The Last Year of Being Single

by Sarah Tucker

  Five past seven to seven fifty-five a.m.—phone sex.

  In cinema. Matinée. A comedy. Back row. Semi-crowded. Coming at an inappropriate moment. Having to be quiet. No screaming. Difficult for me. Very wet. Very turned on.

  21st December

  Seven a.m.

  Message received:

  With Amanda this week. Will be difficult to call. Hope you have a good Christmas. Will call after Christmas. Big kiss. Keep wet and wild.

  Message sent:

  You too. I will.

  24th December

  I don’t feel Christmassy. I feel lustful and in party mode but not for and with my boyfriend of five years. I go to church more times in a week than I do all year. With my family, his family, friends. We sing carols and say prayers. But Paul’s not in my head or my understanding. Not in my eyes or in my looking. Not in my mouth or in my speaking. He’s still in my prayers and in my thinking. But not the way he was—five years ago. I’m thinking of John. I’m thinking of what John will be like. If I will see him again. If he will decide to stay with Amanda or if he will decide to give me a try. Or if he will find another squeeze to be festive with this season.

  I wonder how I can break it to Paul that we should perhaps give each other space. The ‘I need space’ line. You know—the one that precedes ‘I’ve found someone else’ if you’re pressed. I can’t do it before Christmas. It will ruin his holiday. He’s doing well at work, expecting a large bonus, going to buy a new house and seems happy. I haven’t been asking or hinting about marriage because, hey, my mind’s been on something and someone else—so I’m cooler but also more energised with Paul, because I’m thinking of John and Paul gets the benefit of John’s influence. Win win win situation, methinks.

  Spending Christmas with cousins. Paul picking me up from my flat. Karen staying with her on-off boyfriend and his family. Exchange gifts. Leave flat at five p.m. and drive to Weston Turvill. Paul says he wants to stop off at a pub on the way. We pull into the car park. Six-thirty p.m. Paul hands me a little black box.

  Paul—‘Will you be my wife?’

  Stunned. Have been thinking about John all day and on the journey, and thinking about breaking up with Paul. Now he proposes. He hasn’t gone down on one knee. He is proposing to me in a car park. Of a pub. On Christmas Eve. Do I say no and ruin his Christmas so he has to spend it with my parents and cousins knowing that I don’t want to marry him? He’s bought the ring. I open the box. It’s lovely. Diamonds. Four. He’s chosen it without consultation, but he’s chosen well.

  Paul—‘I chose it. I hope you like it.’

  I don’t look at him. I think fuck. What the fuck shall I do? Devil or deep blue sea? John is lust. I know that. I’ve just met him. I know that. It’s sex. I know that. Paul is my love, my soulmate, but there’s a problem. I know that. What the fuck do I do? Can I call a friend? No, I cannot. I choose.

  Sarah—‘I would love to be your wife, Paul.’

  I lie.

  He kisses me. I kiss him back. We go to the pub and order champagne and look into the log fire and tell the girl serving us that we’ve just got engaged and she’s happy for us. Happier than I am for us. I look at Paul and know I love him, but also want to tell him stuff that I can’t tell him. I love him but can’t talk to him any more. I can’t open up to him any more. I can’t tell him I resent him. Not now. Not now, as he has just proposed and given me this ring, which he proceeds to tell me cost more than £1500, which somehow takes the magic out of it.

  After an hour drinking champagne we return to the car. Holding hands. Arrive at my cousins’. He tells me he hasn’t asked my father. He goes to the house first. He goes to my father, who is sitting by himself in the sitting room. My mother and cousins are in the kitchen. I go into the kitchen and make small talk with my cousins and try to ignore my mother.

  When Paul returns I go in to see my father while Paul breaks the news to my mum. As I walk to the sitting room I can hear silence, then screams of delight coming from the kitchen. I hope they don’t follow me in. I want to be with my dad at this moment. He smiles at me as I enter the room.

  Dad—‘I’m very happy for you, Sarah.’

  Sarah—‘Thank you, Dad. He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

  Dad—‘I hope he will make you very happy. Are you happy, Sarah?’

  I look at him as though he can read my mind or my face or see through me that I’m not quite sure. But I think it’s just the way it’s come out. No. I look at his face and it’s a genuine question. He asks it again.

  Dad—‘Are you happy, Sarah?’

  Sarah—‘Yes, Dad. He’s a very good man. He loves me very much.’

  Dad—‘Do you love him? Will he make you happy?’

  Sarah—‘Yes, I think so. Yes, I do.’

  Dad—‘Good, Sarah.’

  He looks at me and says nothing. As if he knows but will let me lie in my own bed and sleep in it and learn from it.

  Mother comes in with cousins. Hugging me and kissing me. Mother cries. It’s for herself. She’s got her daughter off her hands to a well-off young man. She has something to tell her friends. Her coterie of Hyacinth Bucket ladies who lunch. I can see in her eyes she is planning the big white wedding. Boasting about how wonderful the groom is. What a nice family they are. The church. Who she will invite. Who she will tell. What dress she will wear. All the things that are not important. How it will be her day. And I don’t want her there. For fuck’s sake, I don’t know if I want to be there.

  Dad—‘When are you going to get married?’

  Paul—‘Well, probably in about nine months. We were thinking September. Why wait? We’ve been going out for over five years.’

  Dad—‘The weather will still be good then. Good idea.’

  I’m given a glass of champagne and drink it quickly. Then another. And another. We drink until four a.m. the following morning. Christmas Day. And then make our way to the bedrooms. I cuddle up to my fiancé. I feel good and comforted but disturbed. I should be ecstatic but I’m not. I should feel secure but I’m not. I love Paul. There is no doubt. But until this moment in time, this very moment in time, he’s been far from my thoughts and my dreams. And I think of John and how I shall tell him and how I shall broach the subject.

  Sarah—Hi, John, did you have a good Christmas?

  John—Yes, Sarah. Did you? Get anything nice?

  Sarah—Well, yes, actually. I got a really lovely diamond ring and I’m going to marry Paul. OK? In September. Big white wedding. Would you like to come?

  Yes, I can see it now.

  25th December

  Blur. Turkey went in late so we ate at six in the evening. Lots of laughter, tears and dirty jokes. Feeling numb. Holding Paul’s hand a lot. Dad keeps looking at me as though he knows. He smiles and stares at me. And then at Paul. Mother totally oblivious of everything. I wonder if she really is my mother or if I was swapped in the hospital. I am so unlike her. She is horrible. Like Hyacinth without the humour.

  26th December

  Early start. We set off to Paul’s parents. Back to Chelmsford. Paul rang his parents on Christmas Day to tell them the news. He tells me they are delighted. When we arrive at their home the only one there is his brother Mark. His parents and younger brother are at church. They are Catholics and Irish and Mark doesn’t believe and is the rebel and is the one out of all the family (including Paul) I most like and respect. He’s honest with his anger. He’s the black sheep and talks to his parents, whereas Paul and his other brother Andrew don’t. They are economical with information. Don’t think it’s an Irish thing. Or an Irish Catholic thing. Or a son-parent thing. Perhaps it’s a combination of the lot. Anyway. They don’t talk.

  Mark hugs me and says, ‘Hello, sis.’ And I cry. It’s a genuine hug and I think he’s genuinely happy to be having a sister and I’m genuinely happy to be having him as a brother. Only children miss out on that. Got to play with all the toys, but would have liked a brother. Preferably an older one who would invite hi
s friends round. Potential boyfriend material.

  The others arrive about ten a.m. Hugs all round. More champagne. More turkey—this time at a reasonable time. No TV allowed. Just games. Mark likes to win. Even with his new sister-in-law. I like being part of this family. They are nice people. I prefer them to my own family. They seem to like each other. There’s always a tension with mine. Sort of dysfunctional but I love them all. As individuals. Just not together in one room for any given period.

  I should forget John. This is what I want. A proper family. Nice people. People who will accept me for what I am. Er—hold on one minute there. They won’t accept me for who I am. They don’t know who I am. I’ve been seeing someone else. They don’t know about the abortion. They would be devastated if they knew. Paul has not told them. They don’t know about our problems. Paul won’t tell them and neither will I. They won’t accept me for who I am. They accept me for what they perceive me to be. Which isn’t me. Which isn’t me.

  Boxing Day afternoon I find myself for a few minutes alone. Sitting on the toilet. Contemplating life. And finding space. I think, Shall I go through with this? I’m deceiving everyone, but especially myself. Do I come clean with Paul? Do I say, By the way, I’ve met someone else, but it’s just a sexual thing? A fling? Or do I keep my big mouth shut. After all, John is a womaniser. He’ll get bored of me—right? He’s amoral and I’ll grow to hate him as he’ll treat me badly, and Paul, despite the fact he won’t sleep with me, is a nice guy. He’s a lovely guy and I love him. But I’m sleeping with someone else. Well, not exactly sleeping with. We haven’t actually done it yet. Phone sex? Does that count? It’s not even oral sex. Does rolling round naked count? Or snogging? Or thinking about it? According to the church if you think about it, it’s as good as doing it. Then again, it may all fizzle out with John anyway, so why rock the boat and tell Paul? He’ll be upset and I love him.

  Keep it to yourself, Sarah.

  So I do. For Christmas. I smile and drink and get drunk and get a headache and a fucking migraine which bangs away at my head. And I fall asleep and Paul tells me that despite the fact we are engaged it would be nice to wait. And that we can hug naked and would that be all right? Wait for the wedding day before we make love properly? Wait nine months. Nine fucking months to make love. Do I understand?

  No, I don’t, but I will have to try to understand. Yes, I understand.

  He tells me he proposed because we had been long enough going out, and that we had had our ups and downs, but now that I had left the Situation Manager’s role at the railways I would be getting a job locally, and that he had done well in the City and was expecting a big bonus and that it was the right time to do it.

  So, nothing to do with spontaneous romance, then, or an undying urge to want to spend the rest of his life with me. Nice. But practical, I suppose. Practical. I don’t think I will ever be poor with this man, or feel insecure. I may feel unloved and unwanted and stifled and controlled and aching for affection. But I will never want for food or clothing or material comforts. All things that matter to my mother and which I don’t give a fuck about. But perhaps this is what marriage is all about. Compromise and seeing a sense of what is and isn’t important. After all, romantic love dies, doesn’t it? And marriage evolves into friendship. It’s just that I thought that happened when you were in your sixties, not just getting married. And perhaps waiting will increase the excitement. After all, Paul is wonderful and I love him and he loves me. Or what he wants me to be or what he thinks is me. Which isn’t the same thing—but does that matter?

  New Year’s Eve

  I haven’t contacted John. I haven’t answered his calls. I haven’t answered his text messages. What can I say to the man? I’ve got to do it at some stage, right? He’ll get bored with me and I won’t need to chuck him—he will chuck me. Right? At some stage, before September. It’s nine months, after all. He’ll get bored with me in nine months. And I live in Chelmsford and he lives in Surrey and I don’t work for the railways any more. So it will be difficult.

  JANUARY

  ACTION LIST

  To be loved and feel loveable.

  To become a yoga instructor.

  To be as fit as I possibly can.

  To have fun.

  To win an award.

  To present a TV series.

  To present a radio series.

  To write a bestseller.

  To cherish my friends and build upon their friendship.

  To be lovely to Paul.

  To kick-box with style.

  To avoid all dairy and wheat products.

  To go to the gym every day of the week.

  How many ticks this year? Last year I got two out of ten, but, hey, some of them were impossible. Like: Have orgasm with penetrative sex.

  Don’t think it happens. Especially when you’re not having sex.

  Spend New Year’s Eve with Mike and Gemma. Mike is a schoolfriend of Paul’s. He is nothing like any of Paul’s other friends. He is not rich. He is not from the City. He is genuine and kind and loving. He is also a karate black belt, so few people argue with him. Both twenty-eight. He doesn’t have to bully or emotionally manipulate because he can kick you in the neck and kill you as quick as you can blink (probably quicker). He knows it. Gemma knows it. The pets know it. Other people know it. The only interesting times are when people don’t know it and they find out. But he hasn’t killed anyone yet. Fabulous body, lethal and loving disposition. What more could a woman ask? I don’t fancy him, have never had fantasies about him, so despite his many and wonderful qualities, he remains unsexy to me. And anyway, I am newly engaged and my thoughts are for two men—my husband-to-be and my lover-to-be.

  Mike and Gemma live in Reading—Caversham, which is supposed to be the nice part according to Paul, who lived there ten years ago before moving to Chelmsford. They are preparing the main course. We are given the starter and dessert. Paul brings port, which he loves and Mike hates. So more for Paul, then. I bring avocados and melon and parma ham and figs and various cheeses and green apples and grapes and biscuits and pre-prepared chocolate sponge puddings from Marks & Spencer and luxury extra creamy custard. Something different.

  Their house is Victorian and messy and loved. Good vibes about it. Sort of smiles at you as you enter the door. They’ve got a black cat called Cherish and a retriever called Harry who get on and take over the house and their hairs are everywhere. Paul is allergic to cats. Perhaps over the years it’s why I’ve grown to love the place and visiting Mike and Gemma.

  New Year’s dinner is in their kitchen. They’re happy for us. We drink ten bottles of champagne between us. Mike is almost unconscious by two a.m. He doesn’t usually drink. Paul is telling bad jokes and playing air guitar to Led Zeppelin. Mike does a party trick of breaking a walnut shell between his buttocks. Paul doesn’t try. I keep getting text messages from John.

  Gemma to Sarah—‘So, when’s the happy day?’

  Message received:

  Hope you have a wonderful New Year. Where are you?

  I haven’t been able to get in touch. What’s happened?

  Sarah to Gemma—‘I think sometime in September. We don’t want to wait too long.’

  Message received:

  Don’t you lust after me any more? Amanda is driving me nuts. She’s asking if anything is wrong and I can’t tell her anything of course. Very distracted and distressed you haven’t called. Why not?

  Mike to Sarah—‘There’s a lot of arranging to be done. If we get married we don’t want any fuss. Where are you planning to do it?’

  Message received:

  Thinking of you. Wanting you. Wanting to kiss and touch and make you squeal. Wanting to watch you as you come.

  Sarah to Mike—‘Um, probably the local church.’

  Message received:

  I’ve booked a weekend in Bath in January. Something to look forward to. Aching to see you.

  Mike—‘Toast. To the happy couple.’

  All up-sta
nding. Glasses clink. Big smiles.

  Methinks perhaps not a good time to tell Paul that I’m not sure about marrying him and why. Perhaps not. Wait till later in the year. John will be sick of me by then…

  5th January

  Nine a.m.

  Message received:

  I have a surprise for you. Call me, darling.

  I check the sender. It’s Paul. This type of message is usually from John. I call.

  Sarah—‘Hi, lover. What’s the surprise?’

  Paul—‘I’ve bought a house. Well, almost. I will only buy it if you like it. Are you doing anything today?’

  So much for respecting my opinion.

  Sarah—‘Well, I think this might take priority.’

  I cancel my lunch and cinema with friends. I tell them why. They think it’s wonderful and inconsiderate at the same time.

  I drive over from my little flat. Karen tells me it’s not right that he should buy a house and expect me to just lump the idea. My mind’s not really on the house or Paul. It’s on John. I’m due to see him this weekend.

  The house. Large. Four bedrooms. Victorian. Large garden. Lots and lots of heavy wooden panelling which people older than fifty absolutely love. I hate it. Next door to park. High ceilings. Some rooms nicer than others. Small kitchen which needs gutting. If Paul says, ‘It has incredible potential,’ once more I will thump him.

  Paul—‘The family who lived here before were the Godlys. Mr Godly has now moved into an old people’s home and that’s why it’s being sold. I got it only because I was able to strike the deal really quickly. Working in a bank helps. Some of Mum’s friends wanted it, so we’re very lucky.’

  Sarah—‘It’s a family home.’

  Paul—‘I know.’

  Sarah—‘But I don’t want a family. Not yet, anyway. I want to have fun. This is not a fun house. This is a dinner party, stuffy, formal entertaining and children running all over the place sort of house.’

  Paul—‘You don’t like it, then?’