50 Ways to Find a Lover (16 page)

I am sitting on Mortlake Station platform waiting for the 21.17 to Waterloo. It is 21.32. I am alone. Paul had wanted to walk me to the station. It was ridiculous really because the station is so close you could spit on it. Not that you would, of course. One doesn’t spit in Mortlake. But his mum phoned while he was locating his shoes and I insisted that he talk to her instead. I should be grumpy because:

Normally these facts would make me grumpy. I would be sitting on my hands, my face set in an expression of woe, wishing I had a friendly chauffeur in his sixties called Alf. Alf would take me from elegant soirée to film pre-mière and home again, regaling me with tales of all the dames he drove before and giving me nips of whisky from an engraved hip flask. But tonight I’m not thinking about Alf. I’m not worried about the penalty fine for fare evasion. I’m not even worried that I might wet myself in front of a serial killer. I’m mouthing the words to ‘Could It Be I’m Falling In Love’. Well, actually I’m just repeating the chorus again and again. I don’t know the rest.

‘Brure un effr re,’ says the psychopath, walking towards me. He sounds like Shane McGowan after root-canal treatment.

I do what I always do when mentally unconventional people approach me on train platforms. I take my mobile phone out of my toiletry-rammed bag and call Julia. We instantly fall into the standard mode of girls talking about boys.

‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,’ she starts.

‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,’ I respond.

‘Did you kiss?’

‘Two soft on-the-mouth jobs, no snogging or fondling though.’

‘Sare! Why not?’

‘I’m a lady!’ I say with mock-Jane Austen decorum.

‘Did you make a prat of yourself at all?’

‘Bitchface, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Well, you were nervous and generally when you’re nervous you embarrass yourself.’

‘Remind me why I’m your friend, Jules. No, I was perfectly behaved! I might have scalded my mouth on a roast potato and had to spit it out, and I might have put the paper napkin down on the tealight candle, but if I had done those things I certainly wouldn’t tell you about them!’

‘Tell me more!’ she laughs.

‘Jules, he’s amazing.’ I sigh. ‘Oh, hang on, my phone’s beeping, it might be him. I’ll call you back.’

‘Dumped for a bloke already,’ she scolds.

I feel momentarily sorry for Julia but quickly forget about it when I see that it’s a text from Paul. Are you safely on the train? x. I quickly reply, Nope, it’s delayed. I’m still on the platform with the friendly Mortlake psychopath x.

I cross my legs tightly and try to think of deserts and droughts and hangover tongues and any other dry things that come to mind. I dial Julia’s number.

‘So was it him?’ she says in a strop.

‘Yes,’ I squeak with a smile.

‘So tell me all. How did you leave it? Are you seeing him again?’

‘He’s coming to the marathon next Sunday,’ I gush.

‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’

‘I know!’

‘Where the fuck are you?’ exclaims Julia. ‘What’s all that banging?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, looking up at the station bridge, which I’m sitting under. Someone is running across it and their footsteps are shaking the bridge and echoing loudly around the semi-deserted platform.

‘Oh, I’m at the station and someone is runni—’ I start, but stop when I see Paul’s panting face and sprinting body emerge from the bridge and run down the stairs two at a time.

‘Hello,’ I say, rising to greet him. ‘Did I forget something?’

‘Um, no,’ he says, catching his breath and looking flushed. ‘I, um, forgot to give you this.’ And he walks towards me and puts his hands slowly around my waist and pulls me to him. I melt into his warm body and our lips meet and I feel the tip of his tongue on mine.

‘Mwhre ghew he,’ shouts the psychopath very loudly.

‘SARAH, are you OK?’ screams Julia down the phone.

‘Excuse me, mate, I’d like to kiss this young lady,’ says Paul to the psychopath.

‘Julia, I’ll call you back,’ I whisper into the phone.

Paul and I look at each other and giggle and then we kiss, come up for air, look at each other, giggle and kiss again.

eighteen

I’m taking advice from someone who calls themself the Crazy Canadian. I’ve spent my life being wary of people who refer to themselves as crazy, zany or mad. Their idea of being crazy generally involves wearing large tourist hats with bells on and talking loudly about themselves. But because she or he suggested that I might have some X-rated action after the marathon I am now lying in the bath contemplating hair removal techniques. I look down at my restricted-access zone. No one has tried to gain entry for a long, long time. One of the few benefits of having no sex life is that you can stop buying depilatory products and cultivate a minge mullet, a chaotic cross between a Rod Stewart and a Jonathan Ross. Fine on middle-aged men’s heads, not ideal on my lady’s place. I must sort it out. But how? All I have is a rusting razor, some terrifying wax which should have a skull and crossbones on it, and a bit of Immac which I suspect has been there a long time as I don’t think it’s even called Immac any more. The rusting razor looks a bit septic. Simon’s, on the other hand, has a gleaming blade that is winking at me. Tempting, but stubble rash is not. No to the razor. What about sadistic waxing? I’m not sure whether I can take more pain. I’ve already plucked my eyebrows today. Anyway, Simon and Ruth are in the front room doing a yoga video and I don’t really want to disturb them in order to microwave wax for my fanny. No to the waxing as well. I inspect my hectares of pubic hair. I inspect the small amount of Immac I have in a tube. I think a tree surgeon would be better suited for the job.

I finish my bath. I slaver depilatory cream over my fanny forest and manoeuvre myself into the doggy position. It’s a bit sore on the knees but ‘Suffer for beauty’ I always say. I don’t have a clock to time it. Bugger! I put my dressing gown around me and carefully hold it away from body so it doesn’t touch the cream. I check the coast’s clear. Good. I waddle to my room and grab my phone. Ruth appears all sweaty from the living room.

‘Are you OK, Sarah? Tummy ache?’ she asks sympathetically, looking at the odd shape I’m in.

‘No, no, no no, I’m fine.’

‘I’m just going to pop to the loo if that’s OK?’

‘Yep, fine,’ I say, shuffling back to my room.

I might just quickly text Paul while I’m here. Paul and I are in the midst of some stealthy guerrilla texting. It is very exciting. He sent me a text before I got into the bath which said, Just been to IKEA – thinking of you made the ordeal less painful xx. He sent it thirty-five minutes ago but I haven’t been able to think of a witty retort about Swedish flat-packed furniture. So I’ve left the longest gap we’ve ever had between texts. I hope he’s not worried but I also think it’s good to be creating a persona of someone who’s not waiting on his every text. I could send Just removing the hair from my fanny, thinking about you is making the ordeal a lot less painful. But my instincts say that I should hold back from that. I’ll send Just had a bath – thinking about you made it very pleasurable indeed x. Just the one kiss though, mustn’t look too keen. Paul and I have had two very long late-night telephone conversations this week. We discussed everything, what we were wearing, what our favourite Bob Dylan lyrics were, but best of all we discussed birthdays. He’s an Aries. When I looked up Aries and Leo in Linda Goodman’s
Sunsigns
book and on
jonathancainer.com
, it said that Aries and Leo is the most compatible match in the whole zodiac. It states that Leo and Aries are ‘almost guaranteed harmony and happiness’. And so far it’s true. It’s heaven. I have found a man who talks almost as much crap as I do. This on its own would be marvellous. But Paul is also beautiful to look at in a manly, stubbly, sexy way. It’s as though I’ve won the Lottery, found the Holy Grail, the gold rings, the goblet of fire. Everything. Short of being in a film with Kiefer Sutherland, I don’t actually think I could feel any more euphoric.