The Last Year of Being Single

by Sarah Tucker

  I pushed myself away, slithering out of his reach down the bed and running for the toilet before he was able to grab me and I peed myself at the Plumtree in Peerton.

  Dinner late. He wore a suit. I wore a cocktail dress. Chiffon. Chine. Belgian designer who specialises in floaty feminine stuff which is also sexy. Wonderful stuff. Lovely to put on, quick to take off. Men love it.

  Avocado and parma ham were on the menu and for some inexplicable reason I didn’t choose it.

  Smoked salmon with capers. Simple and difficult to screw up.

  Followed by Dover sole. Expensive for what it is, but good, and plain grilled is simple and doesn’t repeat on me or hang in the stomach, which is a big turn-off for after-dinner sex.

  Dessert? Don’t have to choose yet.

  John ordered soup. Something cream of. Then a steak. Simple. Medium to rare. That means some blood but not too much.

  We ate in silence. Just looking at each other. I lost my shoes. I always lose my shoes when I eat. I fiddle with them. My toes are long. I can pick up a cup and saucer with them. Cup full. Only tried it once. Got a bit scalded, but not badly. Anyway, I can tick box for that challenge. Alas, with shoes, they tend to end up by my partner’s feet or, worse, escape from underneath the tablecloth and end up for some inexplicable reason under someone else’s table. I usually have to apologise, embarrassed, and retrieve them at the end of the evening.

  I start a conversation as the main course is taken away.

  Sarah—‘When did you discover you liked women with full bladders?’

  John—‘When I was a boy.’

  Sarah—‘How old were you at the time?’

  John—‘About eight.’

  Sarah—‘Don’t you think that is a little perverted?’

  John—‘No. Just forward thinking. Would still like you to experience the sensation.’

  Sarah—‘Sure you would.’

  End of conversation. Then he speaks.

  John—‘So it’s all over with Paul?’

  Sarah—‘Yes. Where is Amanda?’

  John—‘At home, I think. I don’t know. She called me and asked what I was doing this weekend and I told her I was out with a friend.’

  Sarah—‘So you haven’t told her yet?’

  John—‘No. She’s not ready to hear it so I won’t tell her.’

  Sarah—‘Does she still hate me?’

  John—‘Yes. But I’ve told her it won’t do her any good or me. It’s best she doesn’t know for now.’

  Sarah—‘I agree.’

  John—‘And Paul. Does he know you have a new lover?’

  Sarah—‘Er. No.’

  I keep forgetting what I have told John and what I haven’t. Lies beget lies and I forget what I have told to whom and why and hope the people I have told some things to never meet up with those I have told other things to. Half of my friends don’t even know I am going out with someone, let alone getting married in five months to someone. It helped with the guest list. Good way of culling. I feel more like Walter Mitty every day. Living a lie. To them and myself.

  Sarah says—‘Paul is oblivious and I think it best that way. He still loves me.’

  Sarah thinks—And is getting married to me and would go nuts if he knew.

  Coffee in the lounge. I manage to find my shoes after searching for five minutes. I apologise to the elderly couple on the next table. The old man smiles; the old woman doesn’t.

  John suggests an early night. I say it’s midnight already so not that early. He says it is for him.

  We go to Byron. We make love until five a.m. and sleep for three hours. I wake up at eight. He is still sleeping. I go to the toilet and cleanse, tone and moisturise, and puff myself up with aromatherapy oils so that when he wakes up I look OK to wake up to. I return to bed.

  At eight-fifteen he wakes up. I am just dozing. He kisses me on the forehead.

  John—‘You are lovely to wake up to. So many women I wake up to and I think, Ugh, I slept with that last night. And, Why? And, How could I have? And, I wish I could get out of bed quick. They look like shit. You look wonderful in the morning, Sarah. Fresh and beautiful.’

  Trick works, then.

  8th April

  Trip to Bath. Drive for an hour. Visit vegetarian restaurant. Play with food. Lose shoes. Cuddle and kiss in public. Feel furtive and look furtive. Notice other couples not talking to one another who must be married. John buys me a pair of leather trousers. I try on lots. He stands in the changing room watching me try on lots. We go into Agent Provocateur. He wants to see me try on lots but the girl behind the counter says he will have to wait until I get home. He says he is buying them for himself, not me. She smiles and says all the men say that. And it’s not funny or clever any more. I get two pairs of almost-there knickers. One black. One blue.

  We go back to hotel. Black and blue knickers get torn off. Waste of eighty pounds. John says it was worth it. I think so too.

  Get dressed for dinner. John says he wants me for dinner. I show him dress. He takes it off me, saying it doesn’t look good and I should wear another one. Then admits he just wants to undress me to have sex with me. I tell him I know, but it’s OK. We have another bath. We stay there so long I get chapped fingertips. He finds this a turn-off and suggests we don’t do it again. We splash like children and have a mini-waterfight with sponges. Laugh loudly and dry each other very slowly, making sure all the crevices are dry as well. Start kissing. Then into the bedroom, just reach the bed, and make love again for two hours. Realise it’s nine p.m. Put dress on and ask John not to take it off me. He says he won’t. Just kneels and puts his hand up my skirt and rips off my last pair of lacy knickers for the weekend. I ask him if he is going to replace them. He says that he likes the idea of me not wearing any knickers to dinner. And asks if that is OK with me. I say fine and that I have little choice unless I wear some of his briefs. He says that won’t be a turn-on. And anyway it would give me a horrid panty line.

  He makes me come.

  Four times. On the bed. In the en suite by the bath. In front of the window. Facing out towards the coming traffic. No one crashes. And over the dressing table. Facing the mirror. From behind.

  We are very late for dinner. He rings to apologise and says we have been held up. Thankfully, they don’t ask what has held us up. They probably know. John leaves two of his ties attached to the posts of the four-poster, as though he had tied me up in some sex game. I say it’s a pity he has to pretend to tie me up and that I like the idea of being tied up by him. He says he will when we get back from dinner.

  Dinner at ten.

  John—‘Sorry we’re late. Sarah got tied up.’

  9th April

  On way back home. By train. It’s on time. I’m depressed. Last kiss was wonderful and unexpected and romantic, considering John is not romantic or unexpected or wonderful in a conventional sense.

  John—‘I’m not what people make me out to be, Sarah.’

  Sarah—‘You’re not amoral, then?’

  John—‘No. I know what I’m doing. And I want to be with you. Not Amanda.’

  Sarah—‘I know. Just kiss me.’

  He does as he’s told and then sees me onto the train. He’s recognised by some of the station staff and says hi. I sit on the train as though I never met the guy.

  Coming home. Opening the door in Chelmsford, I feel such a fraud. Why am I here? What the fuck am I doing? Why am I playing this game? It’s exciting. Christ. I’m getting married in five months. I’ve just had a wonderful weekend with a very sexy man who’s given me little sleep, who I’ve kept up (literally and metaphorically speaking) all night. Who’s fed, watered and made love to me, and who wants me sexually if not emotionally right now. And it was wonderful and exciting and unexpected. And yet I love Paul, whom I obviously don’t respect. Whom I trust. But don’t respect. So can this be love?

  Message received:

  You are wonderful, J xx

  Message sent:

  So
r u S xx

  I check my e-mails.

  One from Amanda. My friend. Not John’s ex. Confusing, this. Columnist for Telegraph. Fun, funky, London.

  How you doing darling? How is the bride to be? Nervous? Happy? Are you sure about him? Bit square. Met him at a formal bash at the Bank of England. You have a bit too much fire for him. Perhaps that is what he likes.

  I return:

  Fine. Love him, but yes he is a bit solid. I need a rock. Butterflies need rocks. But feel a bit unsure at the moment. Last-minute nerves. Plus no sex which always helps, doesn’t it?

  She returns:

  Don’t tell me about sex. I haven’t had it in weeks. Feeling very ratty. Hey ho. Shit happens. Night-night.

  Paul home at eight p.m. Tanned. Tired. Smiling. With golf bag. Can I help him with them? Yes, I can. Hugs and looking into the eyes.

  Paul—‘Did you have a nice weekend, Sarah?’

  Sarah—‘Lovely, thanks.’

  Paul—‘Did you achieve much? What was the course like?’

  Sarah—‘Good. Interesting. Unexpected. And the golf?’

  Paul—‘Fabulous. We all played well. The sixteenth was a bit difficult, and most of us came unstuck on the third, which is always a bit of a bummer with the water being so close, and then on the fifth Richard decided…’

  The conversation drifted away. I wasn’t there any more. I wasn’t with Paul. I was with John. Body may have been there. But mind was elsewhere.

  10th April

  I’ve arranged to have girlie meet with Catherine. Plus Karen, old flatmate. I miss her. I miss our girlie chats. Our fornication talks. Me talking about Pierce and the latest ‘fuck-and-suck-me-hard’ text message I’d received that week. He seemed to have so many sex kittens on the go, all of whom were called Sarah, it wasn’t surprising he got confused sometimes. But every week? I kept a list of them in the end. Sort of something for my old age, to read when my eighteen-year-old son shouts at me and says I don’t understand. And I can say I do. OK, they’re not for me…allegedly…but they can make lots of girls happy, albeit not in the way Pierce intended.

  Message received:

  1/3

  When I came round that time and saw you in those jeans and they were so tight and I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. And I had to go to the…

  2/3

  Loo to wank myself off because you make me feel so fucking horny. And I wanted to rip them off you and push you over the fridge and ruck you senseless.

  I’m sure that was meant to be fuck, but perhaps ruck is a new derivation of it.

  3/3

  And I could c yr nipples and they wre soo erect and I wanted to rp that top off u 2. God I’ve got to go now.

  Karen—‘I didn’t think people still talked like that any more. Or wrote like that any more. Is he nuts or something?’

  Sarah—‘Just think he has issues. Paul tells me he’s had relationships in the past and none have worked out, but he’s a bit of an expert on relationships coz he’s been to so many counsellors he knows all the spiel and why people behave the way they do and why he behaves the way he does. And he has about fifty books on how to improve and understand women. You know—Girls from Venus, Men Mars, Women Who Love Too Much. But Paul tells me he has those next to books on erotica and how to fuck a woman up the bum and get maximum impact. Plus he spends lots of time in Soho, checking out the bondage places. I think he’s into dildos—not just giving but receiving. Strange thing is, he’s very bright, talented, comes across as quite sensitive, albeit intense when you first meet him.’

  Karen—‘What do you mean?’

  Sarah—‘You know the sort. Stares at you in the eyes without blinking. Not so much imagining you naked but more a bent over a fridge, fucking you from behind stare.’ (Methinks of John.)

  Karen—‘Er, right. And this is common knowledge? The fact he’s a bit, well, extreme?’

  Sarah—‘Think so. But he’s also good-looking, rich. Sort of an English Psycho. I’ve read American Psycho and I could imagine Pierce having the potential to do similar. He’s not so interested in labels. More music equipment, and his CD collection is fabulous. But he also has an incredible DVD collection—everything from Once Upon a Time in America to Bambi. And he cries at Bambi. And the bit in ET when ET is dying. You know, he’s a real sensitive guy.’

  Karen—‘Sounds completely fucked up to me.’

  Sarah—‘Well, a lot of people are fucked up these days. What’s normal? What’s abnormal? I don’t know. I remember as a little girl knowing children who had divorced parents and feeling very sorry for them, but that was the odd person. Now there must be a decent percentage in every nursery and school. What the fuck’s going on? I’m not traditional or conventional by any stretch of the imagination—’ (perhaps at this point I should mention I’m sleeping with someone else…but I don’t) ‘—people don’t get married for life. You’ve got men marrying men, women marrying women. People not marrying at all. Children not knowing where the fuck they are. Emotionally, mentally or spiritually, not to mention physically sometimes. Divorce is being made easy, though I’m sure it’s actually in many ways much harder emotionally. Infidelity is OK sometimes, in some circumstances, and sometimes not in others. Everything’s OK and nothing’s OK. You get judged if you’re judgemental and judged if you’re too liberal. Women are accused of loving too much. Men not loving enough. Selfishness is in turn good and bad.’

  I listened to what I was saying. Why couldn’t I take my own advice? What was I doing? I couldn’t marry Paul. I was sleeping with someone else. How can you agree to marry someone and sleep with someone else during the engagement? OK, if you’re going out with them and there’s no commitment and there’s no sex, then, hey, that’s understandable. But Paul’s proposed, so why have I started a relationship while I’m engaged to be married? What am I playing at? Is it the fun of it? The immorality? The fact that Paul doesn’t know about it because he’s so controlling and John’s my secret and he can’t change it or do anything about it and when Paul’s shitty with me I can deal with it because I can think of John and it’s all OK? And I know that someone will hold and kiss me and make love to me. And when John’s cold and shitty I have Paul who I know is like a rock and will hold and kiss me, and will perhaps make love to me. One day in the future.

  Perhaps I should read one of Pierce’s books. They don’t seem to have helped him much. He seems to hate women, despite the fact he wants to fuck them so much. He says it’s due to his mother being such an emotional bully, and I identify with that, but I told him that not all women should be judged like his mother and not to treat them the same way. He said that he was treated as an inconvenience when he was little and he’s sure his mother used to drug him to make him sleep longer. I identify with this. I felt my parents put me in a little box and brought me out only when it suited them and then, hey presto, back in the box again. I didn’t need a counsellor or spiritual healer or tarot card reader or feng shui expert to tell me that. It’s just a pity that I went from one emotional bully to another emotional bully and I’ve got stuck in the pattern. But perhaps I’m meant to break it. Perhaps I’ll break it with Paul. Perhaps.

  Don’t need women’s magazines when you have friends you can sit round and chat to. Be sort-of honest with. No, I didn’t want to tell all about the Dark Prince. Well, I did, but I didn’t think it appropriate. Catherine and Anya knew about it. But I wanted to keep it simple. Too many people knowing wasn’t a good idea. Plus, they’d all start to give me their views. Their opinions on whether I should do it, why I was doing it, how I could have gone out with Paul for such a long time putting up with no sex, and him putting up with me. Loyalty or love?

  Karen was a fervent believer in star signs. And feng shui. And tarot cards. And spiritual healing. She said that as I was a Gemini and he was a Taurus we were incompatible. That he was a home-lover and stubborn as a—well, bull, and I was an air sign and up with the butterflies and I couldn’t be caught. Bit like trying to catch a fl
ame. You can’t. You just get your fingers burnt. She said our Chinese signs were also incompatible. I was a dragon, wood and fire. And he was a horse, fire and metal. Incompatible again. Well, almost. We got on okay. Better as friends than lovers or partners or spouses. She said that when we moved here it meant that I would have lots of children—become very fertile, but that was all it would be good for. I told her this was complete bullocks. She said I should hang crystals in windows and keep goldfish and buy lots of mobiles.

  Karen—‘Are you OK? You seem somewhere else, Sarah?’

  Sarah—‘I’m fine. Lots on my mind at the moment. Plans and all that.’

  Karen—pause, staring at me, looking through me—‘You sure you’re doing the right thing?’

  Sarah—longer pause, staring down—‘Yes, Karen. Think so. Sure as can ever be.’

  Karen—‘Mmm. Still think he’s not the one for you. He’s a bit too conventional. You’re not conventional, Sarah. Not saying you’re a boho chick or a complete free spirit and up with the fairies, but he’s quite, well, square, and he might make you go more one way and you’ll make him get more set in his ways. That’s all I’m saying. I saw it with my parents. You know mine are divorced? I was three when they divorced, and they said it was a good age for me and that I would get over it. They said it would be better that they’d divorced at that age than when I was older. I say they shouldn’t have got married in the first place or should have stuck it out and worked at it. It did affect me. Don’t care what the counsellors and books say.

  ‘I went all through this, Sarah. It’s bloody horrible and scary and weird and I didn’t really understand what was happening. Everyone was listening to me. You know, that active listening to everything you say bit, and it’s disconcerting when no one’s ever done that before. You sort of get used to it in the end, and start to speak as though you’re full of the Holy Spirit and know everything there is to know about relationships and try to act how you’re supposed to react in situations like this. I got the full works when I was eight and started to rebel, and they thought it was because of this, but it wasn’t. It was just my age.’