‘Breathe, Sarah, breathe,’ I gasp.
I close my eyes tightly and take three deep breaths. I’ve only tried acid once but it could be a flashback. I reopen my eyes again, expecting the handsome man to have morphed into an unfortunate-looking Disney character. But he hasn’t. He is still a gorgeous, tanned, rugged-looking man standing in front of a waterfall. ‘Thank you, God,’ I say for the first time in ages. His name is Alan and he’s a writer. Perhaps he’ll write me a one-woman stage show. He’s twenty-seven and he lives in Croydon. Oh well, you can’t have everything. He writes:
Hello, you look nice . . .
to which I respond:
Thank you so much for that lovely photo of the waterfall. It’s a shame that bloke got in the way.
And suddenly we’re off. He’s a quick typer and quick to the point too.
Alan
I think Love Direct suggests a long period of moody courtship. What about we fuck that and go for a drink tonight?
Sarah
Why not? I love drinking.
Alan
Let’s meet at 8 p.m. How about a pub called the Flask? It’s a nice old romantic pub in Highgate.
PS How tall are you??
Sarah
See you then then.
PS 5.4.
Alan
Me too. Shall I wear my scary Goth platform biker boots for some extra height?
Sarah
Yep, and I’ll wear some Shrek ears for the same reason.
Love Direct rocks.
He’s funny. He’s handsome. I just hope he’s not into polygamy or adultery.
twenty-three
I am wearing my magic bra for the tanned waterfall man. Julia bought the magic bra for me ages ago. It rescues my breasts from somewhere near Clapham and squeezes and raises them until they are close to my chin. I can’t work out if it looks sexy or as though I’ve got a child’s bottom stuck to my chest. It’s all my dad’s fault. When I was getting dressed I remembered a conversation I had with him. He told me that he met my mother at a youth-club hop when he was sixteen. He asked my mum’s friend Pauline to dance first. I asked him why he didn’t ask Mum to dance first. He told me that Pauline had bigger breasts and he was working his way through her group of friends in order of breast size. As men don’t mature much past the age of sixteen I have deduced that breast-showing is vital. However, if the key to finding the love of your life is breast size I’m buggered. I’ve always filled my knickers more than I’ve filled my bra.
I leave my room. Simon is in the hallway, studying the motivation noticeboard.
‘Blimey!’ he shouts, looking at my chest. ‘Where you off to with your boobs out?’
‘I’m meeting a fitty from Love Direct,’ I tell him proudly. ‘You’re WHAT??’ he asks.
‘I’m going on a date,’ I say, making my way to the front door.
‘Sare, what if he’s a rapist?’
‘He’s not a rapist, he’s a writer,’ I correct him.
‘Wait! I’ll take you on the scooter.’
‘Si,’ I protest. I have two problems with the scooter:
1)
It’s difficult and embarrassing to get on to in a tight skirt
2)
Simon drives it like a gangster on the run
‘Sare, I’m just going to make sure you’re safe and your decomposing limbs aren’t pulled out of the Thames tomorrow.’
‘Si, how can I flirt if you’re there?’ I whine.
‘I’ll be a very discreet escort,’ he says, handing me a scooter helmet.
He drops me off outside the sprawling old pub. I take my helmet off and do that sexy just-off-bike flick of the hair. It doesn’t work. My hair looks like it’s vacuum-packed to my head. Simon takes the helmet from me and drives away to find somewhere to park. I bend over for a few moments, shaking my hair quite vigorously. I come upright. I look like I could get work as a Pat Benatar tribute act. I could be Fat Benatar.
I see a man teetering along in a pair of scary Goth platform biker boots. The young man is wearing a long black cape, which nearly touches the dirty pavement, and hanging from his ear is a silver chain, which attaches to his nose. He is walking towards me. I freeze. I assumed he was joking about the height and the footwear. I try to wave Simon back but he’s turning a corner.
There is nothing for it but to turn and smile at the short Goth who is walking towards me.
‘Hello. I think you might be Alan.’ My voice sounds weak.
‘Wow! You’re much prettier than your photo,’ he says chirpily. Then he kisses me. I can feel cheap metal on my cheek. I look at him. His Sisters of Mercy T-shirt bears the slogan WALK AWAY. I’d love to, I think.
‘You look really different. I wasn’t expecting you to be so, er, um, Gothic,’ I stutter.
‘Yeah, it’s quite a new phase, I’ve only just had my nose pierced.’ I had suspected this as the pierced hole looks tender and is weeping slightly.
‘Right, let’s get you drunk, shall we?’ he chuckles demonically.
‘I can’t be out that late actually. Um, I’ve got a friend staying and I’ll need to get back at some point to let her in.’ I try to sound as apologetic as I can.
‘Is that your get-out clause?’ he asks me seriously.
‘No, don’t be silly.’ I laugh nervously. He doesn’t reply and we listen to my terrified laughter linger like flies over dung.
We walk into the pub. I am instantly grateful for three small mercies:
1)
It is dark
2)
I can’t see anyone I know
3)
I am in a place that sells alcohol
He totters to the bar to buy us lager. I find the darkest corner table and sit down. Then I discreetly text Simon the words Help! Gothic!! Save me!!! ASAP!!!! The Goth walks over to the corner I have sat in. He ignores the place opposite me and sits next to me on the small banquette. I see Simon enter the bar to save me. I try desperately to catch his eye. He scans the room; his eyes fall on me and my new friend. He opens his mouth in disbelief. He laughs and winks at me. Then he saunters to the bar, buys a pint and sits at a table directly opposite me and pretends to be engrossed in a paper. I could kill him. The Goth tries to put his arm behind my shoulders. I see Simon’s head bobbing up and down behind his paper. The bastard.
‘So you live in Camden. I love Camden. I got my tattoo there.’
‘Really, where’s your tattoo?’ I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t when his hand goes to his flies. He shows me a very well drawn skull on his pant line. He pulls his black boxer shorts down a bit too far and I see pubic hair. Pubic hair and piercing pus, it’s just too much too soon. I hear Simon snort behind his paper.
‘So have you had many Love Direct dates?’ he asks, leaning in to me.
‘Nope. You’re my first.’
‘A Love Direct virgin. Ah ha ha.’ He seems to think this funny.
‘Hmmm. What about you?’
‘Yes, lots, generally they just turn into sexual relationships though,’ he whispers slowly. Then he looks at my cleavage, licks his lips and touches my knee.
‘So, tell me about your writing,’ I say crisply.
‘Well, I generally write about death and lust. I haven’t had anything published yet, so I work in a . . . um . . . shop in Croydon.’
‘Oh, right, what shop?’
‘The Pound Shop.’
‘I love pound shops.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What’s Croydon like?’
‘Crap.’
‘Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.’
‘Yes it can.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Tell me about your acting, that’s so cool. Have you ever been on telly?’
‘Yeah.’ Why am I here? It’s nonsense. Love Direct is as painful and pointless as a nun having a Brazilian. I try to drink my beer quickly but it just makes me bloaty. I look at the Goth and try to think of something to say. Suddenly he does a clumsy lunge, u
ses my knee for balance and tries to kiss me on the lips. I am incredulous. Three whole dates with Paul and barely any lip contact. Five minutes and a few gulps of flat lager and the randy Goth’s off. I haven’t known behaviour like this since youth club. I push his face away and accidentally catch the nose–ear chain in my hand. The hole in his nose starts to bleed.
‘Oops, sorry, you’re bleeding,’ I say.
The Goth clutches his nose and goes to the toilet to clean up the blood. I run to Simon. ‘He’s a sexual terrorist! He tried to kiss me, he’s bleeding and I saw pubic hair!’ I hyperventilate.
Simon manages to stop laughing long enough to smugly say, ‘You have to do it for the blog; aren’t you a pioneer for women?’
‘Hmmm, yeah, about as much as the Pope’s one for bestiality. Quick, we’ve got to go now,’ I tell him urgently. I try to pull his pint from his hand and yank him to his feet.
‘Sare, you can’t just go.’ He belches after downing nearly a pint of lager.
‘What else can I do?’ I challenge him.
‘I dunno.’ He shrugs.
I run up to the barman and ask him to tell the Gothic in the cape who I was talking to that the sight of blood made me feel ill and that I’m very sorry but I had to go. The barman raises his eyebrows at me. Which makes me say, ‘Pleeeeeeaaaaaase’ for so long that he eventually relents. I race out of the bar behind Simon. We get to the bike.
‘Fuck me. If that’s what’s on offer I’m definitely getting in contact with Paul.’
‘Sarah! That’s the most fucking ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,’ he says, handing me his newspaper while he puts his helmet on.
‘Er, Si, it’s not; he was the fit one on Love Direct, you should see the rest!’ I tell him with passion.
‘If you get in touch with that Paul wanker I’ll . . .’
‘What, Si?’
‘I—’ he stops and thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t know . . . But I’ll do something! I will. I’ll be really cross.’
‘Si, why are you being such a knob?’ I wail, waving the newspaper at him for emphasis. But as I do something catches my eye – it is the word ‘Soulmates’ at the top of one of the newspaper pages.
‘Oh my God. Newspaper lonely hearts!’ I squeak, peering at the page.
Simon just stares at me with beady eyes from behind his helmet visor. A crash of thunder startles us both. Now I am not particularly spiritual or psychic, except for talking to God all the time and being obsessed by star signs, but the combination of the disastrous date, the thunder and the lonely-hearts page must constitute a sign.
‘It’s a sign. I’m being told to get over Love Direct, with an emphasis on the Dire, and I’m being propelled towards Quest No. 4: Newspaper Lonely Hearts!’
I look at Simon, flushed and triumphant. He shakes his head slowly. Then he starts the scooter engine and drives off. Without me. Instantly there is another crash of thunder and it starts to pee down. And when I say pee down I mean full-bladder-after-long-journey pee down. I put the lonely-hearts page in the scooter helmet and hug it to my chest so it doesn’t get wet. And I walk home repeating the words ‘I’ll bloody kill him’ over and over again.
I am just turning into my street when it stops raining. I cease the ‘I’ll bloody kill him’ mantra and start saying, ‘You must be having a laugh’ to God. He really is having a bloody laugh because I suspect I am being kerb-crawled. There is a long dark car moving very slowly alongside me. I quicken my step.
‘Would you like a lift?’ shouts a familiar voice. It’s my favourite customer.
‘Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you. I just live over there.’ I point towards my flat.
‘Would you like to come round to my house to dry off and have a glass of wine?’
‘I’ll make your car all wet though.’
‘I couldn’t give a damn.’ He smiles, reaching over to open the passenger door for me.
twenty-four
‘Oh dear,’ says my favourite customer.
‘Hmmm,’ I agree, nodding. ‘Have you seen this one? “Bombastic male, forty-six, seeks big-breasted woman, eighteen to twenty-five.”’
‘And here, Sarah, look,’ he continues. ‘He’s written “Doncha wanna”!’
‘Urgh yeah, doncha wanna bog off and learn to spell,’ I mutter.
Favourite Customer and I are sitting side by side on his sofa reading the damp lonely-hearts page. We are drinking red wine and shaking our heads a lot. I really thought that the thunder was a sign. I fully expected to see ‘Big-bottomed out-of-work actress wanted for naked X factor-watching.’ It didn’t happen. Instead I am reading ads by men who think they’re funny, handsome and caring. At least I am doing so with wine in the stately home that is Favourite Customer’s house. He must be stupendously wealthy. I have to stop myself from looking at every single piece of artwork or item of furniture and squealing, ‘Fuck me, that’s amazing! Did it cost a fortune?’ It’s very hard. His house is only two blocks from my flat. But whereas my building was carved up greedily into eight flats, his remains in all its Victorian glory. I would set a drama here with Stephen Fry as the lead. Stephen Fry would tread on these priceless rugs in a hand-embroidered housecoat, waving his cigar-holding hand about flamboyantly.
Despite his wealth my favourite customer is very down to earth. He let me leave my wet clothes in his bath, lent me a huge tracksuit and has been fascinated by my lonely-hearts page. I wish I knew his name though. He knows mine. I feel I’ve left it too late to ask.
‘And this guy,’ I point. ‘He wants someone to go to Greece with him. I mean! You so wouldn’t.’ I start doing a high-pitched histrionic voice. ‘Oh yes, I’ll go to Greece with you, then you can dismember me far away from the British judicial system.’
Favourite Customer laughs raucously at this. I like it when people laugh at my wittering rather than gaze blankly at me as though I am touched. However the only problem with people laughing at my wittering is that it encourages me.
‘And they all want really young women, bloody paedophiles.’ Favourite Customer doesn’t laugh when I mention paedophiles. Best calm down, Sarah.
A very handsome man appears in the doorway.
‘Can I get you anything, Eamonn?’ he asks casually. He is six foot something. He looks as though he’s in his late thirties. He’s Gillette-advert perfect and he’s just said my favourite customer’s name. I love him.
‘No, we’re fine thank you, Alistair,’ smiles my favourite customer, or Eamonn as I can now call him. Alistair disappears to go and be gorgeous elsewhere.
I am so stupid. My favourite customer is gay. It never occurred to me but then I never thought about it. It makes sense though. He dresses well, looks after himself and likes to eat out. I must ask him what I should do with my hair. Gorgeous Alistair must be his boyfriend. Lucky man.
‘So is there anyone you like the sound of ?’ asks Eamonn.
‘Hmmmm.’ I look thoughtfully at the page. ‘He sounds nice.’ I point at the only ad that I can read without wanting to commit voluntary manslaughter. ‘“OK, so you want young, entertaining, can put up shelves & good in bed? Problem solved: I can do seventy-five per cent. Early fifties, writer, slim, witty, passionate.” ’
‘Why do you like him?’ asks Eamonn, intrigued.
‘Well, he’s probably mad but I like him because he starts with what I want not what he wants, and he doesn’t say he wants some nineteen-year-old nymphet with big breasts and a high IQ who’s sensual, caring, kind to animals, blah blah blah, and he mentions sex, which is quite refreshing.’
‘Will you get in touch with him?’ enquires Eamonn.
‘God no, he’s bloody old, but I like his ad. I might copy it when I do my own one. I’m going to put one in next week’s edition. I was thinking something along the lines of “Do you want someone young with cellulite who can cook and likes being frisky? Problem solved: I can do seventy-five per cent. Nearly thirty, slimmish, witty, passionate.” ’
Eamonn chuckles while I dri
nk wine.
‘What do you think I should do with my hair?’ I suddenly ask.
Eamonn looks startled.
‘Have you any ideas of how I should style it?’ I continue.
‘Sorry, um, no. I think it’s fine as it is,’ he says.
‘Now you’re being polite. I’ve got a head like a walrus’s fanny at the moment,’ I tell him emphatically. Then I notice the statues on his mantelpiece. They must be a collection as there are seven of them and they are all the same. I leap up from the sofa and skip over to inspect them.
‘Wow these are ni—’ I begin and then I realize what they are. They are BAFTAs. I spin around to look at him with my mouth open.
‘You’ve got seven BAFTAs,’ I whisper. He nods shyly.
‘Fuck me,’ I say slowly and then I read each one and as I do I begin to feel overawed.
My favourite customer is Eamonn Nigels. Eamonn Nigels is one of the most talented film directors in the UK. Eamonn Nigels directed the first film I ever saw at the cinema. My sister and I went to see it five times and cried each time. I have been serving Eamonn Nigels breakfast for years. I’m supposed to be an actress. How could I not know? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I probably live next door to sodding Spielberg as well. I have been painfully twittering to Eamonn Nigels for half an hour. I mentioned cellulite and paedophiles. I said ‘walrus’s fanny’!
‘You’re Eamonn Nigels,’ I blather.
‘Yes. Sarah, please don’t look at those. Alistair insists I have them on display. But really I find the whole thing very embarrassing.’
‘You’re Eamonn Nigels.’
He nods.
‘You’re Eamonn Nigels.’ I’m stuck. Say something else, Sarah, I will myself. But I can’t think of anything to say. The Etch A Sketch in my mind has been shaken and all normal thoughts and pictures have disappeared. I am humbled in the presence of celluloid greatness.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 12
