‘Brure un effr re,’ says the psychopath, walking towards me. He sounds like Shane McGowan after root-canal treatment.
I do what I always do when mentally unconventional people approach me on train platforms. I take my mobile phone out of my toiletry-rammed bag and call Julia. We instantly fall into the standard mode of girls talking about boys.
‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,’ she starts.
‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,’ I respond.
‘Did you kiss?’
‘Two soft on-the-mouth jobs, no snogging or fondling though.’
‘Sare! Why not?’
‘I’m a lady!’ I say with mock-Jane Austen decorum.
‘Did you make a prat of yourself at all?’
‘Bitchface, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well, you were nervous and generally when you’re nervous you embarrass yourself.’
‘Remind me why I’m your friend, Jules. No, I was perfectly behaved! I might have scalded my mouth on a roast potato and had to spit it out, and I might have put the paper napkin down on the tealight candle, but if I had done those things I certainly wouldn’t tell you about them!’
‘Tell me more!’ she laughs.
‘Jules, he’s amazing.’ I sigh. ‘Oh, hang on, my phone’s beeping, it might be him. I’ll call you back.’
‘Dumped for a bloke already,’ she scolds.
I feel momentarily sorry for Julia but quickly forget about it when I see that it’s a text from Paul. Are you safely on the train? x. I quickly reply, Nope, it’s delayed. I’m still on the platform with the friendly Mortlake psychopath x.
I cross my legs tightly and try to think of deserts and droughts and hangover tongues and any other dry things that come to mind. I dial Julia’s number.
‘So was it him?’ she says in a strop.
‘Yes,’ I squeak with a smile.
‘So tell me all. How did you leave it? Are you seeing him again?’
‘He’s coming to the marathon next Sunday,’ I gush.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’
‘I know!’
‘Where the fuck are you?’ exclaims Julia. ‘What’s all that banging?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, looking up at the station bridge, which I’m sitting under. Someone is running across it and their footsteps are shaking the bridge and echoing loudly around the semi-deserted platform.
‘Oh, I’m at the station and someone is runni—’ I start, but stop when I see Paul’s panting face and sprinting body emerge from the bridge and run down the stairs two at a time.
‘Hello,’ I say, rising to greet him. ‘Did I forget something?’
‘Um, no,’ he says, catching his breath and looking flushed. ‘I, um, forgot to give you this.’ And he walks towards me and puts his hands slowly around my waist and pulls me to him. I melt into his warm body and our lips meet and I feel the tip of his tongue on mine.
‘Mwhre ghew he,’ shouts the psychopath very loudly.
‘SARAH, are you OK?’ screams Julia down the phone.
‘Excuse me, mate, I’d like to kiss this young lady,’ says Paul to the psychopath.
‘Julia, I’ll call you back,’ I whisper into the phone.
Paul and I look at each other and giggle and then we kiss, come up for air, look at each other, giggle and kiss again.
eighteen
Comments
Anonymous
Hello, hello, anyone there?
Loveless American
I read Confessions of a Convent Girl. She updates her blog every day!
Rhodri
Spare a thought for us office workers. We NEED to read your mindless twaddle.
Poopy Doo
Yes, spinster lady, where are you?
No. 1 Fan
Get a life, do some work and leave the poor girl alone.
Spinster
Thank you, No. 1 Fan. My reason for not writing anything today is that I’ve done nothing. I got up late, finished my mum’s marathon banner and am now contemplating de-fuzzing my bikini line and tidying my room.
Miko
Tell us about that . . .
Spinster
Er, no.
No. 1 Fan
I am a fellow north Londoner. Male, 30. I am your No. 1 Fan and I would love to take you out. What do you think?
Loveless American
Spinster, don’t do it! He might be crazy.
Spinster
You’re all crazy.
The Crazy Canadian
Stick with P who cooks you lamb. He sounds divine. And do your bikini line and tidy your room in case you get some action after the marathon!
Spinster
Thank you, Crazy Canadian. He is indeed divine. Utterly and completely divine and so was the lamb.
Thank you, No. 1 Fan, but I will decline for now as I am currently exploring P’s divinity and as a good convent girl I wouldn’t want to be adulterous at this point.
No. 1 Fan
As you haven’t yet slept with him it wouldn’t be adultery.
Spinster
OK, don’t rub it in.
I’m taking advice from someone who calls themself the Crazy Canadian. I’ve spent my life being wary of people who refer to themselves as crazy, zany or mad. Their idea of being crazy generally involves wearing large tourist hats with bells on and talking loudly about themselves. But because she or he suggested that I might have some X-rated action after the marathon I am now lying in the bath contemplating hair removal techniques. I look down at my restricted-access zone. No one has tried to gain entry for a long, long time. One of the few benefits of having no sex life is that you can stop buying depilatory products and cultivate a minge mullet, a chaotic cross between a Rod Stewart and a Jonathan Ross. Fine on middle-aged men’s heads, not ideal on my lady’s place. I must sort it out. But how? All I have is a rusting razor, some terrifying wax which should have a skull and crossbones on it, and a bit of Immac which I suspect has been there a long time as I don’t think it’s even called Immac any more. The rusting razor looks a bit septic. Simon’s, on the other hand, has a gleaming blade that is winking at me. Tempting, but stubble rash is not. No to the razor. What about sadistic waxing? I’m not sure whether I can take more pain. I’ve already plucked my eyebrows today. Anyway, Simon and Ruth are in the front room doing a yoga video and I don’t really want to disturb them in order to microwave wax for my fanny. No to the waxing as well. I inspect my hectares of pubic hair. I inspect the small amount of Immac I have in a tube. I think a tree surgeon would be better suited for the job.
I finish my bath. I slaver depilatory cream over my fanny forest and manoeuvre myself into the doggy position. It’s a bit sore on the knees but ‘Suffer for beauty’ I always say. I don’t have a clock to time it. Bugger! I put my dressing gown around me and carefully hold it away from body so it doesn’t touch the cream. I check the coast’s clear. Good. I waddle to my room and grab my phone. Ruth appears all sweaty from the living room.
‘Are you OK, Sarah? Tummy ache?’ she asks sympathetically, looking at the odd shape I’m in.
‘No, no, no no, I’m fine.’
‘I’m just going to pop to the loo if that’s OK?’
‘Yep, fine,’ I say, shuffling back to my room.
I might just quickly text Paul while I’m here. Paul and I are in the midst of some stealthy guerrilla texting. It is very exciting. He sent me a text before I got into the bath which said, Just been to IKEA – thinking of you made the ordeal less painful xx. He sent it thirty-five minutes ago but I haven’t been able to think of a witty retort about Swedish flat-packed furniture. So I’ve left the longest gap we’ve ever had between texts. I hope he’s not worried but I also think it’s good to be creating a persona of someone who’s not waiting on his every text. I could send Just removing the hair from my fanny, thinking about you is making the ordeal a lot less painful. But my instincts say that I should hold back from that. I’ll send Just had a bath – thinking about you made it very pleasurable indee
d x. Just the one kiss though, mustn’t look too keen. Paul and I have had two very long late-night telephone conversations this week. We discussed everything, what we were wearing, what our favourite Bob Dylan lyrics were, but best of all we discussed birthdays. He’s an Aries. When I looked up Aries and Leo in Linda Goodman’s Sunsigns book and on jonathancainer.com, it said that Aries and Leo is the most compatible match in the whole zodiac. It states that Leo and Aries are ‘almost guaranteed harmony and happiness’. And so far it’s true. It’s heaven. I have found a man who talks almost as much crap as I do. This on its own would be marvellous. But Paul is also beautiful to look at in a manly, stubbly, sexy way. It’s as though I’ve won the Lottery, found the Holy Grail, the gold rings, the goblet of fire. Everything. Short of being in a film with Kiefer Sutherland, I don’t actually think I could feel any more euphoric.
Bloody hell, Ruth’s taking ages in the bathroom. My cream’s been on five minutes too long already.
There’s a knock on the front door.
‘Sare, will you get that? I’m just in the middle of sun salutation,’ pants Simon from the living room.
‘No one cares about my pubic region,’ I mutter, opening the door an inch and peering out. It’s the bloke who lives in Flat 3.
‘Just going round the flats. Now do you have any damp?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Any damp floors or ceilings?’
‘Oh, right, yes, a bit actually, in the lounge above the telly.’
‘Can I have a quick gander? It’s just to let the management company know the extent of the problem.’
‘Um, OK.’
I waddle him through to the lounge, holding the dressing gown away from my lady’s place. I’m sure all this movement’s smothered the cream everywhere. Now I’ll look prepubescent. Bloody Ruth’s still in the loo. As we enter the lounge, Si shouts hello upside-down from between his legs.
‘You OK, Sare, what you got under there?’
‘Nothing.’ It comes out quite high-pitched.
‘Yes, are you in pain?’ asks the man from number 3. He sounds concerned.
‘You’re putting hair-removal cream on your fanny for your big date,’ laughs Simon.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I nod to the man from Flat 3. Then I whisper to Simon, ‘I was actually trying to quietly cream my bikini area, but I can’t take it off because your girlfriend’s having a crap in the loo.’
‘Right, so that’s the damp, is it?’ the man says, pointing at our damp patch.
‘It’s not her fault yoga and massage stimulates the bowels,’ pants Simon defensively. ‘She doesn’t know you’re creaming your fanny.’
The man from number 3 looks embarrassed and whispers, ‘I’d better be off then. Don’t worry, Sarah, I’ll show myself out. You do your, er, thing.’
I wait a further twelve minutes for Ruth to leave the bathroom. I hold my breath and go in. Blimey, for a pretty girl with a healthy diet she can really create a war zone in twenty minutes. I take the cream off. I am left with two tufts. My pubic region now looks as though two little money spiders have died upside-down on it. Bloody Crazy Canadian. Oh, but I’ve got a new text. It’s from Paul. The thought of you in the bath makes EVERYTHING pleasurable xxx. Wow. We’re on to three kisses and sexy texting. Thank you, God.
nineteen
I panicked this morning. I suddenly realized that inviting a man to meet your entire family on the third date was probably certifiable. What a waste of panicking! It has been extremely and completely wonderful. Everyone loves him. Except my mother. She hasn’t met him yet, on account of the fact that she has been running for five hours. We are all assembled on Pall Mall to cheer Mum on for the final stretch. I can’t wait to see her. We’re going to put out the banner and hum the music from Chariots of Fire.
I am unable to stop grinning. It’s like someone has inserted a CD into my mouth. And every time Paul says or does something wonderful, which is permanently, my stomach feels like it’s on the fast bit of a Zanussi spin cycle. Why did I waste so much time not wanting a man? Why did I keep harping on about how crap relationships were? I didn’t just dwell on negatives, I built a bloody great castle on them.
Talk about everything going according to plan. It’s making me think that I should make plans more often. Fifty Ways to Get a Part in the New Season of 24. Fifty Ways to Firm My Bottom. Although I must remember when making future plans not to completely remove my pubic hair and then wear tight jeans on a hot day. The only way to ease the itching is by making little pelvic movements. I hope he doesn’t think I have crabs.
Paul’s phone is vibrating in his pocket. If I turned round that would give my pubic area a nice little scratch. Best not. His phone has been vibrating for most of the day.
‘Blimey. You’re popular.’
‘I wish.’ He turns it off in his pocket without even looking at it. ‘Work.’
‘Get it. I don’t mind.’
‘No. I’m here with you. And your family.’
A ridiculous, delirious hiccuping sound escapes from me before I can stop it.
‘I’m going to go and find a loo or a bush in a child-free area to pee in before your mum comes through,’ he says, kissing me lightly on the cheek. I want to turn my body in to his and snog his face off. It’s sunny and I’ve been drinking champagne in the daytime. Those facts alone make me randy. The fact that Paul’s warm body has been at my side and his hand has been in the small of my back all day is making that randiness unbearable. He’s wearing a T-shirt and I’m wearing a vest top so there’s been lots of skin touching skin. Talk about tingle-tastic. I smile to myself as I watch him walk away. Then as soon as he is out of sight I race to my dad, who’s sitting on a box of empty champagne bottles.
‘Dad, have you got a pen?’ I say hurriedly.
‘I think I’ve got a golf scorecard pencil in my pocket. Here you go,’ he says, handing me the pencil but not taking his eyes off the runners. I rummage in my pockets for some paper. All I have is an old credit-card receipt. It’ll have to do.
‘George,’ I shout to my eight-year-old nephew, ‘come here a sec.’
George shuffles over to me in his little Arsenal trainers. I manoeuvre him so that his back is towards me and he is bending over slightly. I place the receipt on his clammy Arsenal-T-shirt-clad shoulder and start to make a list in tiny writing.
1)
‘I love your family.’ Those were his exact words
2)
‘Sarah has got a fantastic bottom.’ Said to George, when George started slapping me on the bottom yelling, ‘Big bum big bum’
3)
‘You have a terrific daughter.’ Said as he shook hands with my father for the first time
4)
‘George, Sarah and I will take you to see Arsenal play one Saturday.’ Said after George had shown him all the Arsenal paraphernalia he carries in his Arsenal knapsack
I have to write down all the lovely things that Paul has said to me today because I don’t want to forget anything when I write my blog later.
‘Do you think he’ll really take us to see Arsenal play?’ asks George.
‘Yes, if he says he will,’ I reply with pride.
‘Really?’ squeaks George excitedly, turning round.
‘George! Keep still, I’m trying to write!’
‘What are you writing?’ he whines.
‘Nothing.’
‘It tickles,’ he says, wiggling. My hand slips and I create a big line through my minuscule writing.
‘Sweetheart, please be still, I’m nearly finished.’
‘Her bottom’s even bigger than yours,’ shouts George, pointing at the lardy monument of Queen Victoria on Pall Mall, which we are facing. His sister Rosie, my six-year-old niece, giggles and then they both start singing, ‘Sarah and Paul, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G.’
‘Control your children!’ I shout to my sister, Gail. Gail looks a lot like me but with more breast and less height. She turns to me and shrugs.
‘They’re restless. What can I do?’
‘When will Granny finish? I’m hungry,’ whines George.
‘Soon, sweetheart. Very soon,’ I tell him.
In fact, she could be here any moment. Simon came through the line over an hour ago. He’s been laid out on a grass verge with Ruth giving him a back rub ever since. I put the receipt back in my wallet and pull the home-made banner out of my bag.
‘How are you doing, athlete?’ I ask, shouting over to Simon. He releases his head from his hands.
‘Fucked.’
‘Don’t repeat that, George,’ I say. George chuckles.
‘She’ll be here soon. Give us the other end of that banner,’ Simon says, getting up and walking over to me. He grimaces as he moves his limbs.
‘OK. Just till Paul gets back.’ We drape the banner over the railing and crane our necks so that we can see down the course. I start der der der de der-ing quietly.
‘There she is, there she is,’ gasps my dad, standing up. His bifocals must be incredible. He’s pointing towards a blob in the distance.
‘It’s her!’ shrieks my sister.
We all watch her for a moment. But no one says anything. In fact I don’t think anyone even breathes. I didn’t expect her to be sprinting still. But I definitely didn’t expect her to look like this. Mum is moving incredibly slowly. She’s hobbling and swaying. It’s the sort of gait you normally see on people hanging around Camden tube with a can of Special Brew.
‘Is Granny all right?’ asks George innocently.
I look at my dad because that’s what you do. You look at your dad because he’s supposed to know everything. But there’s a tear in the corner of his eye. My dad doesn’t cry. Maybe it’s rain. Or perhaps I spat on him a little bit when I spoke.
I turn back to look at Mum in time to see Simon giving his end of the banner to George. Then he suddenly hops over the railing.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 10
