have a lovely bottom, Ms Giles. Looked disgusting, of course, in those culottes, but I could see it was pert. I’m intrigued to find out if you have cellulite at the top of those long legs or if they’re as good as they look from the knee down. With lots of women they look as though they have lovely legs and then you get the skirt off and, hey presto, like two sacks filled with lumpy porridge. I’m sure you’re gazelle-like. Lean right to the top. Well, are you, Ms Giles?’

  Ms Giles says nothing.

  Three people in the carriage look up again. Smile. Then back to papers.

  Seven stops. Past Croydon. Redhill.

  John—‘I’ve parked the
car in a car park just a few minutes from here. Would you fancy some dinner first?’

  Sarah—‘Fine.’ Fine? I’m nervous. Why nervous now? I can back out now. I can turn round and say, Hey, I have a boyfriend, whom I love but doesn’t treat me well, and you are fun and sexy but I don’t want to get involved coz it will hurt you and me and him and all be a dreadful mess.

  But I don’t.

  Sarah—‘Sounds great.’

  He has a black Golf GTI.

  John—‘My other car’s in the garage. It’s red and called Charlotte and it’s an old Sunbeam and is my pride and joy. After my cats.’

  We drive to a small Italian place where they seem to know John by face if not by name. Tables are intimate. In booths. I order sole. With something tomatoey on it but I’m not really hungry. He orders fish, but he’s not hungry either. Neither of us touch our food.

  We quickly get onto the subject of sex, as you do when it’s on your mind and you want to have it at some stage during the evening.

  John—‘You look good. Much better than at the pizza place. And Santini’s.’

  Sarah—‘Thank you. So do you.’

  John—‘You have very pert nipples.’

  Sarah—‘It’s cold in here. I’m not pleased to see you.’

  He smiles.

  ‘So, how you getting on with Paul?’

  ‘I think we are just good friends now. How about you and Amanda?’

  ‘She’s moving out.’

  Two uneaten starters, main course and desserts later, we head out.

  In the car, music. Something classical. Radio Four. Mozart.

  Little yellow cottage. Just as I imagined. Very small, very intimate. Very cosy. No black or chrome or mirrored ceilings, as per most bachelors living alone. The kitchen seemed to be the most lived-in room.

  I like to cook.

  Open cupboards full of spices and herbs. Fresh variety, not the ‘dried muck’, for curries and stews which he concocts.

  ‘I would like to cook for you, Sarah.’