50 Ways to Find a Lover (28 page)

I hate plastic cups. They make me dribble. Hence I am often found dribbling in theatre bars. For some reason the effect of putting a plastic cup to my lips creates a small, indestructible spider’s web of spittle. I don’t really want to be drooling when I meet my eligible bachelor but I do need this wine to calm my nerves. I take a big gulp. I feel a hand touch my shoulder.

‘Are you Sarah Sargeant?’

I jump and spin round. As I jump the plastic cup flies out of my hand.

‘Oh toss!’ I moan at the airborne wine. I take in the man in front of me. I thought Paul was good-looking but Paul looks like Stig of the Dump on a bad hair day compared to the man in front of me. He looks like Jude Law without that slightly simple thing going on. Thank you, God! Thank you, Eamonn, for blowing me out. Thank you,
Casualty
. The handsome man in front of me is looking at a bit of spit hanging from my mouth. I quickly wipe my chin, rub my palm on my dress and finally proffer my hand towards the image of male perfection in front of me.

‘Are you Marcus?’ I say.

‘Sarah, so sorry I’m late.’

‘Don’t worry. I just thought I’d throw some wine around while I waited.’ I smile nervously as he picks up the cup and all my belongings from the floor.

‘Right, shall we get a bottle of champagne? I’ve read the reviews of this clonking old play. They’re bloody awful. My suggestion is if it’s utterly agonizing we sod it and go for supper. I’ve booked a table just in case.’

If I were to imagine the perfect thing a man could say on a date, it would be exactly what Marcus uttered. I may have only just met this man but I don’t think it’s premature to say that I would gladly empty his catheter bag in fifty years’ time.

‘Yippee!’ I squeal.

He looks at me carefully. ‘Yippee?’ he questions.

‘Yes, a childish word used to express enthusiasm,’ I state.

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ he replies in a clipped accent.

‘Have we suddenly got stuck in an Oscar Wilde play?’ I ask.

He chuckles and leads me to the bar and proceeds to buy all the nutty snacks they have on offer and a bottle of champagne.

‘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 lovely. 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