50 Ways to Find a Lover (44 page)

‘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

‘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 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’.

I email Paul this one curt question back. No kisses. That’ll teach him. He’s obviously online because I quickly get this response.

‘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.

This must be Google Chat. I’ve never done it before. I think I could like instant messaging. I type back.

Why did he stop there?

Blimey. He must have a semi.

He’s stopped again.

‘Blimey, I’m not wearing any knickers!’ I squeal.

‘What was that, Sare?’ shouts Simon from the lounge.

‘Nothing!’

‘You’d better bloody not. I’m not on the Pill,’ I whisper to the screen.

‘AHHHHHH!’ I scream.

‘You all right, Sare?’ Simon calls.

‘I think so,’ I call back shrilly.

I think about writing ‘I’m getting wet.’ I don’t. It sounds like I’m standing in the rain. I opt for:

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.