50 Ways to Find a Lover

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘Not at all, he could join me on the Golden Oldies golf day,’ he chuckles. ‘We could have joint birthday parties, his sixtieth and my seventieth.’ He’s really amusing himself now. ‘And—’

  ‘Dad,’ I whine. ‘Stop it, it’s not funny.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Val!’ says my dad, obviously having received his gin and tonic. ‘Now, Val, what do you think about Sarah dating an older man?’

  ‘Well, everyone’s doing it now. Take Des O’Connor, he’s in his seventies and he’s just had a baby with a woman in her thirties.’

  I sigh deeply. My mother citing Des O’Connor when offering dating advice construes a new low.

  ‘Now, Sarah’ – it’s my dad again – ‘as long as you are happy and he treats you well, we’re happy. Now where is it you’re going . . .’ slurp of gin and tonic, ‘the Age Concern disco?’ Guffaws from both of them now.

  ‘What are you wearing? A tin hat and gas mask?’ Uncontrollable near-to-incontinence laughter now.

  ‘Dad! Listen! He’s taking me to one of the best restaurants in the world where they serve pigs’ innards and he’s a famous film director and I’ll have nothing to say to him. I feel sick.’

  ‘Calm down and listen to me. You have a lot to offer someone. You’re intelligent, fun and gorgeous. Why shouldn’t he be attracted to you? Lucky man, I say. Just don’t be intimidated. I mean it, Sarah, don’t you ever put yourself down like that. We’re very proud of you, just be yourself. You go and have fun.’

  ‘Oh, I have to go now, Dad! I’m caked in make-up. You’ll make me cry.’

  ‘Love you,’ he whispers. Then he puts the phone down.

  thirty-one

  Women love Eamonn Nigels. He should employ someone with a shitty stick to beat them off for him. There’s a lady wearing fuchsia on another table who keeps looking at him and licking her lips. The pretty girl who took our coats couldn’t stop giggling when he spoke to her. He was only ordering a bottle of still water. I keep thinking, What are you doing here with me? I’m an average-looking waitress. Every time I open my mouth I sound like a complete knob. I keep making insipid gushy remarks that I don’t even mean in a posh voice.

  1)

  As we walked into the restaurant I said, ‘Oh my, what a divine place!’ when what I was really thinking was Ahhhhh, it’s so bright in here. My flattering light is when the bulb’s gone

  2)

  I looked at the menu and said, ‘Gosh, such interesting dishes!’ when what I was really thinking was Trotters! Pig spleens! Who’s in the kitchen, Mrs Miggins and Sweeney Todd? I’m a woman! Where’s the sea bass? The salade ni¸coise? The Thai chicken curry?

  3)

  But the worst was when I said, with Restoration-comedy conviction, ‘Oh, it must be the bone marrow for me to start; I’ve heard it’s marvellous’

  Eamonn does look handsome tonight. He’s wearing a loose-fitting charcoal suit with a blue and grey stripy jumper underneath.

  ‘Shall we have some champagne to start with?’ he offers.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I reply politely. I think it’s safe to say Eamonn doesn’t read women’s blogs.

  Eamonn smiles. ‘If I’m to be honest this is my second favourite place to eat. My first is a small café I have breakfast in every weekend.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the service is great there, I’ve heard. You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that there’s a Carluccio’s up the road. It does a really nice breakfast. I don’t know why you persevere with those awful eggs.’

  ‘Well, there’s an added attraction in that café,’ he says, looking into my eyes. I stare back at him. Eamonn Nigels has been eating crap eggs every week because he likes me. In the nick of time I stop myself saying, ‘Fuck me!’

  The waitress serves us our champagne. She gives me a funny metal spike. Presumably to help me eat my bone marrow.

  ‘Cheers,’ Eamonn says. ‘It’s lovely to see you being waited upon rather than the other way around.’

  ‘Hmmm. So please, tell me all about your amazing film career,’ I say as I fiddle with the spiky implement.

  ‘Oh, I just make films,’ he says modestly.

  ‘You are a genius,’ I correct him. ‘The Road Below was the first film I ever watched at the cinema. My sister took me to see it five times. I’ve seen all your films. What are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘A new film. A love story actually.’ Eamonn talks passionately about his film and what he loves about the story until the friendly waitress puts a huge plate of plump oysters and shallot vinaigrette in front of him. She puts a plate of old bones in front of me.

  ‘Your bone marrow, madame,’ she informs me. She flirted with my date. She’s given me old bones. She’s called me ‘madame’. Madame! When did that happen? Surely I’m a mademoiselle. I fight a staggering urge to hurt her with this spiky implement.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say.

  Fuck, I think.

  I pick up my metal prong. I look at the old bones. What am I supposed to do? Play them? How can I eat a bone with a prong? My only option is to see if anyone else is eating bone marrow so I can copy them.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eamonn, I just want to quickly wash my hands,’ is my brilliant subterfuge.

  Once up, I start my predatory walk for bone-marrow eaters. My eyes dart from side to side like I’m umpiring a ping-pong game. I am looking up. I am not looking down so I don’t see the pink handbag at my feet. I say handbag but it could double as a holdall suitable for travelling for months across Asia. It belongs to the lady in the fuchsia blouse. I tumble over it.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she cries, putting her knife and fork down. And using her hands, her triceps, her biceps and making a Geoff Capes grunt, she drags her bag under her table.

  The word ‘bollocks’ comes out of my mouth. I steady myself on another table where luckily a fat man sits eating bone marrow. He prods the middle of the bone and goo comes out. The goo looks like bogeys. He eats the bogey goo. I make the face a child does when forced to eat their one Christmas Brussels sprout.

  Back at our table Eamonn is waiting for me before he starts eating. I push my prodder inside a big bit of bone. I fish out some globules of fat.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I coo. ‘This looks delicious.’

  ‘These oysters are divine. Would you like to try one?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ve got all this lovely bone marrow to get through.’ I create as much saliva in my mouth as I can, take a bit of marrow and then quickly swallow. It’s starting to feel more like a Bushtucker Trial than a date.

  Eamonn finishes his oysters and is intently watching me prodding my bone.

  ‘Gosh, I’m being so rude. Would you like to try some of this delicious bone marrow?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. You enjoy it,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘Oh I will, I will,’ I say emphatically.

  Oh God, I can’t take any more, I think.

  I load lots of goo on to a piece of bread and bite into the whole lot. I chew quickly and swallow.

  ‘Hmm. I think I’ll save myself for the beef now,’ I say, putting my knife and prodder down and draining my glass of champagne quickly. Please, God, let the beef be normal, not served with its head on.

  ‘Um, I have to ask, are you married?’ I say.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t be here with you if I was, Sarah,’ he says seriously.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you; it’s just that recently I started seeing a man and it emerged that he had a girlfriend and I wouldn’t want that to happen again. Not that we’re seeing each other. But you know what I mean.’ I gulp my freshly topped-up champagne.

  ‘Of course you’re quite right to ask. I have been married. Four times in fact.’ Eamonn smiles at me and takes both my hands in is. It’s a lovely gesture, sexy and protective.

  ‘Do you like wedding cake?’ I blurt. I’m turning into my dad.

  ‘Not any more,’ he laughs.

  ‘So your marriages were small and perfectly formed?’
/>
  ‘Not really. Three were to actresses who married me for the wrong reasons. It took me a long time to learn. I imposed an actress ban. To keep things simple. My fourth wife wasn’t an actress but she died in a plane crash.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say. A look of real grief flickers across his face. Now doesn’t seem like a great time to mention my largely dormant dramatic career.

  ‘Do you have children?’ I say instead.

  ‘Yes, two, a son from the first marriage and a daughter from the third.’ His face brightens as he thinks of them.

  ‘Oh, really. How old are they?’

  ‘Oh, my daughter is fifteen – she lives in Paris with her mother – and my son is thirty-one and in London.’

  ‘Oh lovely,’ I say, which is what I tend to say when things aren’t lovely at all. He’s got a son who’s older than me! I start to panic. I’ve stopped breathing. I must breathe. Breathing is important. I smile at Eamonn for a few moments and concentrate on not suffocating. He smiles back at me. Eamonn has a lovely smile. We are still holding hands. I decide that I can deal with his son. With one proviso: he doesn’t call me ‘Mummy’.

  We look up at the waitress, who’s appeared with our beef. No head, no bone, no skin. Just beautiful, tender, juicy meat.

  ‘Oh, will you excuse me for a moment, Sarah?’

  ‘Are you going for a quick pee?’

  Eamonn looks embarrassed. Then he scuttles to the loo.

  There is a tap on my shoulder. It is a handsome man with reddish hair and freckles. He looks about my age but he’s not my type. He looks like he does something with bonds and trusts, but he’s smiling so I smile back.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Um, hi, I’m Graham. I, um, I never do this, sorry, and I know you’re out with your dad and I think that’s great. But, um, here’s my card. I’d love to take you out for dinner.’

  I stop smiling swiftly. I start to feel sick and I don’t think it’s the bone marrow.

  thirty-two

  ‘More money, more breaks,’ Julia yells like an emphatic picketer.

  ‘BUPA health insurance package,’ I plead next to her.

  Julia and I are greeting the menopausal owner as she steps out of her sports car. We do this routine once a month on the only day when we are pleased to see the boss: pay day. Not that I’ll get much money from her today. I’m still paying back the lonely-hearts £50.

  The menopausal owner was christened Glenda. However, she has been referred to by all staff as ‘the menopausal owner’ since I started the job seven years ago. She is the Alexis Carrington of catering. She is in an indiscernible place in middle age. But she has recently started to look less and less lined and more and more startled with each pay day. Today she wears shades, a burgundy cape and expensive shoes.

  ‘Julia, good-morning. It’s nice to see you still have a voice like a fishwife. And will someone finally be coming to pick up that turquoise heap parked in front of my café for salvage today?’

  ‘Hello, boss. How about some team-building workshops in Barbados?’

  ‘Sarah, still with us. Not famous yet?’ cuts Glenda, turning on me.

  ‘The catering industry’s not ready to lose me yet, Glenda.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Sarah,’ she says, swooping past us and trying to get into her own café.

  ‘One other thing,’ I add. ‘Julia’s not averse to getting impregnated by a well-hung DJ tonight. I was thinking it might be a good idea to discuss the maternity package you offer now.’

  ‘And I have to tell you that a gentleman found one of Sarah’s pubic lice in his scrambled egg; I think he’ll sue,’ counters Julia. ‘And she’s started to date the customers so there’ll be an infestation.’

  ‘Dating the customers?’ asks Glenda, spinning around.

  ‘No, of course not,’ I scoff.

  ‘Good. I pay you ladies to work, not flirt with customers.’ She sashays through the café to the kitchen to bellow at the chefs.

  ‘Jules!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want her knowing I went out with Eamonn Nigels!’

  ‘All right, Sare. Calm down. I wonder whether he’ll be in today?’

  ‘He’s probably in Carluccio’s,’ I say sadly.

  It has been a whole week since the Bushtucker Trial date with Eamonn Nigels. I haven’t heard a word from him. It’s another blow-out for my comprehensive collection.

  ‘Simon says if you haven’t heard from a bloke in a week he thinks you’re a minger,’ I say.

  ‘Well, he thinks you’re a minger then.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Sare, after you went on the date you were going, “Oh no! He’s too old for me! He doesn’t like actresses! I can’t see him again.”’ She pulls a pained face and clutches her chest melodramatically. She looks like she’s doing quite a good audition for a Rennies commercial.

  ‘I did not talk like that.’

  ‘You’ve only decided you like Eamonn Nigels now because he doesn’t want you.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I mumble miserably, looking at the cake cabinet. A piece of cheesecake is flirting outrageously with me. She sits there quivering with freshness. A small piece of fresh strawberry glistens on her creamy moistness. I lick my lips.

  ‘Are you not having anything to eat?’ says Julia.

  ‘No, Casualty tomorrow. I’m crash-dieting.’

  ‘Are you excited?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say, picking up the piece of cheesecake and smelling it. ‘Quest No. Five: Pulling a Straight Man Who Works in Telly.’

  Julia raises her eyebrows at me. ‘You’re unbelievable,’ she says, and I don’t think she means it in a good way.

  ‘Jules, I have to keep doing stuff. My hits are falling. I averaged only sixty-three per day last week. That’s terrible.’

  Julia replies by taking a huge forkful of the wobbly cheesecake which is under my nose.

  ‘Oh, you cow,’ I say through all the saliva in my mouth.

  thirty-three

  It’s a well-known fact that people meet their other halves in the workplace. People who work in offices are always banging their naked loins against Viking Direct boxes. Hence, Sarah Sargeant is going to try to meet someone in a working environment. Pulling on a TV job is my most ambitious quest yet. Time is of the essence. The key is to meet as many men as possible. To do this I need to introduce myself to everyone and try to make them like me and find me attractive.

  Simon lent me a book called Skill With People last October. I didn’t read it. I just looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What are you trying to say?’

  Anyway, last night I ransacked my room searching for it. I eventually found it inside an old theatre programme under my pile of unopened official-looking letters. I started reading. It was radical. It stated:

  1)

  People are only interested in themselves

  2)

  People love people who shut up and allow them to talk about themselves

  3)

  People also love being congratulated and flattered

  ‘Huh, people are so shallow,’ I scoffed.

  But then I considered my own life. I realized that most people bore me unless they are telling me how brilliant I am, and I have a blog about myself. I decided that the book was on to something.

  So today I shall be a fundamentalist. My antics will be based on a careful reading of this extremist literature. For three hours on my television shoot I will:

  1)

  shut up

  2)

  actively listen

  3)

  flatter and congratulate

  I hope I meet someone. I can feel the Eamonn Nigels rejection sucking me back into the old world of fear. I need a good day today to put it behind me and get my blog readers back.

  The only problem is it’s 7 a.m. and I stayed up late reading the bloody book. I know I should introduce myself to some of the bulky-framed men in anoraks who are bustling around me but I’m so tired. The
re’s only one loud thought in my sleepy head: I need coffee, instantly.

  A tall handsome blond man holding a walkie-talkie appears before me.

  ‘Way aye. Sarah Sargeant is it, man? I’m Gus, the second AD.’

  He’s really handsome. He holds a walkie-talkie and therefore a position of power. And curry with chips on the side, he’s Northern! I have been an avid supporter of the regional accent ever since getting aroused for the first time while watching Sean Bean in Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

  I stand there opening and closing my mouth and eyes for a moment, imagining his slightly grubby hands ripping my shirt open before bending me over my dad’s Black & Decker Workmate. He realizes that I am unable to form sentences at such an early hour. He looks at me in a bemused manner and says, ‘You need a coffee, man!’

  He leads me to coffee. It’s instant. Not his passion for me, sadly, the coffee is instant. I inform God that I asked for coffee instantly, not instant coffee, there is a big difference down here. Second AD is funny. He takes four sugars in his tea and obviously plays the guitar as he has one disturbingly long fingernail.

  ‘So how long have you worked on the show?’ I say, playing with my hair.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he says, turning away from me when his walkie-talkie starts to crackle.

  Bugger, I think as he rushes off. Caffeinated CPR has brought me back to life and I want to talk to the Gorgeous Geordie.

  I stand clutching my second cup of coffee, looking around for another man to talk to. I see a lot of huge men milling about. I find the smallest of them. I stand near him and smile. This man is small but perfectly formed. He has amazing eyes, like big brown moons with long delicate eyelashes, a tiny nose and small kind mouth. If I were a sculptor I would want to sculpt him.