‘There’s still some there from the last time you brought me tea, Jules.’ I point towards a squashed roll of kitchen towel lying on my floor.
‘Cool.’
Julia is staying with me. She’s promised to help me make up a raunchy story about looking for love at a fetish club. The last time I made up a sexy story I was so mortified that I tried to stop my blog. Now I’m doing it again in the desperate hope that it will get me more readers. Any integrity I once had now rots in a landfill of fabricated filth. It is ridiculous to be doing this because what actually occurred tonight would make dynamic reading. The man I had been seeing, who happened to be the father of the gay man I tried to kiss, read my blog against huge odds. He flew halfway across the world only to find me dressed as a nurse in a fetish club, and dumped me. However I can’t write the truth because it would hurt Eamonn and Marcus. So I have to resort to smut instead.
‘So what are we going to write?’ Julia asks.
‘Dunno, but it’s got to be sexy and bitchy.’
‘Write, “I looked like a model from an Ann Summers catalogue in my PVC nurse’s uniform,”’ says Julia.
‘I didn’t! I looked like the “before” picture of a Weight Watchers advert.’
‘Write it!’ says Julia.
‘OK,’ I relent and start to type.
‘Write, “My skirt was so short you could see my shaven pussy,”’ she squeals.
‘No!’
‘I dare you.’
‘All right.’ I tap away to placate Julia. I write ‘My best friend’s skirt was so short you could see her badly shaven pussy.’
‘Then put “The club was dark and dangerous. Things I’d only seen in my fantasies were taking place in front of my face.”’
‘That’s quite good, Jules.’ I write what she said and then I list some examples.
‘Right, we need to pretend that you had a bit of a sexy time with someone but it was just fun and you won’t be seeing them again.’
‘But I didn’t have a sexy time with anyone,’ I moan.
‘What about the bloke who wanted to lick your feet?’
‘He was about seventy!’
‘I thought that was your target age.’
‘Bitch.’
‘We need to make out he was in his thirties and sexy and it was exciting and you let him lick your toes and it was sensual.’
‘Jules, I’ve got athlete’s foot!’
‘They don’t know that!’
‘Then you can say you were so aroused you went to the toilet to masturbate and met three bisexual women in nuns’ habits and you all had an orgy.’
‘Julia, I’m not Rachel sodding Bird!’
‘OK, but say he licked your toes and you spanked him and found it oddly arousing. If you put a bit of Catholic guilt in as well it’ll be brilliant.’
‘OK.’ I fabricate a speedy story. It’s not my best because it’s three in the morning. But I have to do it now because I’ll be at the wedding tomorrow. I show it to Julia. She nods her approval. I post it online.
‘Shall we have a look at Rachel Bird’s blog? See if the master has said anything about tonight?’
I watch Julia as she excitedly gets the correct page on the computer. Then I go to the bathroom.
When I return Julia is sitting on her mattress on the floor. She’s kneeling like she’s the short person at the front of a group photograph. She’s thinking.
‘What’s with the thinking face?’ I ask, getting into bed.
‘You need to read this, Sare. And I don’t want you to be upset.’
‘Why?’ I start.
‘Rachel Bird’s finishing her blog.’
‘Why would I be upset? That’s great for me! I’ll get her readers. I’ll win my little Bloggie. Here, let’s have a read.’
‘OK,’ she says slowly. She gives me the laptop. I look at the screen.
Tonight I went to a fetish club
‘Blimey, she posted an article at two-forty-two this morning. I thought we were quick!’ I say to Julia.
I looked good.
‘She’s so bloody full of herself.’
I dressed in my tiny PVC skirt, the high shoes that Seve bought me to dance in for him and my silver nipple tassels. I did the usual. I danced in a cage for a while. I let a man suck my toes. I nearly whipped the arse off a man. But I didn’t feel the normal tingles of excitement. Nothing got me in the mood. I asked myself, ‘What’s wrong, Convent Girl?’ as another drink was bought for me.
This was my haunt. This place had been the school of my sexual misconduct. But it felt wrong tonight. I wished I’d stayed at home and watched that ugly bloke Jonathan Ross instead.
‘I can’t believe she said that about Jonathan Ross,’ I mutter.
I was about to leave when I saw an old schoolfriend talking to a handsome film director I’ve always admired. When I saw the film director my stomach did something. I’ve heard people say that when they fell in love they had butterflies in their stomach. I always thought it was a load of old bollocks. But this man had incredible eyes. He was older. He had gravitas. I couldn’t stop looking at him and I swear to you my stomach was doing something.
He left and I chatted to the old schoolfriend. She’s an actress with a blog, like me. Although her blog is tame, she moans about finding the right guy, etc. I wanted to find out as much as I could about this man. Apparently she’d been on a couple of dates with him, but then he read her blog and wanted her to stop it. She didn’t want to stop writing her blog so she said no.
I left the club after that. Alone. For the first time ever. If I ever had a chance with a man like that, what would I do? Would I say no to him so I could carry on entertaining you lot with the details of my sex life? I hope not. I hope I would be able to fall in love and stop shagging around and do the things normal people do. But maybe I’ll never find what I’m looking for if I carry on like this.
So, Convent Girl has decided to hang up her crotchless knickers for a while. She might subtly stalk the man with gravitas now that she knows he’s single. She wants to know if there is such a thing as love at first sight.
‘Is that all I do on my blog? Moan?’ I ask. ‘No, Sare. It’s much better now you’re putting sex and bitchiness in,’ Julia says, lying down on the mattress.
‘Do you think I’m too obsessed with my blog to even notice when I meet the right man, Jules?’
‘Um,’ Julia hesitates. ‘I don’t know, Sare.’
Neither of us says another word before we go to sleep.
forty-six
Nikki would look beautiful in a cagoule with mumps. Today in her cream satin wedding dress she looks like she could do an Estée Lauder advert. I can’t take my eyes off her. I have never seen someone this happy without Class A drugs. She has a magical energy. Everyone around her is smiling too. If Nikki could stay like this she could become a UN peace ambassador and travel to wartorn countries. Rapers and pillagers would put down their virgins or their Sony home entertainment systems as she passed by. Her smile would spread to their lips. And they would plant flowers and do make-friends-make-friends and learn to play the harmonica instead.
I am not smiling though, because intense happiness, along with 117 other things, makes me cry.
‘Sarah, darling, you’ve got to pull yourself together,’ coos Nikki. ‘I need to walk down the aisle.’
‘Sweetie, there’s another wedding booked straight after this,’ tries Flora.
‘For fuck’s sake, Sare. We do this bit then we get champagne,’ barks Julia.
I hold my breath and nod.
‘Let’s do it,’ I whisper, composing myself.
Nikki’s mum and dad take her hands and Flora, Julia and I arrange ourselves behind them.
‘We like it up the rear, don’t we, Sare?’ shouts Julia to me as the doors to the hall open.
Over a hundred people turn like a tide and smile at Nikki. The music starts and I smile. It’s a recording of Olivia Newton John singing a song called ‘If Not
For You’. Nikki wouldn’t tell me what she was walking down the aisle to. She wanted it to be a surprise. We loved this song when we were at the convent. We saw Grease when we were twelve and became obsessed with Olivia Newton John. It was a big treat when our mums let us walk into town one Saturday to buy her LP. When we went home, we played it again and again until we knew all the words. We promised we’d play this song at our wedding. We were going to have a joint wedding to the two Bros brothers. The only problem with hearing this song now is that Simon and I changed the lyrics one night. It was one of the two evenings that I was on the Carol Vorderman detox diet. I was making a stew and as I cooked I sang ‘if not for stew’. The stew turned out to be the colour of an unpleasant bowel movement which interestingly was what happened after we ate the stew. At which point Simon changed the lyrics to ‘if not for poo’.
I try to find where Simon’s sitting. I recognize the back of his head, three rows from the front on Bertrand’s side. He turns around. We look at each other. He winks at me and mouths the words, ‘Our version’s better.’ He looks gorgeous today. It must be the suit. He looks James Bond sexy. Whoa! What am I thinking? Stop drooling right there, Sarah. This is Simon. He’s your friend, he’s got a girlfriend, and your best friend is planning on jumping him post-speeches.
The obligatory standing-around-drinking-champagne-on-an-empty-stomach is next. As bridesmaids Julia and I are involved in a lot of photos. This is unfortunate. As a rule, we only like having our photos taken by mobile phones in dark places that serve alcohol. We pull scary faces until the photographer says, ‘Settle down, ladies.’ At which point we smile and he says, ‘Ladies, please, no more silly faces.’
My neck aches from holding my chins in so much. My mouth feels as though it’s never been on my face before. I can’t remember how to smile normally. We’re finally released when the photographer wants to do some contemporary reportage with the bride’s family. Julia and I pounce on a tray of champagne as though we have just participated in a biscuit-eating contest in the Atacama Desert. We find Simon. I deliberately stand away from him so Julia can lay some groundwork. I look for a Brazilian usher to marry. I try to stifle a yawn.
‘We keeping you up?’ Simon asks.
‘Out at a fetish club last night, you know,’ I say, being cool.
Julia looks at me and starts moving her neck like she’s got water stuck in her ear.
‘What the wank are you doing?’ I enquire.
‘Look over there,’ she insists. Her spasming ear sends my gaze to the corner of the lawn.
Bertrand has his arm around a very glamorous Brazilian woman in an amazing purple satin dress with a matching hat. She looks voluptuous and exotic. I pray that I’m not sitting next to her at dinner.
‘Bitch,’ I say.
‘There’s something not right about the two of them, is there?’ Julia frowns.
I study the two of them for a few moments. ‘Oh,’ I say.
Bertrand is nuzzling her ear and she is smiling knowingly. I have never been sure what a knowing smile is. But she is smiling in a way that says, ‘The way you stuck your finger up my bottom last night as I climaxed was amazing.’ I take it that is what is known as a knowing smile.
Nikki is having her photo taken with her mum and dad and Flora. She hasn’t noticed Bertrand.
‘Simon, do you know what the woman in purple is called?’ Julia asks.
‘S, s, sa,’ Simon starts, but he’s more interested in the waiter with a tray of canapés who is walking across the lawn.
‘Sarah?’ Julia pants. I hear her breathing quicken. This is stage one of Julia’s legendary temper.
‘Something like that.’ Simon shrugs before darting after the waiter and leaving us.
Stage two of Julia’s temper is the narrowing of her eyes. Stage three is when the dark cloud passes over her face and her forehead furrows like a ripe pumpkin. Stage four is the explosion of inventive expletives. Stages two, three and four follow in Silverstone-speed succession. I look at her, terrified.
‘That’s fuckin’ it!’ she says gutturally. ‘I’m going to talk to the cock-headed cunt.’ I open my mouth to protest but am quickly silenced as she whisks the champagne glass out of my hand and stalks off, a glass of bubbly in each hand. I stand frozen, mouthing the word ‘bollocks’.
‘What’s up with Big Tits?’ asks Si, returning with three smoked-salmon blinis.
‘She’s about to make a terrible scene and ruin the wedding.’
‘Uh?’ he says with his mouth full.
Julia stalks up to them both. She splashes a glass of champagne in each of their faces. The three of them stare at each other for a moment in disbelief. Then the Brazilian woman’s face contorts into an expression of fury. She starts spouting vehement Portuguese. Champagne drips from her chin, and her once wild wavy hair is now plastered to her face.
‘Sare, why did Jules just drench Bertrand and his sister?’
asks Simon, his eyes glued to the scene. I stand there staring at the splash marks on Bertrand’s grey satin suit. I fully expect the Brazilian sex goddess to thump Julia. Simon’s words register.
‘His sister?’
‘Well, stepsister or something; his dad’s wife’s daughter from her first marriage, I think.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She’s fit, so I asked Bertrand who she was.’
‘And that’s what he said, did he?’ I say.
‘Yeah. What the hell’s going on here, Sare?’
I look at Julia, who’s now been joined by Nikki and Flora. They’re having a very intense conversation. Nikki throws her head back and starts laughing. She hugs Julia and begins talking to the Brazilian goddess. Bertrand then starts speaking in Portuguese to the gorgeous woman, who clasps her hands to her mouth. She looks mortified. Every pair of eyes is on Julia as she walks back to Simon and me.
‘It’s his sister!’ she says, looking at her toes. ‘Simon, her name’s Sarafina. It sounds nothing like Sarah.’
Simon puts his arm around Julia’s shoulders.
‘Come here, you silly cow.’
Julia nestles her head into his shoulder. Simon squeezes Julia. I start thinking like an immature seven-year-old. I’m his ‘silly cow’ and Julia’s my friend and I should comfort her. I want to tear them apart. I don’t. I wander away from them to look for a tasty usher.
forty-seven
Quest No. 7: Pulling at Nikki and Bertrand’s Wedding. A wedding is the perfect pulling platform. People are dressed up, full of champagne and looking at a happy couple. The mood is love, love and love. No one talks of divorce or the breakdown of the family unit. People are frisky and fruity. Plus everyone is a guest of someone you know. They’ve been vetted. The chosen specimen will not turn out to be a psychopath, and if they do, someone, i.e. the bride or groom, should have warned you.
There is a sign on my noticeboard that says Set you’re eyes on the prize. And I have. I am aiming high. He is an usher. If all men were chocolates in a box of Quality Street, I would usually go for the strawberry-crème man or the that-really-bloody-hard-toffee-that-breaks-your-jawman. I would go for the man I think no one else will want. But this usher is the purple one. He is the milk chocolate caramel with the nut in the middle of men. He is tall and broad and muscly. He has olive skin and perfect teeth. He should be on a calendar, not at a wedding. He is Tarzan in a suit. I am his Jane in Spanx. He is Brazilian. We don’t have men like this in England. Men in England look like they buy their meat at Sainsbury’s and pick up a scratch-card at the same time. This man looks like he kills his meat in the jungle and rescues a trapped panther cub on the way home.
He’s helping a puny waiter move a table. He lifts it over his head. I watch his arm muscles tensing beneath his shirt. If he was mine I would lock him up in my flat and make him carry heavy things all day. He puts the table down. I start to make my way over to him. I shall see if he would like a hand. Then I will ask him if he enjoyed his dinner. Everyone loves talking about food.
‘Would you like me to help you?’ I shout slowly, pointing at myself, then him. He looks slightly shocked.
‘Sare, there you are,’ shouts Simon, slapping me on the bum. He offers his hand towards the Brazilian. They do a manly handshake.
‘I’m Simon.’
‘I’m Santos. Hello.’ He smiles. Santos. It sounds like the name of a god or a bleach.
‘I’m Sarah,’ I shout.
‘Jesus, Sare, I don’t think he’s deaf,’ says Simon, acting as though I have hurt his eardrums. Santos starts to laugh. He has a bit of spinach stuck in the middle of his perfect bottom teeth.
‘Did you enjoy dinner?’ I say slowly to Santos. I start to play with my own bottom teeth, in the hope that he’ll pick at his and find the spinach.
Santos looks blank. Simon makes a gesture of eating and then puts his thumb up. Santos smiles and puts his thumb up as well.
‘Mate, spinach in your teeth,’ says Simon, pointing.
Santos pats Simon on the back and heads towards the loo.
‘Cheers for that, Si,’ I say with sarcasm.
‘Come here, you.’ He grabs me and kisses me on the cheek. Then he releases me. ‘What’s up with Jules?’
‘Nothing, why?’
‘She’s on heat. She just flashed her boobs at me.’
‘She always flashes her boobies when she’s drunk.’
‘Are we going to have a dance later?’ He smiles.
‘Yeah,’ I say excitedly. I love dancing with Simon, although it generally ends in an ankle injury.
‘Sarah!’ It’s Nikki, rushing up behind me. ‘I’ve hardly seen you all day! Listen, I’ve got a room booked upstairs. Come with me for a chat.’ She takes my arm.
‘Great. I’ll reapply make-up and Santos won’t be able to resist me.’
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 21
