I look at her for a moment. It is a pregnant pause. There are eight people in the café. It is the biggest audience I have had for some time so I can be forgiven for milking it. I put my croissant down sadly.
‘You’ve put me off my croissant.’ I look at the croissant and shake my head. ‘Well, you can shout at me and put me off croissants but you will never, never’ (the second ‘never’ was louder and slower for emphasis) ‘persuade me to call Paul. I’m doing this lonely-hearts thing and that’s that.’
‘Well then, like I said, you’re stupid.’ She shrugs and starts folding napkins with venom.
I don’t know what to say so inevitably the ‘urgh’ sound comes out. It makes the man on table 9 jump. Julia is as stubborn as an olive-oil stain when she wants to be. But she’s wrong about this. Not that I don’t think about Paul on average five times a minute. I would love to see him. I would give up wheat, and possibly dairy as well, to have things back to the way they were. But the damage is done. Whoever he was on the phone to is someone he cares for and didn’t want me to know about. How could I trust him?
I pick up my newspaper and head to the kitchen. The head chef, whose name I can’t pronounce, has taken the Cockalada I gave him and stuck it in his chef’s hat.
‘He dickhead!’ the other chefs inform me before leaning on silver kitchen surfaces and laughing to snort point.
‘Yes, yes he is,’ I agree.
I make my way into the tiny out-of-order toilet, otherwise known as the staffroom. It smells of feet and chef farts and is where we keep our coats and bags. The glory days when waitresses were able to keep their personal belongings inside their waitressing aprons are sadly over. Glenda, the menopausal owner, sent all of us a written warning stating that phones are now to be kept in the staffroom. Apparently one of the Polish waitresses was taking an order when her phone rang. She pulled the phone from her apron to stop it ringing and a tampon fell on to the customer’s table. He said the experience put him off ordering a full English and he wrote a letter to complain. A villainous overreaction on Glenda’s part. It wasn’t as if the tampon was used.
I hold my breath and take my phone from my bag. I’ve got seventeen new texts. Blimey. All from Soulmates. Each one alerts me to the fact that a new man has responded to my ad. This surprises me: I thought I’d declined the offer of these notifying texts as they’re 50p each. But seventeen men! Piss off, J Lo! The frisky waitress is a hit! I excitedly dial the number. It is barred from my mobile phone. I walk back into the restaurant.
‘I can’t call the number from my mobile because it’s barred,’ I tell Julia in dismay.
‘You’ll just have to call Paul instead.’
I don’t respond. But I must look hurt because when she speaks again she sounds much softer.
‘It’s probably one of those expensive premium numbers.’
‘Seventeen men have left messages and I can’t even hear what they have to say.’
‘Seventeen men!’ She’s impressed. She’s even stopped punishing napkins. She winks at me. ‘Use the café phone.’
I will be sacked should the menopausal owner find out, but the lure of seventeen men is worth it. ‘Maybe just once.’
I dial the number on the café phone.
‘Calls to this number are barred,’ I am told. I repeat the message to Jules.
‘Oh yeah, because the kitchen boys used to call that sex line?’
I tut. Years ago the Polish chefs used to call Babes for You. They would put the ‘babe’ on loudspeaker and all you’d hear when you placed orders was ‘Oh, you’re so good, I’m coming, ah, ah.’ This pursuit came to an abrupt end when one of the customers overheard and told the menopausal owner. I still use her facial expressions when extreme rage is ever called for in auditions. I believe one of the kitchen boys might still be having his wages docked to cover the cost of the calls.
‘Cover for me while I go to the payphone?’ I tell Julia, pulling the only three pounds I own from my pocket.
Seventeen clever Observer-reading men! I enter the vandalized phonebox. I dial the number; thankfully it isn’t barred from the payphone. I can barely breathe I’m so excited.
‘Hi, Sarah, my name’s Brian, I, um, hello, yes, I liked your ad, you sound like a fun girl! I’m forty-six. I work in finance.’ I’m sure he’s very nice but I don’t like his name, he’s too old and the word ‘finance’ bores me. How can I skip him and get to the next one? ‘But before you think I’m dull because I work in finance I also play bass in a Human League tribute band . . . and er . . .’ Beep.
The line goes dead. I look at the phone. It tells me something alarming. I have run out of credit. I stand and stare at the phonebox. There is something perversely compelling about witnessing money being spent at such a rate. I’m sure Brian’s a nice guy but I’m not sure he’s worth £3.
‘That was quick,’ says Julia excitedly when she sees me.
‘Three quid and all I got was some old bloke called Brian. Can you think of anything weirder than a Human League tribute band?’
She thinks for a moment and then shakes her head.
‘I need more money,’ I say, going to the till. ‘I’ve got another sixteen to get through. Right, if they’re £3 a pop what’s that?’
We stand there trying to work it out in our heads. Our eyes open very wide. We sing in unison, ‘Nearly fifty quid.’
‘Shit. Can you lend me fifty quid? I’ve got no money on me.’
‘Wank, neither have I,’ wails Jules. Then she gets bossy. ‘Right, I’ve got a plan. Take it out of the till and then we’ll have to be bloody brilliant and make fifty quid in tips. You can put the money back at the end of the day.’
‘We’ll never make fifty quid!’ I start to protest, but Julia’s on a roll.
‘Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ she says and opens the till and starts to count out pound coins.
‘Go get ’em, girl!’ she says, handing me a plastic bag containing all the change in the till. It nearly yanks my arm off. I cradle the bag of coins in both arms like an overweight baby and race back to the phonebox. After Brian I have a message from phlegmy Neil, then someone who works in insurance, then mumbling Michael, then someone who sounds quite sexy but will only meet Indian women. Then the witty writer whom I plagiarized scolding me for copying his ad, but saying he hopes I have as much luck as him as he’s currently seeing someone special. I stand feeding borrowed money into a machine and listening to lonely men. I start to feel depressed. I don’t like the sound of any of them. What a waste of time, energy and money. Then suddenly number fifteen jolts me from my slumped stance.
‘Sarah, hello, it’s Eamonn Nigels from the café. I realize I’m bloody old. I suspect you think I’m gay, but I’m not, I’m er, very heterosexual and I’d love to take you out for dinner. I think you’re great.’
I walk back to the café, stunned. Julia is standing at the counter counting out a lady’s change in five-pence pieces.
‘Well?’ she says, raising her eyes when she sees me.
‘Eamonn Nigels asked me out,’ I whisper.
‘You said he was gay!’ she shouts.
Fifteen people look up from their breakfasts.
‘I was wrong,’ I whisper.
twenty-nine
Poopy Doo
Spinster if you don’t meet this lovely man and hear him out I’ll bouycott your blog. So there.
Loveless
You really have to let him explain, Spinster. When I was at high school I had an affair with my teacher. I thought he was single. Then one day I was reading the school magazine and I read an interview with my teacher’s published author wife. I called the relationship off without speaking to him. He resorted to stalking my house and writing letters to my father about what a slut I was. I honestly think he wouldn’t have got violent or ended up in prison and I wouldn’t have had to move to another high school if I had sat down face to face and discussed it with him like an adult. As I was only 17 at the ti
me I learnt from the experience. You’re nearly 30. Don’t make the same mistake as I did . . .
Crazy Canadian
Loveless, your love life reads like a Channel 5 late-night movie, do you have a blog?
Spinster, the man’s taken the time to write you a poem, in this day and age that counts for a lot. Give him the chance to explain, you owe it to him.
Spinster
Excuse me, since when did eight lines of appalling verse make a lying, cheating man a hero?
Poopy Doo
‘Sargeant’ is a very hard word to find a rhyme with. He did very well. What’s his number? I’ll have him.
Anonymous
Generally in life we only regret the things we don’t do. Therefore you should do it.
Spinster
Actually I have just been asked out by a famous older man, so there.
Loveless
I’d watch it with older men. I went out with a man 35 years older than me. We had a marvellous sex life until the heart attack.
Crazy Canadian
Please start a blog, Loveless.
No. 1 Fan
Ignore Grandad and the love rat and meet me . . . please. I think I could make you happy.
Loveless
So how old is the older man then?
Spinster
According to my Google search 57!!! Although he looks ten years younger.
Anonymous
Darling, just stick a fiver in a Help the Aged collection box and have done with it.
The Man for the Spinster says
She can eat 12 roast potatoes
And cause a fire under her nose,
She’s gorgeous and fun
And too good for an old un.
If you ask me
It is plain to see
That this man P
Will make the spinster
Happy.
Spinster
Knob off, P.
I turn the computer off. I make the ‘urgh’ sound loudly. Then I sit on a box of cocks with my head in my hands. Simon hurls himself through the door and into the room.
‘What’s the matter?’ he pants.
‘Paul’s started writing crap rhymes on my blog and now all my readers think he’s some sort of hero,’ I say, exasperated. it
‘You’ve got to stop screaming like you’re giving birth, Sare. One day you’ll get dangerously entangled in a pair of tights and you’ll scream but I won’t help you because I’ll assume that you’re just annoyed about something on your BLOODY BLOG!’
‘Steady. What’s up with you?’
Simon lifts a box of cocks from its tall pile and places it on the floor next to mine.
‘You know sitting around blogging all day isn’t healthy, don’t you? Why don’t you take up badminton or something?’
‘Badminton? Do I look like I want to take up badminton?’
‘What about dance? You could do a dance class!’
‘I love my blog, Si.’
‘Yeah, but you’re living life on a computer. You barely move.’
‘Look! I’ll clench and release my bottom muscles while I sit.’ I demonstrate by bobbing up and down slightly. Simon is speechless for a moment.
‘Firming,’ I inform him, smiling.
‘Come here, crazy girl,’ he says, putting his arm around me. I nestle next to him. He starts to wiggle and fidget on his seat and then frees two Cockaladas from the box he’s sitting on.
‘Aperitif ?’ he says.
‘Go on,’ I say, smiling.
‘Are you going to go on a date with this number one fan then? I saw he asked again.’
I look at Si and gasp.
‘It’s Paranoid Jay! It is, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so keen for me to meet him!’
‘No, Sare. I don’t know who it is. I just think he sounds nicer than all those other weirdos.’
‘I don’t believe you. It’s got to be Jay. He’s local.’
We sit there in silence for a moment sucking. The penis colada one is really tasty. Simon sighs deeply.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, fine. I’ve got a lot of stuff on my mind, that’s all.’
‘Tell me.’
‘OK. You won’t say I’m being stupid?’
‘I can’t promise that. If it’s stupid I’d have to tell you and then rib you mercilessly about it for ever.’
‘Well, Cockalada could make me a lot of money. Obviously I’ll use that to set up the holiday business in Brazil.’
‘Yep.’
‘But, I’d rather do holidays for people who’d appreciate them. Don’t get me wrong, the rich businessmen enjoy their white-water rafting and stuff, but I want to set up a charity to take kids away. Tricky teenagers who wouldn’t get the chance; they’d have a holiday of a lifetime. Do you think that’s ridiculous?’
‘Si, why would I think it was ridiculous? That’s the most amazing thing anyone has ever said to me.’
‘I’ve looked into it and insurance is a bit of a nightmare but I could do it.’
‘If anyone can do it, you can.’ I smile.
‘Ruth’s pissed off with me though and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she won’t say it but I think having a boyfriend who sells alcohol in cocks isn’t quite what she wants; she is a high-flying City girl, after all.’
‘Well, if she doesn’t realize you’re the nicest bloke on the planet, she’s a knobhead!’ I say seriously. He looks suddenly bashful. So I give him a kiss on the cheek and stand up.
‘What you up to?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to phone fifty-seven-year-old Eamonn Nigels,’ I say, and start to rummage on my desk for the card he gave me.
‘I thought you were going to pull at Casualty!’
‘I’m keeping my options open and my readers interested,’ I tell him.
I start to dial the number while Simon whistles ‘Grandad We Love You’ badly.
thirty
Eamonn Nigels is picking me up! The only person who picks me up to take me anywhere is my dad. It’s not the best omen. I am so nervous I’ve chewed off two nails and the majority of my bottom lip, and now I’m pacing. My worries broadly fall into three main categories:
1)
What to wear. I Googled the restaurant that he’s taking me to. It’s one of the best restaurants in the world. I’ve never been to a ‘best restaurant in the world’ so I don’t know what the uniform is
2)
What to eat. This is a restaurant that serves things like pigs’ trotters and sheep’s brains. Their speciality is . . . wait for it, have a bucket standing by . . . bone marrow. Bone marrow!
3)
What to say. I’m playing out of my league. It’s as though I’m in the changing room at the Emirates Stadium and my shaking hands are spasming as I put my Piddletrenthide local pub team top over my head. I’m about to play Arsenal. Away
My perturbed path takes me into the lounge. Ruth is sitting on the sofa, the TV is off and she’s shaking her head quietly to herself.
‘You look lovely, Sarah!’ She sounds too surprised for me to be pleased.
‘Thanks, I’ve got a date,’ I tell her, nervously peering out of the window.
‘Oh,’ she says sadly.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘How do you cope with all these boxes in the flat?’ she sighs.
‘Dunno. They’re quite funny and the drink’s tasty. I’ll probably miss them when they’re gone.’
Her pretty face furrows.
‘I find it offensive. Simon doesn’t seem to care. He’s a really talented guy, Sarah. Why doesn’t he get a proper job?’
‘Wer-urgh,’ I utter. My body jolts at the words ‘proper job’. I believe that one of the reasons that Simon and I have remained such good friends is our shared belief that proper jobs should be avoided at all costs. I look at Ruth, sitting there in her clean shoes and pressed trouser suit.
‘
Oh, Ruth, this is just a way for him to make money so he can set up the charity.’
‘What charity?’
‘The charity taking kids on adventure holidays.’
‘You what?’
‘Um.’ I have no idea why Simon hasn’t told his girlfriend about his new life’s mission.
‘Has he said to you he wants to set up a charity?’
‘Um.’
‘He can’t even afford to go on holiday with me! And he’s talking about taking kids away!’ She looks furious.
‘Oh, Ruth. You should be proud. He won’t be selling cocks for ever.’
‘Sarah, he came to my work do the other week in a sombrero and sang the cock song. He gave my boss a Cockalada.’
I try really hard and really badly not to laugh.
‘I’ve just got to call my dad quickly,’ I say to her. She nods and leaves the room. Calling my dad seems like a good idea. He can calm me down and give me an insight into the older man.
There is a long beep. Then my dad says, ‘Bugger’ and drops the phone.
‘You still haven’t got the hang of that fax phone have you?’ I laugh.
‘Bloody thing,’ he mutters. ‘Val, Val! I’ve got Sarah on the phone. A gin and tonic would be lovely!’ he screeches. ‘Now then, what can I do for you?’
‘Dad, I’m going on a date,’ I say sadly.
‘Oh, you are doing well at your quest, Sarah; let’s hope he’s not another Gothid.’
‘Goth-ic, Dad!’ I correct. ‘He’s not a Gothic. I know him. From the café. But he’s a lot older than me.’
‘How much older?’ my dad asks casually.
‘Twenty-eight years,’ I say quietly.
My father coughs, then screams, ‘How are you doing with that gin and tonic, Val?’
‘Oh God, you think it’s a bad idea, don’t you?’ I say quickly.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 14
