50 Ways to Find a Lover (45 page)

‘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 area. 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.’

‘I’d really, really like to though,’ he continues. But it’s too late. The damage is done. I stand up.

‘I think I’m going to go too. Please excuse me, Tristan.’

I hurry out of the club, hoping that no one can see my tears.

sixty-two

It’s even an effort to blog at the moment. I used to write reams. Now all I do is leave a few sad sentences. A soft knock on my door.

‘Yep,’ I shout.

It’s Simon. He looks very concerned.

‘Oh, babe,’ he says, hugging me, ‘I just read it.’

‘What?’

‘Your blog.’

‘Oh it was awful, Si, and I just started crying after he said it and I left the club like a twat.’

‘What?’

‘When I asked Tristan to kiss me.’

‘You asked Tristan to kiss you? What, that scruffy bloke I met at your press night?’

‘Yeah, I thought you said you’d read my blog.’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t read that. I read the letter from Paul’s girlfriend.’

‘What?’

‘Haven’t you read it?’

‘No.’

‘You probably should read it, Sare.’

I turn my computer back on. I have two new comments from a previous post. I must have missed them. I start to read.

‘Bring it on,’ I say to the screen, ‘I’m hardly chirpy at the moment.’

‘Here you go, Sare,’ says Simon, popping his head round the door and handing me a plate with two slices of peanut butter on toast.