by Sarah Tucker
I think about this. Be philosophical. It may all be for a reason. At this moment in time I can’t think what reason. He says they will give me a good reference. For two days? Yes, for two days.
Harry Harry—‘You’ve managed to create an impact. That is a skill few have.’
Sarah—‘Yeah. I’ve also managed to lose a job in two days.’
The lunch lasts an hour and a half. Harry Harry switches on his phone. As I get up to go (wine untouched, my fingers smelling of smoked salmon), I hear him say, ‘Yes, all done. Yes, fairly well. We may have made a mistake but that’s life. Nice nipples, though.’
I call Paul.
Sarah—‘Hi, darling. Got something to tell you. I’ve been sacked, but I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve done good, actually, but stepped on toes. They’re giving me a letter of recommendation and four months’ salary and the Golf for four months.’
Silence.
Sarah—‘Are you still there?’
Paul—‘Yes. I’m still here. You are incredible, you know. I can’t think of anyone else who would be like this.’
Sarah—‘Yes, I know. Well, at least there is some money and I have time to look around.’
Paul—‘So you do. See you tonight.’
Sarah—‘See you tonight.’
I collect my stuff from the office. This is very surreal. I say goodbye to Jennifer, and say that she should speak to HRH and he will tell her what is going on. She looks confused. I say, ‘You’ll find out.’
Driving back home to the house I don’t like, jobless, to a man I’m not sure about, I wonder what life is all about. Then I get a text message from John.
Message received:
Missing you. Thinking of you. Wanting and needing you. We’re the right people at the right time at the right place.
If only.
FEBRUARY AND MARCH
ACTION LIST
Be nice to Paul.
Be faithful to Paul.
Think only of Paul.
Forget fun.
Be responsible.
Go to gym to work off naughty thoughts.
Avoid dairy and wheat products.
Avoid alcohol, which makes me a) tearful, b) honest.
INVITATION TO A DIRTY WEEKEND
January went in a blink. I haven’t managed to see John. I’ve been concentrating on finding another job. Which I have. As Marketing Manager for the Mightlight Group—an advertising company. They need someone to help promote their advertising campaign with some PR support. The main one being a tourism initiative and travel seminars to promote England overseas.
I think God is playing a trick on me. I hate England. Weather sucks. People reticent and rude. Dirty and anal. I wanted to be the skirt on the board—but not like this thank you very much. Plus the Mightlight office is in Hammersmith. And there’s nothing mighty about it. I live the other side of London, for goodness’ sake. It takes two hours to get there and two hours back. I will spend most of my time travelling and the rest knackered. This leaves little time for one man—let alone two.
But the role means I may get time to travel—overseas and in this country—and it may keep me out of trouble. Plus there are the wedding preparations—which take time. The little wedding with only a few friends has grown into a big FO wedding for one hundred and fifty. His parents are paying a third, as are mine, as are we. I don’t know any of his extended family. They are all from Ireland and all seem to be cousins of some sort. Then there are ‘our’ friends. All of whom work in his office and are on average about twenty years older than him and very important and influential and probably worth inviting for the wedding presents alone. My family don’t talk to one another so have to be put on separate tables. My friends have been restricted to ten. I have more than ten friends but they are not good enough to invite to my wedding. Obviously not wedding present good enough.
We are having the reception in a priory that is costing a fortune and was used by various celebrities from Eastenders for their weddings. This does nothing to sell it to me. In fact it’s more a black mark, but Paul says this is OK and we won’t tell anyone. They are charging us ten pence per olive. I have worked it out. We take a leap of faith. Starters are melon and parma ham. There is the option of smoked salmon and avocado. With a balsamic vinegar dressing. I suggest something different for a change. Paul says best to stick to what people like. At his dinner parties anyway. Main course is beef or chicken, with new potatoes and mange tout and sugar snap peas and carrots. Followed by miniature chocolate sponge puddings and custard. Port to finish, with truffles. Cheese was too expensive. They hadn’t heard of physallis—even when I said they were cape gooseberries and M&S sold them.
Wedding cake being done by someone in Basildon. Flowers by someone in Southend. Dress by someone in Colchester. Catherine to be the bridesmaid. She to wear green, I to wear oyster. With a hat, not a veil. Paul is to choose the honeymoon. I had had, and wanted, nothing to do with it. The whole situation bored and depressed me. But by the beginning of February most was getting sorted. Church, invitations, dress, cake, menu, and flowers had been decided. That left car, honeymoon (which Paul wouldn’t tell me about, but told my and his parents) and band to be confirmed. Plus I had a hen weekend to arrange.
In the midst of all this I had kept in touch with John only by text message. We hadn’t seen each other or touched each other. For goodness’ sake, we hadn’t even fucked each other, but I felt more close to him just by texting him and talking to him. Work was interesting and fun, and the journey was horrendous, and it left little time for anything other than work and sleep and organising wedding plans.
I told John I didn’t have time to see him at the moment, but he arranged for us to meet in April, at a hotel called the Plumtree at Peerton. Where he took all his women, he told me. I felt reassured by this. The fact he was flippant about me being just another of his women made me feel that I was an insignificant lay to him. Just one of many. He would tire of me soon. Plus I was sure that I wouldn’t live up to expectations. The phone sex was good, and became more imaginative and outrageous—but always possible. So, we could do it in a stable, but not in space.
Paul was worried about this year’s bonus. I was worried about keeping my job for more than two days. We had more dinner parties. More parma ham and port and chicken suppers. And air guitar and Highlander and his friends and occasionally mine, none of whom he liked and was pleased they weren’t coming to the wedding. The priory didn’t have a large enough room to seat all the guests, so there were two adjoining rooms. Most of my friends were in the ‘other’ room because, quote, ‘they will understand about being in the other room’. His friends and family and his work colleagues would not. I thought this was a cheek, but had given up trying to express an opinion.
The house I didn’t like was taking shape slowly. Because Paul was a trader in the City his negotiating skills showed in everything he did. He would prefer to work with one-man bands who had been recommended. He would negotiate a deal for a lot of work and money up-front and most on completion and strip costings down to the bare bone. I never had any doubt he had got a good deal on anything. But the builders never returned after doing one job. They never came back and somehow they were always busy when Paul asked them to quote again. I became the good cop and he the bad. He bought pictures that reminded me of Old Masters, but they weren’t. It was an old man’s house and my fiancé was turning into an old man before his time. He even liked gardening.
So I was aching to get February out of the way—and March. Yearning for April showers and the weekend at the Plumtree. I researched it on the internet and got pictures of the room we would be staying in. Work took me around the UK and overseas—so I would occasionally be away—one weekend in every four—so it would be easy to say I would be away for a weekend in April. I would just tell Paul he could contact me on my mobile, and that I would be in meetings so not to disturb me too much. Plus, when I was away he would be away with his work colleagues on a golfin
g weekend in Ireland. So he would be busy too.
The last remaining bits to be done for the wedding were sorted throughout March. Band was chosen. Something funky. No disco. Car chosen. A black Sunbeam. John’s red Sunbeam Lottie kept coming to mind, but this one was older. Wedding list chosen and sent out. Paul and I had spent two hours looking round Peter Jones in Sloane Square for gifts—prices ranging from £10 to £200. Lots of glasses (port, of course), Villeroy & Boch—which were so delicate I would be scared to use them. A dishwasher (woman’s best friend—forget the diamonds), washing machine, fish kettles, Le Creuset. We couldn’t agree on cutlery so we didn’t put that on. He wanted formal. I wanted something modern. For some reason I wouldn’t budge on this. I conceded (gave in) on everything else, and in light of the fact I rarely used cutlery (fingers instead) I didn’t understand why I was so fussy about this. Probably out of principle I said no. Invites were coming back. Mostly acceptances. A few of my friends out of the country in September. Hopefully sun would shine. Hopefully.
I had bought myself a self-help book, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, which I thought strangely appropriate. Then Embracing Uncertainty, which taught me that everything happens for a purpose—even the bad. That I should not hope for things, just wonder if they will happen. It amused me that I considered marrying Paul to be a bad thing, but it served a purpose and obviously I was doing it for a reason. But I didn’t think I should think that way. I talked to no one. Not even Anya. Not even Catherine. Anya thought I had told Paul that I was finished with him and was seeing John. And Catherine thought I had finished with John and was devoted to Paul. And I was juggling both balls in the air and waiting in anticipation of the weekend in April, which would help me make my decision.
Paul does not believe in Valentines, so there was no dinner or card. John sent me one. I got to it before Paul did. It was a picture by Monet with dancers. And said ‘I want you’ inside. I presume it was from him. I had no other admirers at the time.
In March, I went on a course in Cookham. The Mightlight Group had sponsored a marketing diploma. And this was a week-long residential course. There were twenty others on the course and we were divided into groups. My group consisted of four very self-opinionated men. All in their late twenties. One American, one Liverpudlian, one Londoner and one Scot. And me. They argued about everything and I was very much the cement that stopped them from killing each other. The American—Tony—said I was very maternal and caring and could he take me to lunch? I said fine. For some reason I didn’t mention I was engaged. I didn’t feel engaged or in love or excited, so why should I?
13th March
Lunch with American Tony. At Andrew Edmunds.
Tony was prompt. I was ten minutes late. After all, I had come from Hammersmith and the Piccadilly Line on the underground was stopping and starting due to a person underneath the rails. Always amazed me how inconsiderate people were. ‘Why the fuck couldn’t he have killed himself some other time? Why did it have to be now?’ was the most common comment. Screw the fact the guy was someone’s son or dad or brother and was probably feeling like shit or nothing when he did it, and the last thing he was thinking was I want to screw up everyone else’s day. Or perhaps it was. But I always gave suicide cases the benefit of the doubt.
I explained when I got to the restaurant. For those who don’t know Andrew Edmunds, it is unashamedly romantic. The lighting is so dimmed you can’t see your plate, let alone the food on which it is daintily placed. The chef can’t make up his mind whether he is into vegetarianism, or French or Italian, rustic or nouvelle cuisine. So there’s a combination of everything and it just about works. There are candles to play with, and the tables are close enough to each other that you can listen to other people’s conversation if yours becomes dull. Lovers talk to each other and don’t eat. Marrieds eat and don’t talk to each other. The evenings and lunchtimes work when the owner positions the tables marrieds/lovers/marrieds. Whole groups of lovers together unbalance the boat, as you have one side buzzing and the other dead. The owner has been known to ask customers if they are coming with their wives or associates for this very reason.
Tony and I were neither, but we were seated between two marrieds. I could tell. None of them said a word to each other during the time we were there.
Tony stood up as I came in to take my seat.
We chatted and chose food. I chose something I could use my fingers to eat. So did he. It was a mutual bonding thing without us knowing it.
Tony—‘I had an accident yesterday. I nearly died.’
Wow. Good opening line. He had my attention.
Sarah—‘God, Tony. How? Where? When?’
Tony—‘Someone crashed into me from the side. It was a getaway car from a robbery. Police were chasing it and he went straight into me. Police say I’m lucky to be alive.’
I automatically leant over the table and gave him a hug. He hugged me back. Seemed a bit intimate for someone I had met only a week ago, but the week had been intensive and I knew he would take it the right way.
Tony—‘Well, Sarah, it made me think. About life. About what’s important in life and what isn’t. And why so many people wait for something good to happen to them and don’t just take it. It made me re-evaluate life and, well… Will you marry me?’
Silence. Brain working overtime. Does not compute. Man known one week proposes after near-death experience. He could see I was confused.
Tony—‘I can see you are confused. Sarah, I know this sounds strange, but I think we have a connection. A chemistry. You are a caring, lovely person and I know that, and you’re special, and I think we would work well together. And this has taught me that when you have a chance at happiness you should go for it. And I’m going for it. I don’t know if I love you, but I think I do, and we have a connection. A spiritual connection.’
Silence. Brain working double overtime. Still didn’t compute. Other than the finger food stuff and the fact I laughed at his jokes I couldn’t see the connection. I didn’t feel any of the sexual or sensual urges I had for John, nor the deep loving ones I had for Paul. Nothing. Friend, yes. Lover, no. Husband. Forget it. I speak.
Sarah—‘I am very flattered, Tony. Very. But I don’t think this is a good time for me.’ (You bet, and for more reasons than you think). ‘I’m not into relationships at the moment. I don’t want to settle down. There is nothing wrong with you.’(Notice his face becoming stiff. Verging on the grim.) ‘You are wonderful and handsome and kind, but I don’t want a relationship at the moment.’
I smile and put my hand on his. Hoping he will think it’s just for friendship. He doesn’t.
Tony—‘You are wonderful. Perhaps if we could start with a physical relationship. Sex isn’t everything, and if you are a virgin then it doesn’t matter. I can teach you.’
Arrogant eat-shit-and-die wanker. Do I look like a virgin? Do I act like a virgin? Patronising arsehole. Don’t care if he’s had a near-death experience. If he wants another one, he’s coming close to it. I bite.
Sarah—‘What makes you think I’m a virgin, or that I’m afraid of sex?’
Tony—‘Nothing. Only that you seem a bit awkward about being touched.’
Sarah—‘Perhaps its just about being touched by you. I’m sorry, Tony, but we can be friends and that’s it. This is completely out of the blue. I’m not a virgin. Sorry about that. And I don’t fancy you and don’t find you in any way sexually attractive. There is nothing attractive about you on a physical level. I’m sure other women find you attractive, sexy even, but I don’t. I don’t think I could ever find you physically attractive and that’s the way it is.’
I wanted to nail this coffin and bury the box with flowers on then and there. I wanted him to leave without any doubt at all. There was absolutely no chance of a return lunch. I had experienced lunches like this in the past. An insurance salesman from Cobham, a Jewish banker from Loughton, an Essex young farmer from Colchester, a Turkish hotel-owner from Bodrum. I’d tried to be nice
and say no thank you nicely, but they’d never got the message. I wanted to be cruel to be kind on this occasion. I knew he had had one near-death experience and wouldn’t go for another, so had no doubts he wouldn’t try the ‘I’m going to kill myself’ scam, which I’d had once before and it scared the shit out of me. I might have damaged the ego, but it would be short lived and he would hate me. He did.
Tony—(scowling)—‘Fine. I get the message. You could have been a bit more subtle about the way you told me. After all, being proposed to doesn’t happen every day. Especially to someone who looks like you. You’re not exactly Cameron Diaz, you know. You’re not that special. Nice arse, but small tits. Nothing there. And your conversation sucks. And I bet you do in bed as well. You’re just a prick-tease, aren’t you? Met your type before. Pathetic little cow. You should be grateful for what you get.’
The prick-teasing pathetic little cow with small tits and nice arse realised she’d gone too far in an attempt to kill any suggestion of romance. So to get rid of the psycho for good I conceded graciously that I was and would always be the ugliest most ungrateful thing on the planet but that I still wouldn’t sleep with him or entertain him as anything other than an acquaintance—which was obviously out of the question now. Because I didn’t want to know of him, let alone be with him.
