fifteen
‘Ladies, I would like to propose a toast, as it is a year to the day since I had any action.’ I raise my glass of rosé.
‘A whole year!’ sighs Nikki. ‘No wonder you made some up!’
Nikki wouldn’t know anything about this. Nikki is beautiful and lovely and men have always swarmed to her like wasps around a pint of Stella in a summer beer garden. I met Nikki when I was four, at playgroup. Even then she was the girl that all the boys wanted to do the hokey-cokey with. The first time I played with her she was dressed as a bride because one of the four-year-old boys had asked her to marry him. I was dressed as a parrot because nobody had asked me to marry them. She looked like an angel. But while I was painting my plumage I accidentally got yellow acrylic on her pretty white dress. I was so upset I started to cry and she broke off her wedding to comfort me.
Now, in six weeks’ time, she’s marrying a grown-up man called Bertrand. She met Bertrand years ago in a Brazilian restaurant. Simon had returned from Brazil to see everyone and decided that we should all go out for a Brazilian meal. He made us eat a weird stew made with meat and bananas and showed off by speaking Portuguese to the waiters. He was a bit upset that all the women were far more interested in the handsome Brazilian men on the table next to ours. One of whom was Bertrand. He gave Nikki his phone number and that was that. She moved in with him three weeks later.
‘You’ll be getting some tomorrow, Sarah Wet Knickers,’ says Julia, clinking my glass. I choose to ignore the wet-knickers comment, having risen to the previous six.
‘I won’t be bloody well bonking him,’ I tell the girls, blushing. ‘It’s a Sunday lunch.’
‘Of course you will. You’ll get there, he’ll give you champagne, take you on to his roof terrace and then he’ll say, “Do you want me to suck your nipples?”’ squeals Julia.
‘Julia, you cow, you said you’d stop taking the piss,’ I hiss at her.
Nikki starts laughing too. God, enough is enough, can you stop making me the butt of everyone’s jokes now, please?
This is the first time I’ve been in my local since the blow-out. I suggested meeting at the Wetherspoon over the road, but Julia and Nikki insisted that it was time to lift the Baldy blow-out boycott and return to our usual haunt. I’ve really gone off this pub though. When did everyone get so young? I want to tell all the young boys to pull their skinny jeans up. I feel like an incontinent old woman on the set of Bugsy Malone. And I don’t know what I ever saw in Baldy. My sister has always been stunned by the ugly men I’ve gone out with. She says I subconsciously go for the ugly-and-grateful variety. I think Baldy was a case in point. I’ve been watching him behind the bar. He is bending up and down taking pint glasses out of the dishwasher. He looks like a fat child apple-bobbing. Despite this I am still following the guidelines laid out for women facing men who have rejected them:
1)
I am pretending not to have noticed him
2)
I am talking and laughing a lot and trying to cultivate an aura of intelligent and amusing brilliance
3)
I have put on a lot of make-up and am wearing something that someone once said made me look slim
‘You have to sleep with him, that’s what he’ll be expecting.’
‘No it isn’t,’ I say indignantly. ‘He asked me out before he read the sex blog, remember. I just didn’t open the letter.’
‘Yeah, but now he’s read it it’s different.’
‘Why?’ I say, concerned.
‘It just is,’ says Julia seriously.
‘Help me here, Nikki, what do you think?’
‘Let me get this straight. He knows you haven’t had sex in a year, he’s read an in-depth account of how you want to sit on his face, and—’
‘Stop it!’ I scream, putting my hands over my ears. As I do Bertrand appears. Bertrand is half French, half Brazilian. Which means he is:
1)
gorgeous. He is dark-skinned with a shaved head and dazzling white teeth
2)
good in bed. There is a myth that the French are marvellous in bed. From what I can gather Bertrand takes that myth in his well-defined arms and teases and caresses it all night until it screams
3)
an unimaginably bad driver
He starts to nuzzle Nikki’s neck before taking her face in his hands and kissing her with his tongue. He looks up when he’s finished.
‘Ah, Saaaraah,’ he says in his delicious accent. He smiles at me and blows me a kiss. ‘Saaaraaah, you are spruced up. Where you off to?’
‘Nowhere,’ I mumble, embarrassed. ‘Just fancied wearing a dress and heels. You know.’
‘Very sexee,’ he smiles at me. ‘But why you aren’t wearing ze dress where you untie one leettle bow and you’re naked?’
Everyone erupts. I decide to find new friends.
‘You’re as funny as a fungal foot infection, Bertrand,’ I tell him.
‘Do you know what I want?’ pipes up Julia, changing the subject. ‘I want a conscious shag.’
‘What’s a conscious shag?’ chirps Nikki. She and Bertrand lean towards Julia, clearly hoping to increase their sexual repertoire.
‘As opposed to an unconscious shag, which my shags generally are because they always happen at about four a.m. after a litre of vodka,’ she explains.
‘Oh,’ say Nikki and Bertrand in disappointed unison.
I don’t comment because Baldy is hovering near by. He’s been outside emptying ashtrays so he is holding a bucket full of fag butts.
‘Oh, hi, Sarah,’ Baldy says, doing some very bad oh-I’ve-only-just-noticed-you acting.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, doing the same.
‘How, um, are you?’ he asks nervously, kicking the table leg with his toe.
‘I’m, um, fine, thanks.’ I am quite enjoying the fact that he is nervous. He probably wants to get my custom back as his takings would have plummeted after my humiliation and subsequent desertion from his pub.
‘I, um, haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘No, I’ve been really busy.’
‘Great.’ He nods, which makes his chins wobble. He stands there smiling at me. I’d like him to leave as the stale-cigarette smell is foul and I want to continue my conversation about Paul’s motives. I am just turning back to Nikki and Julia when he coughs and says, ‘We should go for that drink sometime.’
I wonder whether I should point out that when I made that very same proposition he told me he would rather watch a children’s movie about a backless wardrobe. He sounds eager. He looks nervous. I remember how I felt as I plucked up the courage to ask him out. I remember how awful it felt to be rejected. If I was a strong woman in an American serialized drama I would squish my face up like a pug dog in pain and say the word ‘soz’ in a fantastically patronizing manner. But being me and crap and from a convent I just mumble, ‘Oh, er, yeah, we should.’
sixteen
Mortlake is the antithesis of Camden:
1)
It is eerily quiet
2)
Nobody has offered me skunk weed. I get offered skunk approximately eleven times a day in Camden
3)
There is utterly no spit on the street. I have looked hard and nope, no pavement flob at all
This must be a very affluent area, where people go to breed. Mortlake. It isn’t a very nice name for a place though. It sounds like somewhere kittens in brick-filled bin bags are callously thrown or, worse, a huge shopping centre. Getting here involved a tube and a proper train and spending all the money I had on me. It’s miles away. I should probably have had some jabs and changed some currency. I’m sure it isn’t actually in London. It just clings to it like chewing gum to a trainer.
I have found his house. It really is a house. There is only one buzzer. Now people always say, ‘Come to my house,’ but what they mean is, ‘Come to the tiny flat I pay an astronomical amount of money to share with six people and we shall eat in my room wi
th our plates on our laps.’ I can’t remember the last time I went to a house in London that belonged to someone under fifty. There is a majestic silver birch in his front garden. Golly, they have trees here as well.
I mount the stone stairs slowly to his red door. I look down to check that my nipples aren’t erect. They are. Bugger. The chilly three-minute walk from the station has made them pop out. Please, God, make my nipples go soft. I cannot enter Paul’s house with erect nipples. I wish I wasn’t so nervous. What if everyone is right about Paul? Paul has read my blog and now knows everything about me including how I imagined having sex with him. What if I get there and he offers me champagne, and says my mum’s amazing and toasts ‘To us’ and thinks I’ll straddle him?
One of my nipples capitulates, the other is intent on being conspicuous. When did nipples come to be the bane of my life? I can’t stand out here for ever. I tap the bronze knocker. I hear him thunder down some stairs, jump the last few and suddenly there he is, all curly hair and cheeky grin and that voice saying, ‘Hey hey, hello, gorgeous.’
We have a what-shall-we-do?-Kiss?-Hug? moment. Then he grabs me and wraps his arms around me and that hand is in the small of my back again, leading me up some stairs to a warm kitchen. There are red tiles above the work surfaces, a huge Sunday-paper-littered wooden table and a big steamed-up sash window.
‘Champagne?’ he says, opening a massive fridge full of wine and beer and blueberries and tasty things. I freeze.
‘Um, yes, thanks, lovely,’ I say hesitantly.
‘Are you sure? We could have a gin and tonic if you prefer?’
‘No, champagne’s great. Thank you,’ I say stiffly.
‘Would you prefer something non-alcoholic? I don’t want to force you into drinking in the day if you don’t normally.’
‘God, no!’ I scoff. ‘Drinking in the day is one of my favourite pastimes.’ I smile, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I inspect his fridge. I love other people’s fridges. When I go to my mum and dad’s house I spend a long time getting to know the contents of their fridge and planning my snacks. There’s nothing worse than being just about to leave and discovering some phenomenal cheeses and hams that you could have been munching on for days. His fridge is heaven; everything in it is organic and from Marks & Spencer or Waitrose. He even has my favourite M&S Belgian chocolate milk. I hold it up for him and groan. Then I realize that inspecting someone’s fridge probably isn’t recommended in etiquette books.
‘Sorry. I always look in people’s fridges. I think it’s primarily because I love food. Was that rude?’
‘No, not at all, let’s have a quick swig of that chocolate milk before the champagne, shall we? I’m addicted to the stuff.’ We swill it from the container. When we have finished he wipes my milky mouth for me with his garlicky fingers. My body goes rigid as he touches me.
‘Um, you’ve got some out-of-date yogurt in there,’ I say, moving away from him slightly. He doesn’t say anything and my ludicrous words about out-of-date yogurt hang in the air like a morning-after kebab fart.
‘Oh, right,’ he says haltingly. ‘Best chuck it.’
We listen to the clunk it makes as it lands in the bin. The kitchen is as silent as an exam room. I pretend to be looking out of the window.
‘So your mum’s running the marathon? She sounds amazing.’
‘Hmm,’ I say sadly, not looking at him. Everyone was right. He’s learnt the script. It’s all about sex now, not getting to know each other and taking our time before we want to make love.
‘Sarah, are you all right?’ he asks me softly.
‘I’m fine, thanks, you?’
‘You seem a little on edge.’
‘No, no, no, I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure? I didn’t freak you out by offering you champagne?’
‘No, no, no,’ I say effusively. He looks at me. ‘I mean, yes, a little, sorry.’
‘I don’t want you to think I was er, um, you know, after the, er. I don’t want you to think that because of the, er, what you wrote, that that’s what you think I want to happen. I, er, was given the champagne after the job yesterday and thought it would be nice. I, er, God, you know, I wouldn’t, I just thought champagne might be a nice treat. Sorry, please don’t think I want to, you know, like that . . .’
‘Wow, I thought I was the best witterer in the world,’ I say, touched by his incoherent rambling.
‘Do you know what I’m trying to say?’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry I was weird then. I’m a freak.’
‘I like freaks actually . . . and midgets, weirdly.’
I laugh. He laughs. He holds up his glass. I join mine to it.
‘To . . . us,’ he says with a cheeky grin.
‘You bugger!’ I squeal.
‘Let me finish,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘To us not having sex.’
I choke on the champagne I was trying to sip like a lady.
‘Let me finish,’ he says playfully again.
‘To us not having sex today, to us getting to know each other and having a nice lunch.’
‘Indeed,’ I say clinking glasses. He turns away from me and crouches down to open the oven. He is really, really handsome. I have never had a handsome boyfriend. If only my sister could see me now. I could look at him for ever. Although right now I am quite distracted by the tray of amazing roast potatoes which he is pulling from the oven.
‘Oh my God, they look unbelievable,’ I whoop, bending down beside him.
‘It’s all in the goose fat,’ he tells me.
‘Hark at you, Nigella!’ I giggle.
He looks at me as we are crouched down next to the heat of the oven and says, ‘I love it when girls enjoy food. I hate being with women who only ever eat salad. I could cook for you again next week. There’s pork in the freezer.’
‘Hmmm, delicious. I love pork. Oh bugger, though, I can’t, my mum’s running the marathon.’
He looks disappointed, but smiles and shrugs and says, ‘Not to worry. Another time.’
‘You should come. If you could bear to meet my mad family. Is that a stupid idea? Sorry. Don’t feel you have to.’
‘I would love to. I’ve been meaning to take up running. It’ll be inspiration.’
‘Great! Although steady with the running idea. Everyone close to me takes up running. I’m like a running catalyst.’
We smile at each other. Then we each carefully pick a small crispy potato from the baking tray.
‘Um, I just want to say I didn’t mean that thing about the midgets. Just want to make that clear. Nothing against them, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ I laugh. We look into each other’s eyes. Then I remember that he likes to see a woman eat so I make a cavewoman growl and sexily put the whole potato in my mouth. I bite into its oily centre. I realize quickly that a glowing piece of charcoal would have been cooler than this potato.
‘Ah, ah, ah,’ I pant with my full mouth open. My eyes start watering and molten fat drips down my chin. He looks at me with his eyebrows raised and a bemused smile. Then he gets a piece of kitchen roll and holds it to my mouth so that I can spit out the villainous potato, which has scorched all my tastebuds for life. I would never before have thought a man holding kitchen roll under my chin so that I can spit out partly masticated food could or should be sexy. But it is. It really is. After I have finished spitting I look at him sheepishly. But he’s laughing. He’s laughing very loudly. I start to fear the effect it might have on tectonic plates across the globe. And I start laughing too, which is good as it lets lots of air into my hot mouth. Then I notice that he’s stopped laughing and is leaning very close to me. And luckily I manage to close my mouth in time to receive the soft kiss he plants gently on my lips.
seventeen
I am sitting on Mortlake Station platform waiting for the 21.17 to Waterloo. It is 21.32. I am alone. Paul had wanted to walk me to the station. It was ridiculous really because the station is so close
you could spit on it. Not that you would, of course. One doesn’t spit in Mortlake. But his mum phoned while he was locating his shoes and I insisted that he talk to her instead. I should be grumpy because:
1)
I am freezing. My nipples are rigor-mortis rigid
2)
I don’t have a ticket. I remembered lip gloss, mints, foundation, blusher, radiance cream, a razor and toothbrush but forgot my cash card and front-door key
3)
I look like I am six months pregnant, owing to extreme carbohydrate consumption and really needing a wee. Are twelve roast potatoes excessive? He did say he liked to see a woman eat. They were delicious, fluffy in the middle with hard, greasy edges. God, just thinking about them makes me drool
4)
The man on the next bench keeps smiling at me and he could be a psychopath. He’s wearing rolled-up tracksuit trousers and a long leather coat and is perfect casting for men with psychotic tendencies in BBC dramas
Normally these facts would make me grumpy. I would be sitting on my hands, my face set in an expression of woe, wishing I had a friendly chauffeur in his sixties called Alf. Alf would take me from elegant soirée to film pre-mière and home again, regaling me with tales of all the dames he drove before and giving me nips of whisky from an engraved hip flask. But tonight I’m not thinking about Alf. I’m not worried about the penalty fine for fare evasion. I’m not even worried that I might wet myself in front of a serial killer. I’m mouthing the words to ‘Could It Be I’m Falling In Love’. Well, actually I’m just repeating the chorus again and again. I don’t know the rest.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 9
