Another deep sigh from Eamonn.
‘So have you read this Confessions of a Convent Girl?’ He is speaking quietly now.
‘Hmmm.’
‘I bet everyone has. It’s racy stuff.’ He sighs.
‘Hmmm.’ That’s right, Sarah. Be monosyllabic. Let him talk this out. Then you can go back into the bedroom.
‘Oh Sarah,’ he says, but he holds on to the last syllable of my name for a long time and then when he lets go of it he is crying. Oh God, help me here, I’ve got a crying man on the phone and a naked one in the bedroom. I let him sniffle for a while.
‘That’s pathetic,’ I say seriously.
‘What?’ he gulps, alarmed.
‘That sniffling. I want some proper crying. Rachel did much better than that when she called me earlier. Come on, wail,’ I instruct.
Eamonn does as he’s told. I hear him sobbing down the phone to me. I let him do so for a while. ‘Is that the best you can do? I want snot and hiccups. Come on, hiccup!’ I bark.
He breaks then and starts to laugh. I hear him blow his nose down the phone. It’s not pleasant.
‘So she called you then? And she was upset?’ he says quietly.
‘Hmmm,’ I say. Back to monosyllabic.
‘Really?’
‘Well, more like devastated and inconsolable.’
‘Oh no, the poor girl!’ he says, sounding truly concerned.
‘Eamonn, I honestly believe she’d give anything up for you. You just have to decide whether you can handle the fact that she’s got a past.’
‘Thank you, Sarah, and you were really great tonight, by the way.’
‘Thank you, Mr Nigels.’
‘Now then, I do like your friend Simon.’
‘Yep, he’s special isn’t he?’
‘I’ve been thinking about his charity idea.’
‘Well, it’s more than an idea. He’s booked a trip to Brazil with twenty kids. They go in a couple of months.’
‘I’d like to help him, financially or otherwise. Would he be offended if I offered?’
‘Eamonn, he’d be bloody over the moon.’
‘Give him my number. I’ll leave it to him to make contact. Yes, he’s a terrific young man.’ It sounds worryingly like Eamonn’s settled in for a good chat.
‘Um, I really have to get to bed now.’
‘Of course, so sorry. Thank you and good-night, Sarah.’
I hang up and turn my phone off.
‘I’m so sorry about that, Paul, now come here you gorgeous pile of man, you,’ I sing as I skip into his bedroom.
‘Oh!’ I add when I see that my gorgeous pile of man is under the covers, arms spread, head thrown back on the pillow, mouth open with a small bit of spittle trickling down his chin.
‘Bloody blogs,’ I mutter as I try to curl myself into the two free inches of bed he’s left me.
fifty-nine
Sarah
I’m so sorry!! I must have crashed out while you were on the phone. I was knackered. I’ve been working late and I had to start early so I could get away for your play. I hadn’t eaten yesterday either. Sorry if I was shitty at your do. I get ratty if I don’t eat. I’m really sorry. I didn’t hear you leave. You must have left really early.
‘Yes, I did leave really bloody early because you were snoring like you had a sinus problem and you had kebab breath,’ I say to the screen.
I want to make things up to you. Work has been mad since we got this new project and I’ve hardly seen you. I missed your birthday and fell asleep which, believe me, was the last thing I wanted to do last night.
Forgive me, please.
Paul
xxxxxxxxxx (would very much like to give those in person!)
PS saw that review in The Times. Well done you.
I smile. For the first time in my life I am mentioned in newspaper theatre reviews. And they don’t say, ‘Sarah Sargeant should consider a career in plumbing’, they say that I am a ‘voluptuous talent to watch out for’. In addition to this Selina couriered a script to the theatre. The entire cast was horribly jealous. Having a script for a future project couriered to a theatre you’re performing at is tantamount to winning the Best Supporting Actress Oscar. Obviously now I have a part in an LA film I am daydreaming constantly that I actually do win a Best Supporting Actress Oscar. However, I’m not sure whether twenty-four lines is enough to qualify for the Best Supporting Actress category. Although I do have twenty-seven if you count two ‘Yes’s and an ‘Mmmm’.
So what did you want to do last night?
I email Paul this one curt question back. No kisses. That’ll teach him. He’s obviously online because I quickly get this response.
I wanted to kiss you . . .
‘Come on, Paul. We’ve done kissing. I thought last night we would be consummating our friendship. I wanted you to make me scream,’ I say in an American accent as I walk to the kitchen for a glass of wine. I think I might be turning into an American dominatrix. Cool.
When I reseat myself in front of the computer, a frisky little box has popped up in the corner of the screen.
Paul – I wanted to kiss you . . . all over . . .
This must be Google Chat. I’ve never done it before. I think I could like instant messaging. I type back.
Sarah – Hmmmm . . .
Paul – I would have started with your lips, your mouth, I would have taken your earlobe and gently bitten it. Then I would have moved my mouth to your neck . . .
Why did he stop there?
Sarah – Hmmmm . . .
Paul – Sorry, had to stop typing to adjust my trousers! Would you like to know what my hands would have been doing?
Blimey. He must have a semi.
Sarah – Hmmmm . . .
Paul – I would have traced the line of your collarbone with my fingers and then my hands would be soft like feathers and they would move gently over your breasts and tummy and slowly, very slowly they would move lower and lower. Soft like feathers. Then my hands would move back up your body. A little harder now and they would linger over your breasts pressing more and more until I felt your nipples harden under my touch. Then much as I like the wraparound dress you were wearing I would ask you to stand up and let me remove it from you.
He’s stopped again.
Sarah – Are you still wearing that tiny towel at this point?
Paul – Yes I am just wearing a tiny little towel. It is starting to look like a tepee.
Sarah – Hmmm.
Paul – Then I would say, ‘Would you like me to suck your nipples?’ (Couldn’t resist that.)
Sarah – Bastard. Carry on.
Paul – I would slowly take off your bra and pull your knickers off and I would lay you on the bed.
‘Blimey, I’m not wearing any knickers!’ I squeal.
‘What was that, Sare?’ shouts Simon from the lounge.
‘Nothing!’
Sarah – Will you be taking off the little towel soon?
Paul – I think it just fell off.
Sarah – Hmmmm.
Paul – And I would kiss and suck your nipples and stroke your tummy and inside your thighs . . .
Sarah – When can I touch you?
Paul – I might have to gag you in a minute!
Sarah – Hmmm.
Paul – Then I would kiss your tummy and inside your legs, then I would open your legs and find your clitoris with my mouth. I would spend three days here and then I would move up your body to kiss you so that you can taste yourself and move my body between your legs and slowly, slowly enter you . . .
Sarah – Hmmmm.
Paul – I would squeeze your nipples as I so, so slowly moved inside you. I could come any second.
‘You’d better bloody not. I’m not on the Pill,’ I whisper to the screen.
Paul – I would probably come very quickly this first time.
Sarah – Hmmm.
Paul – But the next time I would see if you wanted to go on top and as soo
n as you were climaxing I would put my finger in your mouth and then insert it gently up your anus to give you an incredible orgasm.
‘AHHHHHH!’ I scream.
‘You all right, Sare?’ Simon calls.
‘I think so,’ I call back shrilly.
Paul – I’m very hard.
I think about writing ‘I’m getting wet.’ I don’t. It sounds like I’m standing in the rain. I opt for:
Sarah – 7.30 p.m. My place. Sunday.
sixty
‘Fuck me, Sare, what you doing? Finding Nemo?’
‘Simon, you’ve got to go! He’ll be here in a sec.’
Paul texted me nearly an hour ago saying he was on his way. He asked me if he should bring anything. I said, ‘Just a toothbrush.’
‘What’s this?’
‘A langoustine. Si, put it down. He’ll be here any minute.’
I have created a sumptuous aphrodisiac feast as part of my new mission: 50 Ways to Keep a Lover. Quest No. 1 is Cooking for Him. I read a quote by this bloke, Tom Wolfe, on the Internet. It said, ‘There is no sight on earth more appealing than the sight of a woman making dinner for someone she loves.’ At first I wanted to tell Tom to make his own sodding dinner and make some for me while he was at it. But then I thought about his words and decided that I wanted Paul to have that experience. Unfortunately I can’t actually cook so I bought a lot of shellfish instead. He did say he liked fish. But we’ve been doing some filthy instant messaging so that might not actually have been what he meant.
‘Shouldn’t you get dressed then, Sare?’
Simon is referring to the fact that I am wearing a towel. However, this is a trick I learnt years ago while watching Dallas. Women in Dallas would always greet men at their apartments wearing just a towel. The towel would slip seductively down as the drinks were being poured. The man and woman would be at it within minutes.
‘Si, go! You don’t want to be late for Eamonn Nigels. He’s booked a table and everything,’ I say, arranging the oysters, prawns and langoustines on the tray of ice. I try not to think about the fact that I paid half my Equity minimum weekly theatre wage on the little buggers.
Ordinarily I would worry that a man might be shocked to find me half naked in a flat full of fish. But I am not at all worried because this is the man who has sent me two emails about sticking a finger up my bum.
The finger-up-the-bum messaging has set me into a bit of a frenzy though. On the one hand it has made me unbearably randy. But on the other it has made me terrified. Aries men, apparently, like women who explore in the bedroom department. But how experimental should I be the first time? Should I stick my finger up his bottom as well? I’m not even sure if that’s physically possible. I got so worried today that I attempted to watch porn on the Internet for tips. It didn’t help. Everything took ages to buffer. I’m feeling very out of practice. I stopped counting the amount of sex-free days I was having when it got to years. But, if I’m honest, I can hardly remember the last time as I was barely conscious. The last time I had conscious sex was over four years ago. I have played golf, eaten bone marrow and had an ear infection the same amount of times I have had sex in the last four years.
‘Sare, do I look too smart?’
I am just about to tell him to ‘Please just leave the frigging flat.’ But I stop myself when Simon walks into the living room wearing a suit. I normally hate suits. They make me think of politicians. But Simon in a suit is like a cod in batter. Something already good made better.
‘You look hot.’
He smiles.
‘Whatever you do, don’t have the bone marrow.’
‘The wha . . . ?’
‘Just GO.’
I smile as I watch him leave. Things are so good in my life at the moment. I am as happy as a teenager with his dad’s car keys and a spliff. I know I am going to have a good night.
‘What do you want me to do with it?’ he whispers.
‘Give it to me,’ I moan.
‘OK, Sare, I’ll close my eyes and just pop it inside.’
‘Push it in quite far,’ I whimper.
‘How’s that?’
‘Yep, great.’
I lean forward on the toilet and grab the four-pack of toilet roll that Simon is pushing into the bathroom. Bless him. He bought Andrex Longer Lasting.
‘Was it a dodgy oyster?’
‘Or prawn or langoustine.’
‘Did Paul go once you started shitting?’
‘He never came.’
I start to cry. Again. It is clear that my entire thirties shall be spent in toilets, revisiting food and crying.
‘But he was on his way.’
‘He never got here. His phone’s been off all night.’
‘What an absolute bastard.’
‘I thought he might be dead. I called London Transport. There haven’t been any casualties on trains or buses. I even called the police.’
‘What an absolute bastard.’
I open the toilet door.
‘Come here, babe.’
I go to him like an obedient old Labrador. He hugs me while likening Paul to male and female reproductive organs.
‘Let’s get your duvet and snuggle you up on the sofa, shall we? I’ll clear away.’
As I am too ill to drink port and eat peanut butter on toast there is only one other thing I can do: lie on the sofa, cry and call Mum.
‘Come on, darling, I want proper wailing, that’s pathetic,’ she says over and over until I have to hang up and go to the toilet again.
sixty-one
He’s disappeared. Not a sorry, not a see-ya, not a sausage. One minute he wants to put his finger up my bottom, the next he’s gone. I wanted someone and he didn’t want me. And he chose not to tell me why I failed. Now I have a thousand suspicions instead.
Everything feels so hard, not hard in a penis sense or a Phil Mitchell sense, hard as in everything has become such an effort. It’s an effort to hold my head up and not keep looking sadly at the ground wondering what is wrong with me. And the thing that is wrong with me is the fact that I was wrong. Again. Why did I call him at the wedding? I called him at the wedding because I thought Simon was going to get together with Julia and I’d be alone. I am so stupid.
The only thing I have ever been right about is my decision to be an actress. The play was a hit and my performance was very well received. I was really able to give the emotional scenes some welly after Paul exited. I was even offered a part in Dominic’s next play, but I had to turn it down because I’ll be in LA filming an Eamonn Nigels movie. Despite this I feel as though everyone who looks at me wants to take a step away from me because they can tell that I am an unlovable freak.
My blog readers have been lovely. They want me to get back out there. They’ve been begging me to put it behind me. To appease them I told them tonight would be a quest. Quest No. 8: Pulling at the End-of-Play Party. The producers have hired an area of a club where we can drink until the early hours. I thought I might dance and flirt and see what I could find. But it is a gay club. Wall to mirrored wall of tight T-shirts bobbing like a brothel blanket to Nineties house. At least the music’s good. The only straight man here is Tristan. I look at him. He smiles. I think it’s a smile. It could be a painful wisdom-tooth grimace. I would like to kiss Tristan. I’m ashamed to admit that I intend to get him drunk and try to kiss him. The pretty girl who played the lesbian in the play has just handed him a tequila. This is war. I’ll buy him a double gin and tonic.
This is the slowest bar service I have ever known.
‘Nightmare,’ shouts the woman standing next to me. She’s got short hair and she looks very athletic.
‘Yeah,’ I nod. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I just want to stand here feeling sorry for myself.
‘I’m Sarah,’ she smiles.
‘So am I. Good name.’
‘Are you here on your own?’
‘No, I’m with that group of reprobates over there.’ I nod towards our sofa are
a. Tristan and the pretty girl who played the lesbian are standing very close and talking intently.
‘Oh. What do you do?’
‘I’m an actress.’
‘Wow.’
‘You?’
‘I’m a carpenter. Good with my hands.’
I laugh nervously. God, when I said, ‘Please help me to pull tonight’ it went without saying that I wanted to pull a man.
‘Look, I can see you’re straight. But I just wanted to tell you that you’re gorgeous. Have a good night.’
‘Thank you. That’s really lovely.’
‘What do you want?’ shouts the barman in my direction.
Just to be held and loved really, I think as I ask for two double gin and tonics.
Tristan is swaying slightly when I get back and the pretty actress is nowhere to be seen.
‘Thanks.’ He smiles. ‘Shall we sit down? I’m not sure I should be drinking. I’m on antibiotics for my teeth.’
‘You poor baby,’ I say, stroking his arm.
‘Amy said to say goodbye. She’s filming in the morning. She doesn’t like big end-of-show goodbyes so she just slipped away.’
‘You’re a brilliant director, Tristan,’ I say. It’s the flattering opener. Here I am again. I’m starting to feel like an old bit of sushi whirring round and round on the conveyor belt.
‘Thanks.’ He does the smile/grimace again. He is so lovely.
‘Tristan, I’d really like to kiss you,’ I say quietly.
‘Sarah, I can’t kiss you. My wisdom teeth are too painful. I can barely open my mouth.’ There it is. ‘I can’t kiss you. My wisdom teeth are too painful.’ The only rejection that could possibly rival ‘Soz. I wanna watch the Narnia movie on DVD.’
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 26
