50 Ways to Find a Lover (46 page)

The other comment is from my No. 1 Fan.

I knock on Simon’s door. ‘Hey,’ I say quietly when he opens it. ‘Shitty, eh?’ he says kindly. ‘Hmmm,’ I nod.

‘Hey,’ he says to the water he can see welling up in my eyes.

‘Does she sound psychotic to you?’

‘Yep, complete fruit loop.’

I walk towards him for a hug but he cups my teary face firmly in his hands instead. And he looks at me. Then he plants a tiny, tender kiss on my lips. We stare into each other’s faces without breathing. We have never kissed on the lips before. Yet it feels like the most familiar thing in the world.

‘Peanut butter and port. Interesting,’ Simon says finally.

I smile.

‘Sare, there’s something I really need to say, but now is the wrong time. Tomorrow. How about we stay in and watch that box set of
The Sopranos
all day?’

‘Yes please.’

He turns round to get back into bed. I stand watching him. I don’t want to leave. I can feel his kiss on my lips.

‘Si.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Can I stay in your bed with you tonight?’

‘Course.’

I put my pyjamas on and we silently get into a spooning position. I lie and listen to his breathing. I can still feel his kiss on my lips. It’s the kiss that won’t go away. And I realize that I don’t want it to go away. I’d like another fresh one and then another. In fact I’d say I was aching to feel his lips on mine again. Suddenly everything feels completely different but oddly the same.

sixty-three

‘Sare, Sare.’ I can hear Simon.

‘Sare, Sare.’ His voice is like an echo.

He touches me. His hands wiggle under my armpits like fingers into boxing gloves. They meet the sides of my breasts. He sits me up. I slump forward like a corpse.

‘Sare, darling, you’ve got to wake up.’

‘What time is it?’ I’m speaking like a stroke victim.

‘Sweetheart. It’s nearly five.’

‘I’ve slept all day. I must have needed it.’

‘No, darling, five in the morning. I’ve got to take you to Eastbourne.’

‘
Sopranos.
’ My mouth is drought dry.

‘Sare, your dad just called. Your mum’s had to go to hospital,’ he says slowly. I watch his face. I wait for more.

‘They think it might be a heart attack.’

I nod. I feel as though I have a second face underneath my existing one. The second face is trying to break through, trying to rip my normal Sarah Sargeant face apart. I can’t control it. My mouth contorts. My nose spreads. My eyes disappear and become water.

‘I’m going to take you, Sare. But we’ve got to go on the scooter. There’s no other way at this time. You need to get up and put some warm clothes on.’

I look down and nod like a dozing drunk.

The scooter’s maximum speed is 28 mph. Eastbourne is seventy-five miles away. It’s dark and drizzly. Since we left London we’ve hardly passed anyone else on the road. I cling on to Simon’s waist. Generally when I’m on the scooter with Simon I shout, ‘Slow down’ repeatedly, like a woman on a date with a randy man. This morning Simon is driving steadily. It is only my mind that is racing. Everything is Mum. When we travel along a windy stretch of road, I think of Mum in her car on a windy stretch of road, travelling at barely past stationary, Radio 2 playing. And I am there with her in the passenger seat. And then I am in the passenger seat of her old car when she used to take me to school every morning and I’m talking about Nature tests. And then Dad is driving and she is in the passenger seat map-reading. The conversation is running along the lines of

‘Just read the map, Val!’

‘Well, I think we go right here, Mike.’

Sharp swerve as Dad casts his eyes on the page.

‘Val, we’re not even on that page.’

‘Shall we just stop somewhere for lunch?’

And I am in the back, not getting involved, but always backing lunch. And then I think of the lunches, the dinners, the breakfasts, the cups of tea and the gin and tonics. And the tears are falling and I don’t think they’ll stop. And I don’t know if I could deal with it if . . . you know. I hate that if I had children they’d never know her or if I got married she wouldn’t be there. I can’t stop thinking about the things I never said to her or found out about her. Why didn’t we ever get round to that trip to her childhood home? Why did I never see her old school? I always tell her I love her but I never told her that if I could only be half as wonderful as her I would be happy. I never told her that I am blessed to be her daughter or that when Simon hears us talking on the phone he says you can actually feel the love between us.

Simon pulls in to a petrol station. We get off the bike. He takes off his helmet. He looks tired but beautiful. I have never thought of Simon as beautiful. He’s a man, after all. Perhaps it’s the dawn. It’s beginning to get light and there’s a stillness. I want to kiss him like he kissed me last night. And I want to thank him. To tell him he’s an angel. But I can’t speak. All the words stay in my head and all that comes out are tears.

‘How are you doing?’ he asks.

I take my helmet off. I suppose I look as I feel. Simon opens his arms.

‘Come here.’

And he squeezes me. It’s not a hug. A hug has a shorter life expectancy. A hug can be nervous, one party being a bit lacklustre, wanting to break before the other one. This squeeze feels like it could go on for ever. I don’t know how long we stand. But when we release I feel as though I’ve been on Charge. There’s some strength in me.

‘Are we nearly there?’

‘Three miles.’

‘OK.’

‘Sare, you’re beautiful,’ he says. ‘I think you’re especially beautiful when you’ve just woken up.’ He pauses. I look at him so he’ll finish what he wants to say. ‘However, I think you might want to go and put some water on your face and brush your hair before we get to the hospital. They might have you straight into Casualty looking like that.’

sixty-four

‘I just came out to call you.’ My sister stands like a statue at the main entrance to Eastbourne General Hospital. She looks awful. George and Rosie are in the foyer behind her, their noses pressed against a vending machine.

I get off the bike and take my helmet off.

‘You look awful,’ she tells me, quietly. Her voice is thin. She spoke like this when her marriage was breaking up.

‘Not so hot yourself.’

‘Hi, Gail,’ says Simon.

‘Thanks for getting her here safely, Si.’ She’s trying to smile.

‘Shouldn’t really let your children eat from vending machines, Gail,’ he jokes.

‘I know. I’ll get some vegetables in them later.’

I almost make a weak gag about Jamie Oliver. I don’t. I have to break the Pinter moment.

‘Was it a heart attack?’

‘No,’ says Gail. ‘It’s something called a . . .’ She dries. She looks upwards. She’s looking for a script, or a method for not crying.

I put my hand on her shoulder. I want to hug her. I don’t. Gail and I are criers. We go off like landmines at anything:
EastEnders
, a life-insurance commercial, a gravestone, an old couple kissing on a bench. The only thing I know about this situation today is that Gail and I have to keep it together for Dad, for the kids, for ourselves.

‘It’s worse, Sarah. They thought it was a heart attack, but they gave her a scan thing and it’s a dissected aorta. I’m not exactly sure if that’s the right name. But a surgeon from Brighton arrived. She’s got to have an operation.’

‘Oh.’ My mouth fills with scalding saliva.

‘It will take hours. And it may not . . .’

I nod and look down. I don’t want her to finish the sentence. I stare at the fag butts on the concrete instead. I kick them into a pile between my trainers.

‘Did you see her before she went in?’ I whisper. I count the butts. There are twelve of them.

‘Yes.’

I nod again. I don’t look up until I hear my name being called by children’s voices.

‘Sarah! Simon!’ George and Rosie shout. They both have packets of Walkers crisps. Salt and vinegar, 50 per cent extra.

Rosie runs to me. She puts her arms tightly around my waist.

‘Sarah! Granny’s having an operation.’

‘Yes. To make her better. We’ll have to make her some get-well-soon cards later,’ I say, kissing the top of her blonde head.