50 Ways to Find a Lover (5 page)

‘Hi, Sarah,’ she sings, and then her mouth drops open at the sight of me.

‘It’s
The X Factor
, it makes me emotional,’ I explain to her.

‘Right,’ she says uncertainly.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, you’re not upset about the . . . you know?’

‘Si, I’m fine,’ I say to him, trying to hold back my sobs and smile at the same time. The effort creates a high-pitched whining sound the likes of which I haven’t heard since I once attempted to play the violin. Simon stands before me, not quite knowing how to react.

‘Oh, come here,’ he murmurs, wrapping me in his arms. I feel delicious and warm like a cocktail sausage in bacon.

‘Simon, the cab’s here,’ coughs Ruth. Simon gives me a smile and walks out of my room humming ‘50 Ways to Leave Your Lover’.

I clamber out of my bed and stand in front of my full-length mirror. Apart from the black teeth I am unbelievably average-looking. I have brown hair, the most common hair colouring in the UK. I have blue eyes, the most common eye colour in the UK. I am five foot four, the average height for British females. I am a pear-shaped size 12, the most common dress size. My name is Sarah, the most popular girl’s name for the year I was born. My uncle’s wife is called Sarah. There are even two Sarah Sargeants in my family. I am mass-produced.

In one week I have asked a man out and been rejected, auditioned for a Shakespeare play and been rejected, and been considered for a reality TV show and been rejected. I feel numb. Before I asked out Baldy from the pub I had allowed myself to fantasize that he would say yes and we would go out, have a nice time and then get married and have beautiful babies. But he didn’t say yes, he said no. When I was waiting to hear about the audition I imagined getting the job, going to Stratford, being part of a wonderful production, getting discovered and being catapulted into super-stardom. But I didn’t get the job. Then when I was waiting to hear about the reality TV show I had this beautiful thought that I would meet someone nice and funny and kind. But I wasn’t chosen. Now the life of a celibate waitress looms. I feel as though someone has pinched all my daydreams.

I walk out of the bathroom and read the new quote that Simon has put on the noticeboard,
A LIFE LIVED IN FEAR IS A LIFE HALF LIVED.
I read it again. There are no spelling mistakes at all. He must have taken care over this one. The thought of Simon carefully writing this for me makes me cry again. I pour myself another glass of wine and crawl back into bed. I hear the front door open and a soft knock on my door. Simon slowly pokes his head into the room, sees me curled in a ball in bed and says softly, ‘Come here, you silly cow.’

I look up and snottily say, ‘Why aren’t you at the party?’

‘Oh, come on, I can’t go off to a party and leave you here all upset. Anyway, it was one of Ruth’s work friends, not really my cup of tea.’

He gets into bed next to me, placing a bag of Nandos and a four-pack of Beck’s at his side. He props some pillows up behind his back and uses my teddy as a headrest. Then he puts his arm around me so that I can nestle into his armpit. I can’t speak so I snivel and hiccup. We sit like this while he eats a leg and a piece of breast. Then he starts singing as he opens a bottle of beer.

‘Be be ne ne boy Roy, be be bebbe be. De de dad ah.’

I start to laugh because Simon can’t sing at all. If tune was London he’d be in Birmingham.

‘What the wank was that?’

‘That song you were just singing, “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover”.’

I sit up in bed and look at him.

‘Fifty ways to leave a lover! What about fifty ways to
find
a bloody lover?’

‘Yeah, there must be fifty ways to find a lover; you should try them, Sare.’

‘Si, I could try five hundred and fifty ways to find a wanking lover and no one would want me.’

‘Sare, listen to me for a second: you’re fit, not in a cardiovascular way of course but in the other way. You’re fit and people fancy you.’

‘Who?’

‘My mates do.’

‘What, Stinky Bob? And Paranoid Jay?’

‘Sare! Lay off Jay, he had a bit too much skunk at university, that’s all, he’s much better now. But they’re men and they fancy you because you’re funny and attractive, and if you made an effort to go out and actually meet some men you would find someone who you liked too.’ Then he gets up and walks into the centre of the room. He closes his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and slowly saying, ‘If you really want something then the whole universe will conspire to make it happen.’

I roll my eyes, as I normally do when Simon is sharing his self-help wisdom.

‘Don’t you roll your eyes at that. That’s a good one. I could bash one out over that.’

‘Eurgh!’ I groan.

‘I’m serious. You want to find someone. All you need to do is admit it and look for it. It’s easy.’

‘What would I do?’

‘Well, I dunno, speed dating and stuff like that, there’s loads of ways to meet people.’

‘Hmm,’ I say thoughtfully.

‘What time is it?’ asks Simon, suddenly getting restless.

‘Ten-past ten. Why?’

‘Will your mum still be up?’

‘Probably.’

‘Good, I’m going to give her a quick call. I want to tell her about a stretch she should do for her shoulder.’ Simon gets out of my bed and I snuggle up in the duvet. I start whimpering. I intend to wallow.

Simon interrupts me two minutes later. He gets into my bed and pushes me out of it.

‘Your dad wants to talk to you.’

I shuffle to the phone. Dad sounds deliriously happy.

‘It’s brilliant news! Isn’t it brilliant news, Val? I’ve got Sarah on the phone now.’

‘What’s brilliant news?’

‘Your decision!’

‘What bloody decision!’

‘Your decision to explore fifty ways to find a lover.’

‘I never said I’d— SIMON, I’ll bloody kill you!’ I holler to the bedroom. I am just wondering whether I should threaten to shove the chicken leg up his bum or down his throat when my father says some very important words.

‘We’re really proud of you for doing this, Sarah.’

This is not something my father would say lightly. The first time my father told me that he was proud of me was when I graduated from drama school. I remember it vividly. The second and only other time he has said it was after he saw me in my first West End play.

‘Really?’

‘Of course, Sarah, we’ve been really worried about you.’

‘Sorry,’ I say in earnest.

‘Don’t be sorry, just get out there, go on dates and enjoy meeting men. Simon says you’re going to go speed dating.’

‘Did he now?’ I sing.

‘Oh – you know what you should get?’

‘What?’

‘A, um, bugger, what are they called?’

‘No idea.’

‘Yes you do . . . my friend in my DIY class has got one . . . they’re in the papers a lot.’

‘A vibrator?’

‘Sarah!’ He stresses both syllables heavily. ‘No. A blog!’

‘What the bloody hell’s a blog?’

‘It’s an online diary.’

‘Dad, you can’t even text-message and you’ve never used the Internet. How on earth do you know about blogs?’

‘I think it’s a great idea, you can do all your fifty ways and people can read about it.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure I want strangers reading about my desperate search for a shag . . . I mean love.’

I hang up. I quietly practise saying, ‘I’ve got a blog. Yes. A blog! Haven’t you heard of them?’ (Condescending chuckle – I love doing condescending chuckles.) ‘I went speed dating. You can read about it in my blog.’ I feel quite glamorous and
à la mode
. I return to my bedroom.

‘I’m starting a blog,’ I tell Simon proudly.

‘What the bloody hell’s a blog?’

‘Mwah hah ha!’

‘What the fuck’s that?’

‘It’s a condescending chuckle.’

‘You sound like the Count from
Sesame Street
.’

‘You have a go at a condescending chuckle then, they’re not that easy.’

Simon actually does a very good attempt at a condescending chuckle but obviously I can’t tell him that.

‘You sound as though you’ve just trapped your thumb in a car door. Now piss off and let me start my blog.’

‘What are you going to call it?’

‘
Fifty Ways to Find a Lover
, I guess.’

‘Um, I think there’s already a book with that title.’

‘How the fuck do you know?’

‘Look, I go to the Mind, Body, Spirit sections of bookshops, OK.’

‘What about
A Spinster’s Search
?’

‘Sare, it sounds as though you’re trying to find your clitoris.’

‘Urgh, OK,
A Spinster’s Pursuit
.’

‘Try saying that when you’re pissed.’

‘I’ve got it!’ I yelp. ‘
A Spinster’s Quest.
’

Simon leaves me alone. I turn off the telly and I open the beautiful Apple laptop that I bought last year after Halifax bizarrely extended my credit-card limit. My dad’s friend from DIY has emailed me. My father must have put the phone down on me and instantly called him. He’s sent me intricate instructions about how to set up a blog. It is ridiculously easy. Within ten minutes I have given birth to
A Spinster’s Quest
. Now I just need to think of something to write on it. I sit for ages, staring at the screen and chewing my lip. I drink my wine and listen to the muffled sounds of a Saturday night in Camden. It’s not until the wineglass is empty that the words begin to gush from me. It’s hard to keep up with my two-finger typing shuffle, but out everything pours about my lack of sex and fear of rejection. I read it back. I feel pissed and purged and peculiarly positive. Then I make a pledge: I, spinster, will explore fifty ways to find a lover. I will start with speed dating. I will set myself some rules. Under no circumstances will I

I will also enlist some help in what to wear and say. I will stop dressing like a male road protester and brush my hair. I will stop asking men stupid questions such as ‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’ and ‘If you were a biscuit what sort would you be?’, which only I ever find entertaining.

It’s so tempting though. There’s got to be another bourbon out there somewhere.

five