‘What the bugger are you doing?’ I shout at him like his annoying wife.
‘I’m going to give your mum a hand. That’s the blister shuffle she’s doing there and it’s not nice. Won’t be a sec.’
We watch him as he jogs off against the flow of exhausted finishers. When he reaches Mum he puts an arm round her waist and starts to carry her along. She looks as though she might cry with relief to have the weight taken from her feet. We all cheer. They get level to us and my mum looks up at Simon and says, ‘My hero.’ We all cheer again. I feel a familiar hand in the small of my back. I turn and smile at Paul.
‘That’s my mum,’ I say and I’ve never felt so proud.
twenty
The only one who isn’t drunk at the moment is my mum. But she wasn’t drinking all day. She ran twenty-six miles. Had three stops in medical tents. Two for blisters on her feet, which now look like bloody stumps, and one to dress the painful cuts between her legs where her thighs rubbed together for hours.
Si said, ‘Val! People offer Vaseline all along the route for you to put between your legs to stop the chafing.’
‘Oh! I thought that was for my lips! I thought it was very nice of them,’ she squealed. Then she went very red.
Now she sits on her very uncomfortable gastro-pub seat with one hand clenched in Dad’s and the other attached to whichever family member at the time is telling her that they love her.
I think that today has been the best day of my life so far. But there’s a niggle. There is a question in my head that I want answered. Is Paul my boyfriend? When you’re twenty-nine nothing’s simple. When I was twelve, after my collarbone had healed and when Dave Barnes had stopped going out with Michelle, he got his friend James to ask me out. I had always liked Dave Barnes so I casually said, ‘Yeah all right’ and we went out together. There was something very simple about it. I knew instantly that we were girlfriend and boyfriend. Now, I suspect that Paul is my boyfriend. I feel that we are in the beginning throes of an amazing relationship. Yet I’m feigning a cavalier attitude about the whole thing. I admit I’m not feigning a cavalier attitude very well, what with beaming at him like the sun under a solarium all day. However I have been careful not to scare him by mentioning the names I’m thinking of for our four children or telling him that I think he’s the funniest, most beautiful man I’ve ever met, or just grabbing him and licking him all over. So, for me, I’m being cool. But there’s a large amount of alcohol in my system and I am fast losing the talent for cool.
‘Your mum’s lovely,’ Paul whispers, leaning in to me and touching my knee.
‘She is, isn’t she?’ I smile back at him.
‘I’ve had a great day,’ he tells me seriously.
‘Me too. I think it’s been the best day of my life.’ See, that wasn’t cool at all. And I wish I could stop this grin. I must look disturbed.
‘Shall we go for a walk along the river after this to work off some of this food?’ he says.
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Sarah and Paul, sitting in a tree, K I S I N G,’ George chortles. I thought we had succeeded in distracting George by giving him my phone to play games on. Obviously not.
Paul turns towards George, who is sitting next to him, and ruffles his hair. ‘Come on, mate, “kissing” has two Ss.’
George giggles, then looks at my phone which he is holding and shouts, ‘Baldy calling. Baldy calling.’
I blush. I hadn’t really expected Baldy from the pub to call me. I feel guilty that another man is calling to ask me out when I am here with Paul.
‘Just, um, leave it, George, I don’t want to talk to him at the moment,’ I mumble.
‘Who’s Baldy?’ asks Paul, concerned.
‘Oh, just some bloke I know,’ I mutter into my lap. Then I look up and Paul’s face is all angst and woe.
‘Are you seeing him?’ he asks.
‘God, no!’ I laugh. ‘He wants to take me out for a drink but I’m going to say no.’ But then I stop being casual and suddenly gush, ‘I’d much rather go for a drink or to a football match – or in fact anywhere – with you.’ Uncool slip number two. I bite my lip as I wait for his response. But Paul looks relaxed.
‘I’m really looking forward to our walk,’ he whispers. My grin expands. My face starts to ache. The very nice Australian waitress serves us cappuccino and brandy. I thank her profusely, sympathetic with the profession. Paul starts tugging at my arm frantically.
‘You see that blonde lady by the door?’
I look up and spot a very attractive older-looking blonde woman, wearing a turquoise dress.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘She’s just shown me her, um . . .’
‘Her um what?’ I say, wishing there was more chocolate on my froth.
‘Her, noo noo.’
‘Noo noo! No one says noo noo,’ I holler, spitting milky froth all over his shirt and wiping it off with my fingers.
He brings his cappuccino to his mouth and blows his froth over my chest. I squeal. He delicately wipes most of it with his fingers but shyly leaves a blob on my right nipple. I laugh and wipe it off myself.
‘I love your laugh. It’s filthy!’ he chuckles, shaking his head.
Ruth leans across me and says excitedly, ‘Are you talking about that woman in the blue dress? She’s just flashed her bits at Simon too. No knickers! No knickers! There are children present.’
‘Bloody cheek, flashing her lady’s place at our men,’ I say. Uncool slip number three. They’re coming thick and fast now. Bugger. I shouldn’t have said ‘our men’. Obviously it’s fine in relation to Simon and Ruth. But I’m not sure whether it’s appropriate for Paul and me. I look at Paul to see if he looks terrified. But he doesn’t. He actually looks thrilled. He smiles and winks at me. Then takes my hand in his.
‘Shall we say something to her?’ asks Ruth keenly.
‘Oh, sod it. Leave her to it,’ I say. Paul is mine and we are holding hands. The woman in the turquoise dress can flash her cunt at a Catholic Church convention for all I care.
I watch my dad kiss my mum’s fingers and then release her hand to stand up. He looks red in the face and full of familial love. Oh God, he’s going to make a speech.
‘Now then, I feel I have to take this opportunity to toast the most wonderful and beautiful woman in the room.’
We all cheer and whoop and yell, ‘Mum’ very loudly.
‘Actually, I was referring to that rather pretty blonde lady in the turquoise dress sitting by the door,’ he says. We all chant, ‘Da-ad.’
Paul whispers in my ear, ‘You don’t think she flashed at your dad as well, do you?’
‘Eugh. Hope not.’
My dad raises his whisky glass. ‘I would just like to propose a toast to Val and Simon, the athletes, well done to both of you.’
We all stand up. ‘To Val and Simon.’
The party starts to move around now. I discreetly get the waitress’s attention. As I’ll be filming Casualty in a few weeks I think I can safely put this dinner on my credit card. Also once I pay the bill Paul and I can go for our walk. I want it to be perfect. I imagine telling our children how we kissed by the moonlit river on the day my mother ran the marathon. I go into my purse to find my Switch card. As I do so the small bar receipt falls to the floor. Paul reaches down to pick it up.
‘You dropped this.’
‘Oh thanks,’ I say, but I don’t have a hand to take it quickly because I’m holding the bill and the card machine.
‘Look at all your tiny writing,’ he says, peering at it.
‘Please don’t look at it,’ I say, giving the card machine back to the waitress and snatching the receipt from Paul.
‘Hang on, it’s got my name all over it.’
‘It’s just me being stupid.’
‘Sarah, you’re not going to put all the things I’ve been saying in your blog are you?’
‘Er . . .’ I stammer.
‘You wouldn’t?’
/> ‘I thought you liked my blog.’
‘I do.’ He sighs. ‘And you’ve said some really nice things about me in it. But I’d like to keep today personal.’
‘Oh,’ I say disappointedly.
‘Just between you and me. Please?’
‘OK.’
‘Please?’ He’s almost begging me. I had no idea he felt so strongly about it.
‘OK, I won’t mention you.’
‘Sarah, I’ve had an amazing time with you today. And I’m really looking forward to more days like this. I just don’t really want them posted on the Internet.’
‘I promise I won’t. Anyway, I think I’ll be stopping the blog soon. I think I’ve found the man I was looking for.’ Uncool slip numbers four, five, six and onwards to infinity, but somehow I don’t care any more.
Rosie crawls on to my lap, rubbing her eyes.
‘Are you tired, lovely?’ I ask, stroking her hair.
‘If you and Paul get married, can I be a bridesmaid?’ she asks, sucking her thumb.
‘Steady on, Rosie.’ I laugh and look at Paul. But Paul’s not laughing. He looks annoyed. He catches my eye.
‘I’m going to nip out into the bar area and take this call.’ And with that he leaves the table, staring at his vibrating mobile. He walks heavily as though he’s agitated. The rubber of his Converse shoes makes slapping noises as it hits the floor. My sister joins me.
‘Paul’s lovely, Sarah. I’ve never seen you look so happy. It’s been great for George to have a man around; I worry that since the divorce he’s always around women.’
‘It’s been a great day, hasn’t it?’ I say, hugging her. I don’t tell her that I fear her daughter might have just ruined the relationship by mentioning marriage. I feel someone tapping me lightly on the shoulder.
‘Sorry to break this up,’ says Ruth. ‘But Sarah, can I have a word?’
‘Course, what’s up?’
‘Simon and Paul are having a fight,’ she says delicately.
‘What, with fists?’ says my sister with disturbing glee.
‘No, they’re shouting, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Simon walloped him.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’ I say crossly.
I run over to the bar area. Ruth follows me. Simon and Paul are standing face to face. I catch Paul saying, ‘I beg you, Simon, please don’t tell her.’
‘Tell who what?’ I ask. I start to walk towards them to break them apart. But I feel a hand pull me back. It’s my dad. Where did he come from?
‘What’s the problem?’ I ask. The boys look at me as though they are thirteen and I’ve caught them stealing from the tuckshop.
‘What?’ I ask again. Paul and Simon step away from each other but don’t break their eye contact.
‘Right, shall I just leave you to stare at each other all night? Or can you please sort this out so we can get back to celebrating with my mum?’
Simon breaks Paul’s gaze and looks at me for ages until I say, ‘What?’ in a horribly stroppy voice.
He doesn’t answer. He just looks down and shakes his head. Then he moves his lips across his teeth in a way that I’ve never seen before and says, ‘He’s got a girlfriend, Sare, I just heard him on the phone. He was saying, “Don’t do this, babe. I love you.” I’m sorry, Sarah, but I had to tell you.’
Simon walks off. I can feel Paul looking at me. But I can’t look at him. I just look at my toes. My dad squeezes my arm.
‘Sarah, please let me explain,’ Paul says quietly.
‘I don’t want you to say anything. Please just go.’
I keep looking at my toes. I see his Converse walk towards me. They stop a few feet from me. I don’t look up. Then I see a pair of small Arsenal trainers meet his Converse head on and hear George’s voice saying, ‘But I thought Sarah was your girlfriend. I thought we were going to see Arsenal.’
I can’t look. I don’t want to see his embarrassed expression or my nephew’s devastated face. I hear Paul sigh sadly. He doesn’t say anything. Then I watch his Converse drag along the floor until they’re out of my vision. I look into my dad’s face. He tries to smile. I try to smile. I shrug and say, ‘Wanker.’ My voice comes out like a little croak. My dad puts his arm around my shoulder. He holds me close while I repeat the word ‘wanker’ over and over again like a dodgy CD.
twenty-one
Sarah,
Please let me explain.
It really isn’t what you think.
Please answer my calls, or call me or meet me.
Please.
Paul x
The same email every day for nearly a week. I hate reading it. It’s like I have a gammy infected paper cut and every time I read this email it gets pressed into the corner of a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps. I didn’t think he’d send one of these on a Sunday afternoon though. He’s probably on the sofa with his BlackBerry, his girlfriend sleeping by his side, one arm draped over his hairy torso. I hope she farts and dribbles and wakes up and dumps him.
I press Play on my CD player. Track number one. ‘Heartbreaker’. I take a deep breath and give it my all. I start to feel a bit better.
By the time I get to the ‘NO’s I am a soft-rock legend. I don’t notice Simon enter the room and press the Stop button. This is unfortunate. I definitely need accompaniment. It would take a long-haul flight to get me to the note I should have been on.
‘Ooops,’ I giggle at the end of the line.
Simon is breathing heavily. ‘Who is this?’
‘Pat Benatar,’ I tut. ‘You’re so uncultured, Si.’
‘It’s got to go.’ He shakes his head and soberly takes the CD out of the machine. ‘Haven’t you got any other heartbreak music you can listen to?’
I think for a moment. ‘I’ve got The Cure.’
Simon does an involuntary shudder. He holds his hand out. ‘Give me that too.’
‘No!’
But he’s already taken it from the pile of CDs scattered like rubble next to the player. He leaves the room muttering something about wishing I had an iPod but I stop him before he’s out of the door.
‘Si, what did you hear Paul actually say on the phone?’
Simon sighs deeply. Then he turns to face me.
‘Sare, you’ve got to stop asking me this. It just makes you upset.’
‘Yes, but you might be wrong. He could have been talking to his handicapped sister or something.’
Simon takes a deep breath and raises his eyebrows slightly.
‘Does he have a handicapped sister?’
‘Well, not that I know of, but . . .’
‘Sare.’
‘What?’
‘He said, “I love you babe, don’t do this,” or something like that, but it was his tone. Believe me, I’m a bloke. I can tell when another bloke is talking to his woman. And he told me not to tell you about it, remember?’
‘Hmmm,’ I say sadly. ‘But he’s emailing me every day. Shouldn’t I just let him explain?’
‘Would you believe whatever he said?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think you would be able to,’ he says gently.
‘I really liked him, Si.’
‘I know, baby.’ He comes back into the room and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You need to get back out there. You can’t set yourself a challenge of fifty ways to find a lover and then stop after two! You’ll meet someone much better than that plonker.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘How about that bloke who asked you out on the blog?’
‘What, my number one fan?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t he say he was local?’
‘Si, he’s probably a psycho!’
‘I could chaperone you if you wanted to meet up with him.’
‘No,’ I scoff. ‘I think I’d rather try Internet dating. Loveless keeps going on about it.’
‘Who’s Loveless?’ He sounds hurt that I dissed his dreadful idea.
‘The woman who leaves loads of comme
nts on my blog.’
My blog readers have been very sympathetic about the
Paul situation. However they keep prescribing Internet
dating with the confidence with which you’d suggest
Canesten to someone with thrush.
Maybe everyone’s right. I currently have two options:
1)
Mope
2)
Throw more shit in the dating arena and see what, if anything, sticks
I have already done a week of moping. Perhaps it’s time for another quest.
twenty-two
I joined Love Direct. It was supposed to cheer me up. It hasn’t. I spent days scouring hundreds of online sites, which kindly offered to find me love for a nominal joining fee and monthly direct debit. Eventually I registered with Love Direct because it was the only one I had heard of. I defy anyone not to have heard of it. It’s a household name. I think it sponsors Coronation Street or air or something. I now know that picking a dating site purely because you’ve heard of it is a bit like choosing Iraq as a holiday destination because it’s on the telly a lot.
Eleven men have sent me messages so far. ‘Eleven men,’ you cry. A football team? A board of directors? No! Eleven men who each bear a very real resemblance to Shrek. Julia came round last night and I showed her the men who had contacted me. She laughed so hard I think a bit of wee came out. At least she finds it funny. I can’t even manage a minuscule insincere smile like newsreaders do at the end of the news.
This time a fortnight ago Paul’s hand was in the small of my back and we were watching my mum run the marathon. I thought I had found the right man for me. I thought I didn’t need to look any more. But I was wrong. Everything still makes me think of him. I stood on Camden High Street for ages today staring forlornly at a dollop of spit. I was imagining him walking down the spit-free streets of Mortlake holding hands with his small-bottomed girlfriend.
I take a deep breath and type in my Love Direct password, bracing myself for the daily horror. But something unprecedented has happened. An attractive man has left me a message. There must be an error on the Love Direct server.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 11
