The Last Year of Being Single (16 page)

Sarah—‘Perhaps that’s the secret of it, then. I can marry Paul, be miserable, get creative and make money writing. Knew there was a reason. Must find that book of poems, or at least buy one.’

Karen—‘Can we talk about something else? Didn’t study Keats. He sounds fucking boring and a complete manic depressive. Just watched a film about a beautiful girl dying of consumption and the guy being heartbroken and I want to have a giggle and I’m feeling like shit.’

Sarah—‘Group hug. Group hug.’

We all hugged each other and looked through the DVDs to see if there was anything superficial and fluffy.
Sleepy Hollow.
Too depressing apart from Johnny Depp looking achingly fuckable.
ET.
No.
Jean de Florette.
You must be joking.
Big.
Reminds me of Paul.
Four Weddings and a Funeral.
No. Obvious reasons. He soooo marries the wrong woman.
What Lies Beneath.
Too close to home.
Casablanca.
Too romantic. Decided on
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. Decide that girls should live life to the full as well as boys.

Then sex conversation. Topic: masturbation. I start it. All extremely drunk (three bottles of Sauvignon. No food).

Sarah—‘Have you ever been out with a guy who gets really turned on by watching you masturbate?’

Catherine—‘They all do, don’t they?’

Sarah—‘Do they?’

Catherine—‘Well, think about it. They get turned on by
watching you come. They don’t have to do anything to make it happen but can actually see everything. Then they can please themselves.’

Sarah—‘Oh. Remember I did that once with Paul but didn’t let him do anything afterwards. I didn’t really look to see if he was enjoying it much. I was enjoying myself so much. Then when I’d finished he went to approach me and I said no. And he seemed really pissed off. Almost in pain.’

Karen—‘Probably was.’

Sarah—‘Really?’

Karen—‘Oh, yeah. I dunno if it’s true, but you know they have to relieve themselves after a certain time if they’ve gone, you know, toooooo far. They just have to come.’

Sarah—‘Oh, well, he did. But not in me, over me or looking at me. He just went to another room and had a strop on for the whole day.’

Catherine—‘So next time you did it you let him?’

Sarah—‘Fuck that. No. Don’t like men who sulk. Act like children. Treat them like children. Told him to say please. Not much to ask.’

Catherine—‘Did he?’

Sarah—‘Yes. With cherries on top. And lots of whipped cream.’

Eleven p.m. Catherine gone home. Karen gone to her room. Sarah goes home.

15th April

I’m in bed and I don’t want to get up. My head is yo-yoing backwards and forwards. Do I tell Paul? Do I tell John? Do I tell Paul? Do I tell John? I work out case scenarios of how they will react or how I think they will react. Most end up in lots of tears and blood. All mine. So block out honesty. Not best policy here. Policy here is to stay alive and have fun and not hurt anyone.

I’m still in bed with Paul.

Paul—‘Who’s that at this time in the morning?’

Sarah—‘No one, just work.’

Paul—‘It’s early.’

My mobile rings. It’s John. Got to answer it. Looks strange if I don’t.

Sarah—‘Hi.’

John—‘Hello there, sexy. How are you?’

Sarah—‘I’m fine. How are you?’

John—‘Fine. Very formal, this. What, no kisses and underwear talk? What are you wearing? Are you wearing anything?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’(Pause coz I think I’m blushing and Paul is looking at me, which is making me blush more.) ‘Can I call you back later on that one.’

John—‘On what one? On you wearing underwear?’

Sarah—‘Yes. I need to do something about that.’

John—‘Are you OK? Got your brain in gear?’

Sarah—‘Yes, had heavy night last night. Can’t really talk now. Have to go. Byee.’

John—‘Er, are you sure you’re OK?’

Sarah—‘Yes, I’ll speak to you tomorrow, OK?’

John—‘You don’t sound OK.’

Sarah—‘I’m fine. Bye for now.’

Click. Turn mobile off so he can’t ring again. Paul looks puzzled.

Paul—‘Very strange phone call. Why do they need to call you at seven-thirty in the morning on a Saturday, Sarah?’

Sarah—‘Oh, you know what it’s like. These PRs think they own you. Work, work, work all the time. Not good.’

Paul—‘No, and I want them to leave my fiancée alone.’

He gives me a cuddle which he hasn’t done for months and I involuntarily flinch. He notices.

Paul—‘Don’t you love me any more?’

Sarah—‘Of course I do. Just that we haven’t touched for such a long time. It’s lovely to be cuddled by you again.’ (Strange but true.) ‘I’ve missed it.’ (True.)

He cuddles me again and I snuggle up into his arms and remember how it used to be in the beginning. How I felt protected and loved by him and how now when he does it I just feel trapped and suffocated and it’s not the same person he’s cuddling. So it doesn’t feel the same. And she misses the old Paul. Not this one. And she’s not the same Sarah any more. She’s ever so slightly resentful and is getting her own back, though he doesn’t know it and hopefully never will. But for now I allow myself to be snuggled and stifled and I’ve got the excuse that I’ve got to go to the gym in an hour, despite the fact I desperately need to put on weight rather than lose it at the moment.

At the club, my instructor, Jeff, says, ‘You look ill. You OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Well, you’ve lost weight and it’s not through training. That would make you put it on, if anything. But you’re losing. What’s happening?’

‘Getting married.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You don’t look glowing.’

‘Don’t feel glowing.’

‘Then you’re not marrying the right man.’

‘I think I am. Just a bit under the weather.’

We do five minutes warm-up to ‘You Are My Fantasy’, then kick and twist and do some step—up and down, up and down, up and down to Liberty X and Misteeq and lots of J Lo and some old Spice Girls and some Geri and some Posh. And my mind is not on the jump kicks, or the splits or the pushing the legs to the limit—it’s on John. And on Paul and on how to leave both with good grace.

At the end of the class, I turn on my mobile.

Which home? Call home when Paul is there? Please God he hasn’t answered the phone. He can’t have the house number. Perhaps he means the flat number.

Race back in the car.

Open door.

Sarah—‘Hi—Paul?’

No answer. Answer-machine beeping. Two calls while out.

First: ‘Hi, Sarah. Just popped out. Be back in half an hour. Hope the workout was good. Big kiss.’

Second: ‘Hi, Sarah. You OK? Can’t seem to get hold of you. Will try later.’

Must call John back. Run up to study.

Sarah—‘Hi, John.’

John—‘Hi, Sarah. What happened? Why couldn’t you speak this morning?’

Sarah—‘It was a bit inconvenient.’

John—‘Why? Were you in bed with someone or something?’ (Getting a bit annoyed.)

Sarah—‘No, of course not. But Paul had come round. He’s getting married.’

John—‘Didn’t know that.’

Sarah—‘No, neither did I, actually.’

John—‘Do you know the girl?’

Sarah—‘Er, no. But I’m told she’s very nice. A bit scatty. Erm. Short. Very short. Big boobs and big bum and, er, reddish brown hair. Name Tina, I think.’

John—‘Oh, right. Well, what did he want?’

Sarah—‘Just to tell me he was getting married. He didn’t want me to find out another way. Wanted to tell me directly and all that.’

John—‘But doesn’t want you to come to the wedding?’

Sarah—‘Well, ex-girlfriend and all that.’

John—‘I’ve been to a lot of my exes’ weddings. Don’t think the grooms either knew who I was or liked the fact I was there, but I still went anyway. Interesting to see how exes choose their husbands. Sometimes it’s surprising; sometimes I can guess exactly who they would choose.’

Sarah—‘And who would I choose, then, oh wise one?’

John—‘You? You wouldn’t marry anyone. You’re not the marrying type. You’re too independent. No ties. No commitments. Don’t think anyone could tie you down, Sarah.
And you don’t need a man either. You don’t need one. You’d like one and want one, but I think you like your own space. Positively enjoy it. There are women out there who don’t. They have to be with someone. They need someone. They need a man in their life. I think you enjoy male company but that’s different. Don’t know why. Perhaps that’s why I find you so interesting.’

Sarah—‘Perhaps I do need a man. But I don’t like to show you my vulnerable side. Perhaps I do need that emotional crutch. That love. Need to give and receive love, and perhaps this coolness is all just a ruse.’

John—‘Perhaps. Could be. Could be wrong. But don’t think so. You seem too independent. You’re an only child, like me. And you’ve got used to your own company. People who’ve influenced you. Think you said there was David, your first, right?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

John—‘Well, he sounds like a right pretentious prat. But then he worked in a bank. Not all bankers are prats. Just sounds as though he was.’

Sarah—‘He wasn’t. He was lovely. Bit confused, but lovely.’

John—‘And then there was Paul. Right? He’s another banker and he sounds very confused. Wouldn’t sleep with you or something. Honestly, how can a man sleep with you and not sleep with you? He should have got help. Think he probably needs help. He’ll probably do the same to the next girl he meets and the next. He sounds like a control freak, but, hey, lot of them about.’

Sarah—‘So you think you’re Mr Right.’

John—‘Could be. But you know two Mr Wrongs don’t make a Mr Right.’

Sarah—‘Very droll.’

Methinks relationship with John is getting more exciting. Taking more risks. John has told me he is falling in love with
me. I do not believe him. I tell him I am falling in love with him too. But do I? How can I fall for someone I’m treating this way? He doesn’t know I’m getting married. Or even still have another boyfriend. So how can I love someone I blatantly don’t respect? I love Paul. But I don’t act as though I love him either. I’m fucking someone else, for fuck’s sake. But men do it. I know they do. My male friends tell me they do. At the stag do, they usually bonk the stripper, don’t they? One of Paul’s friends had one come into his room after the evening was supposedly over and give him a blow job. Pressie from his mates. Everyone sworn not to tell the wife. Someone did. Tears on wedding night. From groom, after bride went down on him to prove her bite was worse than her bark. Didn’t need stitches.

Do any of Paul’s friends live in Surrey? Get real, Sarah, what’s the chance of being spotted by one of Paul’s friends in Tesco with John buying bananas and whipped cream? How do I explain?

Sarah—(walking down dairy aisle with John, in search of low-fat cream I can spread and lick off him, John tells me cottage cheese won’t work the same way. Hand in hand. Pre- and post-coital) spots Peter—Hi, Peter, hi, Kelly. Just happen to be in Surrey and thought I’d do some shopping. With friend John. (Introduce John. John will look as though he has just gone down on me or just about to and game will be up.)

Peter—Hi. (Looks confused.) Spoke to Paul this morning. He said you were on a course in Lincoln.

Sarah—(flushing violently)—yes, but I came back early and popped in to see some friends. (Turning to John.) This is John. He came on the course as well.

Peter—still looking confused. Kelly looking…knowing. John looking very confused and angry.

John—Paul?

Don’t go there, Sarah. Scenario won’t work. No, can’t let
it happen. Plus won’t go shopping with John in Tesco. Bad move. Plus too domesticated. This is the last fling, surely? So it’s all about being in bed as much as possible. Or wherever will support two naked/near naked/soon to be naked bodies.

I’ve discovered I have a thing for al fresco. Preferably olive grove somewhere remote in Tuscany. Doubt if there is anywhere remote left in Tuscany, but in my dreams there is. I’m outside with John. Walking through the olive grove just before lunch. Very hot. Midday. He turns me to him. I’m wearing white Ghost top, with laces down the front. The air is heavy with the smell of olives. He has to very slowly undo the laces in order to get to me. I don’t allow him to take the top off immediately. Too soon. Too easy. Then the skirt. Silk. Flowers. Floaty. Easier. Just unties and falls down around my feet. Then he kisses me on the lips. For ages. He’s still fully clothed in white shirt. Crisp, half open. And I’m near naked and can feel the heat on my back and bum and hair. He hasn’t touched me other than kissing me on my lips and cupping my head in his hands. And I’m becoming frustrated and start to pull away and want him to do more. And then he moves his hands down from my belly button to my thighs. Very slowly. Almost painfully slowly so I move my body as though I want him to feel my urgency and my… Then he kneels and kisses me on my…