‘Come on,’ I say, squeezing him tighter in my hug.
My dad reaches for the kitchen roll and blows his nose.
‘Where’s Simon?’ he asks.
‘Making a camp in the lounge with George and Rosie. I think he’s going to put a film on and get them all comfy in the hope they might sleep. They’re knackered.’
‘He’s a good man, Sarah.’
‘Hmmm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
‘Oh, Sarah,’ he sighs. ‘When’s he off to Brazil?’
‘Um. In a week and a half,’ I say.
‘Being an old fool, I don’t know much about anything . . .’ says my dad.
‘That’s true,’ I smile.
‘I do know that your mum’s lying in hospital and I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t come out.’
‘Oh, Dad.’
‘All I can think about is all the things that I never said.’
‘Dad.’
‘You mustn’t let him go without telling him how you feel.’
‘What?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Um.’
We are quiet for some time.
‘You know the first time I met your mum?’
‘Yeah. At the church dance. You asked Pauline to dance first because she had bigger breasts.’
‘That’s what I’ve always said. But it’s not true. I’d liked your mum for ages.’
‘Ah.’
‘I didn’t ask Pauline to dance because she had bigger breasts.’
‘Oh.’
‘I only said that because I was too proud to tell your mum that I’d liked her for years. And I only asked her friend first because I was so terrified that your mum wouldn’t say yes.’
‘You old fool.’
‘I’m saying this because I think you might have got your pride from me.’
‘Dad. The pride’s a Leo thing.’
‘Let me finish, Sarah.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I want to tell her so many things,’ he says.
‘You will, Dad.’
‘I don’t want you to be like me. If there’s something you want to say to someone you will tell them, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m going to tell you a little secret now. Purely because of circumstances. The people involved might not be with us much longer. Do you know who your mum thinks you’ve loved all along?’
I shake my head. My dad’s not having any of it.
‘I think you do know.’
‘Simon,’ I whisper as though someone’s torturing me.
‘Do you know, the first time she met Simon, years ago now, she said, “He’s the one. You mark my words.” I’ll never forget it. He still looked like a boy.’
‘Dad, I don’t think he likes me like that though. I think I’ve driven him away with all my stupid blog stuff.’
‘That blog was the best thing you did. It stopped you saying “Love is the route to pain and misery” all the time. You had to go out to meet a lot of men who you discovered weren’t a patch on Simon.’
‘What if he hates the thought?’
‘Oh, just bloody tell him,’ he says.
‘We should get ready to go to the hospital.’
The Barry White CD finishes and is replaced by the phone ringing. My sister races into the kitchen. We look at the phone as though it has never rung before. Then Gail darts bravely to the receiver.
‘Hello . . . yes. Oh, oh, oh, oh.’ She starts crying and nodding. She turns to us.
‘She’s come through the worst!’ she cries.
sixty-six
I don’t want to sleep. If I sleep someone could wake me with terrible news. I want everyone I know to be close to me. I want to hear them breathe. I want to hear their healthy hearts beat.
The doctors said that Mum is amazing. That she’s one of the healthiest and fittest women of her age they’ve ever seen. Apart from the heart that nearly stopped, that is. She needs to rest in hospital for a few weeks and then as long as she takes it easy she should be fine.
We spent the day sitting by her bed. She wasn’t really conscious but I think she knew we were there. I hope she did.
Exactly twenty-four hours ago I was hysterical because an unsuitable man blew me out by citing painful wisdom teeth. I want to slap that Sarah Sargeant. She must have been the stupidest being in the biosphere. She had all that she needed to be happy. Yet, like the lady who can’t find her glasses because they’re on her head, she searched sadly for something she already possessed. The other bourbon biscuit was there all the time. And now he’s lying next to me in this single bed in Mum and Dad’s spare room.
‘Si, I think I might be falling in love with you. I mean I’ve always loved you but now I think I’m in love. I think we could take on the world together.’
But what if I said something like this and he looked kindly at me and shook his head. ‘Oh, Sare! We’re mates. I don’t think of you in that way.’
A tear stings my eye at the thought.
Simon’s nose is up against the wall. He’s asleep. It’s silent. You never hear this in London, the sound of absolutely nothing. Oh God, I can’t hear Simon breathing.
‘Si, are you dead?’ I whisper.
‘Ur,’ he mumbles.
‘Sorry, go back to sleep. I just couldn’t hear you breathe, that’s all,’ I tell him.
‘I’m breathing into the wall.’ To speak he has to turn his head as though he’s taking a breath doing the front crawl.
Silence again.
‘Maybe you should face the other way,’ I counsel. ‘For oxygen, you know.’
He turns his body over, opening an oven door of his warmth as he does.
‘Shall we have a cuddle,’ I say nervously, ‘like we did last night? God, last night feels like months ago.’
I wait to feel an arm around me or an ‘All right, Sare.’ But the only answer is the silence. He’s asleep again. At least I can hear him breathe now. I can even feel it on the back of my neck.
Simon and Sarah. Even our names sound right. They both start with S and have two syllables. Simon and Sarah, or is Sarah and Simon better? They both sound good. Although I don’t want his surname. Sarah Gussett! Please. Everyone would call me Sweaty Gussett. He’d have to take mine. If we got married that is. If he wanted to. If he asked me.
I know that Simon would always make me laugh and be there to protect me and help me. But what can I offer him? I’m largely out of work and I’m scatty. He needs some beautiful fit Amazonian woman who runs yoga retreats. Why would he want me? I can’t think of a single reason. Maybe I’m just destined to be his friend and I’ll die never having told him how I feel. I’ll wear a big hat to his wedding.
‘Congratulations, Si, she’s lovely,’ I’ll say, and I’ll be a friend to his wife and I’ll be godmother to one of their children.
He’s snoring now like a friendly sleeping beast. I roll over very slowly. Our foreheads are nearly touching. I’ve never noticed that our faces are nearly the same size. Our eyes and noses and mouths are level. I watch him sleeping. His lips are parted a tiny bit. I’d like to pop a little kiss on them. If I did it super softly he wouldn’t wake. I worry briefly about infringing his civil liberties but decide to kiss him anyway. I hold my breath and lean in. I’m almost there. He opens his eyes.
‘Sare.’
‘Yes.’ I feel like a necrophile caught in a compromising position in a morgue.
‘I’m going to head back tomorrow. I need to get sorted for the trip.’
‘Course. Thank you so, so much for coming here and being amazing.’
‘Fuck off,’ he says bashfully.
We’re so close and talking so quietly it could be post-coital. I wish it was.
‘I mean it. You’ve been an angel. We’ll have to have our Sopranos day when you get back. Yeah, when you get back. I think that’ll be good for jet-lag.’
I smile at Simon. But he’s not smiling at me. H
e looks in pain.
‘Am I squashing you?’ I ask, concerned.
‘No, Sare. I don’t know how to tell you this: I’m moving out. I don’t know how long I’ll stay in Brazil. I’m going to stay out after the kids come back. So I’ll have to let the room go.’
‘Oh, that’s great, Si,’ I say. I know this is the same voice I’ll use when his future wife tells me she’s carrying his twins.
‘I’ll keep paying rent till you find someone else to move in.’
‘Fantastic, Si.’
‘I’ve really liked living with you though, Sare.’
‘Yeah, it’s been great.’
I roll over and bite my lip and try to control my breathing. I don’t sleep.
sixty-seven
I arrive in my living room wearing the clothes I’d put on almost a week ago. I call my dad.
‘How is she?’ I ask quickly.
‘I think they forgot to cut the umbilical cord between you and your mum.’ My dad laughs softly.
‘Any news?’
‘Sarah, she’s been asleep since you left.’
‘That’s good. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Sarah. Fine.’
‘Good,’ I sigh, relieved. ‘I’ll call in a few hours. Love you lots.’
I didn’t want to come back to London. It was Dad who insisted. I wish I hadn’t. The flat is empty and disappointing, like a Kinder egg without a toy. There are no Cockaladas, no random gym equipment or gargantuan tubs of protein powder, no Simon doing squats or yoga, no Simon attempting to sing, no Simon forgetting to close the door when he goes to the toilet, no Simon offering me wit and wisdom. Just no Simon.
I check the post. I even open the formal letters. There’s a hand-delivered envelope with the name SARAH SARGEANT on it. It doesn’t even feel like my name any more. I feel so different. Please be from Simon. Please. I open it.
Dear Sarah
I don’t know what to say. I really hate myself for how I’ve treated you. When I think of you waiting for me that night with all that fish. God, I am so sorry. I saw what Jasmine wrote on your blog and I had to write and apologize to you myself.
I have known Jasmine for her whole life. Our parents are close, we used to holiday together every year. She had a crush on me when she was a girl and when she was nineteen we started going out. I know she was very young, but she was my first love. I was hers. I suppose I always knew we’d be together. Then I proposed and she freaked out, basically. And at the same time everything was kicking off in my career, you know what my work is like. So I let her have her freedom. And then I went speed dating and I met you. And I’m so sorry because I thought you were wonderful. I still do think you’re wonderful. But I have to give it another chance with Jasmine.
One thing that Jasmine didn’t mention in her note to you is that her mother is seriously ill. She has the big C and things aren’t looking good. I’d rather you didn’t mention that to anyone or put it on a blog (!) because obviously it’s very private. She told me when I saw her, the night I should have been with you. I don’t want you to think that I’m with her because her mother is ill because that’s not the case at all. But it does make it easier for me to forgive the strangeness of her behaviour over the past few months. And I thought you’d understand too, having seen how close you are to your family. (I hope they are all well by the way, I really enjoyed meeting them at the marathon.)
Sarah, please forgive me. I know I can’t make it up to you. I do hope to cast you in a stupidly well paid commercial in the near future though.
Take care, Sarah.
Paul
One other thing. It really isn’t my place to say this and perhaps I shouldn’t but I’m going to anyway. It’s about Simon. I don’t know whether you have thought about him romantically but I think he has about you. It was weird for me when we were seeing each other because it actually felt as though you already had a boyfriend. You lived with him, he was practically part of your family and I always felt that if ever you were in trouble you’d call him, not me. There, I said it.
‘Well, you’re wrong, Paul. Simon’s left me,’ I whisper to the letter as I scrunch it up and throw it in the bin.
I walk slowly and sombrely through the space as though I’m at an art exhibition. I gaze at Simon’s bedroom door like it’s an exhibit I don’t understand. I don’t go in. I don’t want to, yet. I wander into my room instead. There is floor space again now the Cockaladas are gone. But I wish they were still here bruising my shins. There’s the double bed he bought me. My computer is still open on my desk. The last page I read was Jasmine’s comment on my blog. I close the computer and hide it under my bed. I find the quiet vibrator Julia bought me under there. I turn it on and watch it judder. I don’t want to blog any more. I shall take a blogging sabbatical. Perhaps I’ll take up furious masturbation instead. It’ll burn more calories. Or maybe I’ll join a gym. I have three weeks before I go to LA. I turn the vibrator off and stow it in a drawer. I walk out of the room and across the hallway to Simon’s room. But I stop in front of the closed door. He’d beeen here all along. It takes two and a half steps to get from Simon’s door to my door. I was two and a half steps from the man I love. Now he’s gone.
‘I’m such a knob,’ I sigh.
The only sign that Simon was ever here is our self-help-wisdom board. I’ll leave it up like a shrine. If the next person who lives here so much as touches it I’ll put needles in their bed. There’s an envelope with my name written by Simon’s hand on it. It dangles by a pin from the corner of the board. It looks at me. I ignore it. It might contain information such as ‘You know how I didn’t tell you that I was moving out? Well, there’s something else I didn’t tell you and that is I’m getting married, to an Amazonian yoga teacher.’ I’m obsessed by the Amazonian woman that Simon will meet. I have named her Bella. The worst thing about Bella is she’s really nice. She even does free yoga classes for under-privileged children. I hate her.
‘Read the bloody note, Sare,’ I sigh, snatching the envelope from the wall and opening Simon’s door.
‘Fuck me,’ I say quietly.
All Simon’s old furniture has been removed. In its place stands a cross-trainer in fantastic working order, a pink exercise bike and some dumb-bells. A large mirror has been placed on the wall with a Blu-tacked sign upon it saying AS
YOU DON’T GO TO THE GYM I BOUGHT THE GYM TOO YOU.
I smile sadly. I sit on the exercise bike and look at the letter in my hand. I smell the envelope. This must look weirder than a cat-food commercial. Unsurprisingly, the envelope smells of paper. I open it quickly. It’s shorter than I hoped.
Sarah,
I hope you’re mums doing well. I know she’ll be fine. She’ll beat me in next years marathon I promise you. Sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. Am staying with my mum untill the flight. I’ll be in touch with my new phone number, address etc. Not sure when I’ll be back but look after yourself.
Lots of love Si
X
PS Someones started a ‘Bachelor’s Quest’ blog. Check it out.
I’ve had more romantic experiences reading a tax return. One day I’ll tell him. I’ll say, ‘You’ll never guess what. You know throughout that whole period when my mum was ill I wanted to tell you I loved you! Funny eh?’ And we’ll laugh and he’ll pick up one of the twins he had with Bella and I’ll vomit in the child’s cot.
‘Sweat it out, Sare,’ I hear myself say and I go into my room and put on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and trainers. I do eight minutes on the cross-trainer. Then I hobble to my room and lie on my bed and cry.
sixty-eight
Simon flies in six hours. Perhaps I’ll be able to heave myself together then. I have been back for four days. I have left the house twice. Once to do a healthy-food shop, the other to buy a book on fitness, a book by Eckhart Tolle and an Olivia Newton John album. This is not because I haven’t been invited out. On the contrary, I’ve had more social invitations in the last four days than
I have ever had:
1)
Nikki and Bertrand had a naming-the-baby dinner party last night. I said no
2)
Eamonn and Rachel invited me for dinner at The Ivy with a single film financier. I said no
3)
Marcus had an it’s-time-to-come-out party, dress code ‘drag’. I said no
4)
Julia has invited me to a different club every night to hear Carlos DJ. I’ve said no
Instead I have:
1)
Watched the entire Season One of 24 for the third time
2)
Done nearly an hour and a half of cardiovascular exercise
3)
Tried to work out why everything feels so crap
I can grasp the fact that without Simon here there is something major missing in my life. I’m like roast beef without the Yorkshire pudding, or a cashpoint without a queue, or Mum without Dad. That’s the hardest thought. I believe that if Simon and I were together our lives would be a chaotic adventure. We would be like my mum and dad, still making each other laugh after forty-five years together. Without him I just feel like I’m in black and white and everything else is in colour. Still, I am taking his advice and trying to be positive. At least we’ll be friends for ever. At least I haven’t buggered that up by telling him how I feel. That’s something.
My phone rings. It’s Paranoid Jay.
‘Hey, Jay,’ I say flatly.
‘Hey, Sare. I was sorry to hear about your mum. Is she doing OK?’
‘Yeah. Thanks. That’s really sweet of you, Jay. How are you doing?’
‘All right. I’m going to miss Si though.’
‘Tell me about it.’
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 28
