‘Here, let me get this,’ I say, taking my drained Switch card from my bag. ‘I haven’t paid for a ticket.’ He looks at me. Then he snatches the bank card from my hand and puts it in his back pocket.
‘I’ll give it back to you at the end of the night. I’m under strict instructions from my grandmother not to let you buy anything all night. I’ve already arrived late and you had to purchase your own programme. It’s a fucking travesty!’ he exclaims.
‘A fucking travesty,’ I echo in a deep voice. There are few things I love more than a perfectly pronounced expletive. Whereas the majority of the population would look at me as though I had Tourette’s for copying something that they said, Marcus looks at me and laughs.
‘Right, this’ll take planning,’ he says, filling his pockets with the nutty snacks and hiding two champagne glasses up his sleeves. ‘Can you hide the bottle inside your coat?’ he asks as though it’s a question of extreme importance.
‘Yep. It’s one of my specialities. Well, actually the only one.’ I nestle the bottle under my arm and inside my jacket.
‘Good,’ he exclaims, impressed. ‘You’ve obviously had a well-spent youth. Let’s go in and get this over with.’
We have the best seats in the theatre. Bang smack in the middle of the stalls. I follow Marcus. We’re two of the last people to take our seats. Ten faces look up at us, annoyed that they’ll have to stand to let us get to the middle of the row.
‘Coming through, woman with child, woman with child,’ he shouts. I blush behind him.
‘There’s something so sleepy about the theatre, don’t you think? Backstage is much more fun. I grew up in dressing rooms. Women in corsets cuddling me. Heaven. I love actors.’
I love the fact that you said that, I think.
He pulls the champagne glasses from his sleeves.
‘Don’t you hate the plastic ones? Ghastly. Now, cheers. What fun! Kick me if I snore.’
We clink glasses. The lady next to me gives me a perfect look of disdain. She’s probably concerned about the effect of champagne on my unborn foetus. Marcus offers me peanuts. I refuse. He devours a packet in under a minute. He eats, like he does everything else, with quick and deft movements. His metabolic rate must be meteoric.
The play is both plodding and pointless. Marcus is asleep within two minutes. He sleeps for fifteen minutes. Then he suddenly snores, which wakes him up with a start. Then he fills our glasses with champagne, wolfs down another two packets of peanuts and gives me a few looks to demonstrate how awful he thinks it all is before going back to sleep.
I watch him dozing. His eyelids are fluttering and every so often he spasms and spills a bit of champagne. He’s even exciting to be with when he’s asleep. Marcus is the sort of man you’d meet for a drink on a Monday night and end up with in the Dordogne on Tuesday morning having gone there for a nice glass of red.
The first claps to signal the interval rouse Marcus. He jumps up, leaving a lot of litter at his feet, and leads me by the hand out of the theatre.
‘Not bad, good sleep in a comfy seat. We’ll come again.’ He nods to a pretty usherette as he takes me by the hand and drags me down the stairs and on to Haymarket. Then he hails a black cab and pulls me into it. I sigh and look out of the window sultrily like a model in a perfume commercial. I love black cabs. There’s nothing more decadent than paying £12 to travel about four and a half feet.
thirty-six
I am in The Ivy. There is a napkin saying THE IVY on my lap. It won’t be there long. I’m going to put it in my bag for my mum. I called her from the loo when I was there stealing the loo roll for my sister and Julia. That doesn’t have THE IVY on it but I think they’ll appreciate the gesture anyway. I want to fellate the minds of all who know me by telling them that I am in The Ivy. There may even be a photo I could use as evidence because Marcus and I were papped on the way in. Sadly, I had a coat over my head. It’s a trick Marcus likes to do.
‘Shall we have another one?’ grins Marcus.
‘That’ll be four.’ We’re referring to vodka martinis.
‘Hmm,’ he says. He swallows the last of his and starts closing one eye and then the other.
‘Plus the bottle of champagne in the theatre,’ I say. I join him in the eye exercise. It’s getting hard to focus.
‘Hmm.’ He’s thinking. Both his eyes are closed now. I close both of mine too. I start to spin and feel a bit sick.
‘Whisky!’ sings Marcus suddenly. He opens his eyes wide, and raises his hands triumphantly, like a conductor at a good bit.
‘Hmmm,’ I respond like a waning wind instrument.
‘Where’s Sebastian?’ says Marcus, doing an impression of a Weeble as he moves in his seat to find him.
‘I love Sebastian,’ I sigh. Sebastian is our waiter. He is the best waiter I have ever met. He dances around the tables like he’s French. And he smiles like he’s on drugs. He knows everything about everything. He laughs when I try to be funny and he said he loves my shoes. I love it when men notice my shoes.
‘There’s John McCririck.’ He hiccups.
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Ah, Sebastian,’ Marcus says with his arms in the air.
‘Please, could we possibly have two whiskies – something from a dingy loch in Scotland? One for myself and one for Sarah.’ He gestures wildly to me and smacks me on the forehead. ‘And we’d better have the bill.’
‘Of course,’ says Sebastian, smiling. I watch him lambada away.
‘My grandmother thinks you’re a brilliant actress.’
‘Your grandmother thinks you’re a brilliant photographer.’
‘Ah, well, I’m all right. I’ve been doing it for years.’
‘How long?’
‘Well, my dad got me my first camera for my tenth birthday and I’ve snapped everything since then.’
‘That’s a nice present for a ten-year-old,’ I say, thinking of Rosie and George.
‘Sarah. I’m having a really good evening.’
‘No need to sound so surprised,’ I answer.
‘My gran is always trying to set me up with actresses and they’re generally very uptight. I’m going to thank her.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, smiling.
‘You are really gorgeous, you know, Sarah,’ he says, looking at me.
‘So are you,’ I tell him, trying to focus.
‘Hmmm. You glow.’
I’m too drunk for conversation. So I lean towards him, eyes slightly open, as it’s all I can manage. ‘Shall we kiss, Marcus?’
‘Oh, good God, Sarah,’ he exclaims, leaning back in his chair. ‘Oh, good God, Sebastian, sorry, sorry,’ he says as he collides with Sebastian who is holding two tumblers of whisky. He searches on the table and floor for the napkins. I try to look innocent because they’re both in my bag. Sebastian rushes off to replenish our whisky. Marcus leans towards me and takes my hand.
‘I’ve got washerwoman’s hands,’ I slur.
‘No, they’re nice hands,’ he says.
I smile.
‘Sarah, I’m gay,’ he says softly.
‘Gay?’ I whisper back.
I start to laugh. He lets me laugh for a long time in my deranged way.
‘It’s not that funny,’ he says eventually. He takes the two whiskies from Sebastian’s tray and gives him his credit card.
‘Gay,’ I repeat, shaking my head.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Maureen doesn’t know. I know I should tell her but it’s never the right time. I was actually going to ask you if you wanted to come and meet my boyfriend. His name’s Clive.’
‘Gay,’ I repeat.
‘I thought you’d guessed.’
‘No. I’ve got, like, no signal on my gaydar at all.’
‘I’m really surprised you haven’t got a man, Sarah.’
‘Oh, Marcus. I’ve been trying to find a man. So far I’ve met three guys I like. I met this one gorgeous guy, went on a few dates, he had a girlfriend. Met another guy. He was lo
vely. A bit old, but lovely. Took me out, never heard from him again. Then I meet you. You’re gay.’
I start laughing again. It’s one of those laughs that could easily become a cry. I have a premonition of the future. I am the sloshed, lined lady sitting in a bar on my fourth martini moaning about her lost loves. Sarah the Sexless Soak, they’ll call me. I try to think of a positive.
‘Marcus, what should I do with my hair?’
‘Come and meet Clive. He’s a bloody hair stylist.’
thirty-seven
Clive lives down a cobbled street in Covent Garden. His flat is above his hair salon, which is wedged between a shoe shop and a coffee-and-cake shop. If I lived in Covent Garden I wouldn’t have email or a phone. I would ask everyone to communicate with me by letter or in person. People would say, ‘What’s your number?’ and I’d say, ‘I don’t have a phone, I live in Covent Garden, take my address, write or pop in.’ That way everyone I came into contact with would know I lived in Covent Garden and they would say, ‘Wow, you live in Covent Garden,’ and I would smile modestly and ask, ‘Where do you live?’ and they would say, ‘Penge,’ and I would be happy. Although the downside of living in Covent Garden would be that drunk people descend upon you at bedtime. Clive seems quite happy about it though.
‘Marcus. You’re pissed but you’re gorgeous.’ He smiles, letting us into his flat. I say ‘flat’ but it could be a showroom for an expensive, minimalist furniture shop. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so clean. It must cost him a fortune to live here. I’m a bit worried that the presence of me in my second-hand clothes is devaluing the property. Clive doesn’t seem to mind though. He smiles broadly and kisses me.
‘Hey, Sarah,’ he says. He wears Jarvis Cocker glasses, has the face of a choirboy and his blond fringe is styled in an exact replica of how I had mine on the first day of school. My sister used to say it looked like someone had stuck a builder’s hard hat on my head and cut round it. He wears the sort of clothes that would only look good on him or petite, rich Chinese fashion students: skin-tight yellow jeans, unnecessarily held up with black braces, and a tight red and black stripy T-shirt with no sleeves.
‘What you up to, sailor? Blogging?’ says Marcus, wandering over to the large-screen Mac sat upon the pink plastic desk in the corner of the room.
‘Yeah, been on it for hours,’ says Clive. He stretches.
‘Have you got a blog?’ I yelp.
‘Clive has got the best blog in London!’ says Marcus, puffing up proudly like a pigeon.
‘I have the best blog in London,’ I tell them like a cocky kid. I look at Clive’s blog. ‘Or maybe not,’ I add when I catch sight of the graphics on his site; the whole page is pink and all the writing is yellow in a Coca-Cola-style font, and he has pictures.
‘Your blog looks amazing!’
‘Thanks,’ says Clive.
I start to read. It’s called The Cutting Pages. He writes tales about the people’s hair he cuts who are quite often famous. I stand and read.
‘Oh my God!’ I shriek, hand to mouth, like my mother when there’s sex on the telly. ‘How can you write this stuff about people? He’s famous, you can’t say you’ve seen better-looking scrotums!’
‘Most of them come to me because of the blog. They get a good haircut and then a good online massacring.’
‘You’re the Simon Cowell of hairdressing,’ I say, impressed.
‘The Simon Cowell of hairdressing. I bloody love that! I’m going to make it a tag line.’ He proceeds to tap away at his blog. He uses all his fingers when he types. ‘Here, I’ll credit the tag line to your blog address and then people can click on it. You’ll get lots of hits from it.’
I fight the impulse to snap his braces and play with his hair and ruffle him all over with love. I thank him instead.
‘So what’s your blog called?’
‘A Spinster’s Quest,’ I tell him.
‘Saucy,’ he says.
‘Clive, I know people probably ask you this all the time, but what should I do with my hair?’
Clive jumps up from his seat and starts holding my hair in different shapes. He sweeps most across my face like a big duck wing and holds some up at the back.
‘Sit over there and I’ll get my stuff.’
‘You’re going to do it now?’
‘Yeah, I’m booked up for ages at the salon,’ he says, releasing my hair and rushing out of the room. I move to the swivel chair he pointed me to. I spin around on it.
‘Marcus,’ I whisper. ‘You know how you’re gay?’
‘Hmmm.’ He chuckles.
‘I still think this has been my best date yet.’
He walks over to me and kisses me tenderly on the cheek. ‘Right, time for more booze! Let’s see what’s in here.’ And he crouches down and opens a drinks cabinet the likes of which I haven’t seen since I stopped watching Dynasty. He hands me a tumbler with some clear liquid in it, gives one to Clive on his return and takes his over to the computer.
‘Time to read A Spinster’s Quest,’ he says intently to the screen.
Clive treats my head like Edward Scissorhands treats bushes. He chats all the time. Clive won the Best Entertainment Bloggie last year and he gets hundreds of hits a day. People even want to advertise on his blog.
‘You’re my blogging hero,’ I sigh.
‘I tell you what people like in their blogs, Sarah. Sex and bitching. Do a lot of one or the other, or better still a bit of both, and a blog is successful. I swear that’s the truth.’
‘Sex and bitching,’ I say firmly.
‘Sarah,’ shouts Marcus, getting up. He looks serious. I haven’t seen Marcus look serious yet.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Don’t move,’ says Clive.
‘You know the old bloke you went on that date with?’
‘Yep.’
‘I think it’s my dad,’ he says.
‘What?’ I squeak, spinning around. ‘Is his name Eamonn Nigels?’ he asks. ‘Yeeeeessss. He can’t be.’
‘He bloody can.’
‘But he said he had a son who was thirty-one!’
‘It’s a scientific fact that dads never know the age of their children.’
‘Oh, how weird,’ I say, looking at him.
Then Marcus’s face breaks into a grin.
‘Come here, Mummy.’
thirty-eight
‘Is Sarah working today?’
‘Well, I definitely wouldn’t use the term “working”,’ replies Julia, looking down at me.
Eamonn Nigels leans over the counter. I look up at his face. I am crouching on the floor behind the counter in the café. I am holding a bacon sandwich on a plate. I have been holding the bacon sandwich for a quarter of an hour. I want to eat the bacon sandwich. But I can’t be sure that the bacon sandwich will want to stay in me.
‘What’s the matter?’ asks Eamonn Nigels.
‘There’s a little boxing man in her head. Isn’t there, Sare?’ I nod with the energy of a narcoleptic. Julia does her impression of the little boxing man. I like this. She crouches down and scrunches up her face and then does little boxing moves in front of her face. Eamonn Nigels laughs. Eamonn Nigels’ laugh is like a Mexican wave: it starts with polite shoulder-bobbing but turns quickly into raucous flailing arms and beast-like sounds.
I stand up. It takes a long time.
‘I like your hair.’ He smiles.
Julia coughs.
‘Did you have a big night?’ he asks gently. I nod.
‘She mixed her drinks like a crazy DJ. Didn’t you? White wine, champagne, vodka martinis, whisky and gin,’ lists Julia like she’s playing that game when you remember everything on a tray. ‘Oh, and sambuca!’
It’s not a list I want to be reminded of. My face sets like one of those masks that are supposed to symbolize theatre. The frowning one. Eamonn Nigels opens his arms. I shuffle towards them. My head nestles into his cashmere jumper and I close my eyes. It is a warm, wonderful man-hug. I cou
ld stay here for ever.
‘Do you have to work?’ he whispers to my hair. ‘You could come back to my house and I could look after you.’
This seems a strange offer from a man who took me out and didn’t want to see me again. I look at him accordingly.
‘Sarah, I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch. I went to LA and didn’t take your number. I did try to call here for it. A Polish-sounding man gave me the number of a sex line.’
I smile.
‘Come back to mine. I’ll tuck you up on the sofa and make you tea.’
I have never known such kindness in the face of self-inflicted sickness. My eyes sting with tears. Hangovers make me emotional. I step out of the embrace and take my waitress pad and pen from my apron. I write:
Thank you. But Julia is the worst waitress in the world. I can’t leave her.
I show it to him. He nods and smiles. I write a second note: I can’t speak. Julia said my breath could kill.
‘Oh, Sarah. I’ve got some theatre tickets tonight. Would you like to come? If you’re feeling better,’ he blusters. ‘It’s on at the Haymarket. I thought we could have supper at The Ivy afterwards.’
Eamonn leaves and I look at Julia. She’s turned the purple colour that people go when they try not to laugh for a long time.
It will be all right, I say quietly to myself. I’ll go out with Eamonn Nigels. All I need to do is:
1)
take chewing gum
2)
try not to fall asleep in the dreadful play
3)
tell him before we order that I am an actress. If he still wants to ban me I can leave
4)
show interest in his children if I haven’t been banned. When he mentions Marcus I’ll say, ‘What a coincidence, I know Marcus and his boyfriend Clive’
‘It will be all right, Julia. I’ve got a foolproof plan,’ I say loudly. ‘If this predicament doesn’t get me more than sixty-three readers a day, I don’t know what will.’
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 17
