The Last Year of Being Single (8 page)

‘I don’t think you will be able to. I’m fussy with food. No dairy, no wheat, no red meat.’

‘I could cook you a chicken curry with coconut. Or don’t you eat coconut milk either?’

‘I don’t eat that either.’

‘Well, I’m sure I can think of something. Would you like a tour of the house?’

‘Er, yes, that would be lovely.’

The front door entered into the kitchen. Then the kitchen led into the dining room and this led into the sitting room. It was then I realised the front door was actually the back door, but it was at the side. The front door was in the sitting room at the bottom of the stairs, but John never used it. Up the stairs was a large landing, on which was a sofa, so it was sort of another sitting room.

‘It could be the second bedroom, but I’ve kept it as a sitting room-cum-dressing room. It’s got more light than the downstairs.’

Then into the bathroom, and lastly the bedroom. Black duvet, black sheets. The bed took up the whole room. Except one wardrobe.

‘That’s it. I’ve had it for five years and love it. Bought it with my girlfriend, but bought it off her, and am now quite happy living by myself, or soon to be by myself—when Amanda moves out completely.’

‘I can’t see any of her stuff,’ I say, looking around for female stuff. Knickers, bottles and potions in the bathroom. That sort of thing.

‘No, she’s moved most of it out, and some of it is in boxes. She says she’s going to come round for the rest at some stage. I’ve bought her a TV for her new flat,’ he says, pointing to a big brown box in the corner of the bedroom.

‘Wondered what that was.’

Some sort of sex toy, perhaps?

Perhaps.

I leave the bedroom quickly. Where has my nerve gone? I should have drunk more wine.

‘Do you have any wine?’ I say as I go down the stairs.

‘Why, yes. Red or white? Dry or full-bodied?’

‘Red and full-bodied.’

‘OK.’

Bottle of Australian Shiraz. Very large wine glasses. The sort you like to hold and play with. Which I do. Sitting on the sofa in the downstairs sitting room. He has a range of music. What would I like? I try to pick something I doubt he has or likes. Sweet. 1970s. ‘Love is Like Oxygen.’ Does he have that? He does. Single vinyl. He plays it. Always did make me feel, well, slightly icky inside.

Another glass of red wine. Head going fuzzy and feeling flirty and relaxed. Glazed. He’s not drunk.

‘I do a mean massage.’

‘OK, then.’

He takes his shirt off. ‘Massage the shoulders, please.’

OK, then. I slip my shoes off and ask him to sit on the floor in front of the sofa. I sit on the sofa behind him, legs either side. Skirt hitched up ever so slightly. I’ve come prepared. Aromatherapy oil in pocket. Patchouli, ylang ylang and lavender with a dash of orange. Massage round the shoulders. Then the neck. Then through the hair.

‘You don’t mind getting oil in your hair, do you?’

‘Don’t have much say, do I?’

Not really. John’s hair is dark and curly and soft and good to run fingers through. Notice my nails are badly bitten. Must do something about this.

He starts to touch my ankles and I remember I haven’t remembered to wax for weeks. Shit. Oh well. First impressions.

After ten minutes of ankle tickling and hair massaging I ask if that’s enough.

‘Fine.’

I sit by the fire. Unwaxed legs on show. John leans over and starts to blow—yes,
blow
—on my calves. I initially think this is weird and I don’t like it. Then think it a bit kinky. Perhaps it’s an erogenous zone I haven’t heard of. Anyway, it’s working and I have this desire to rip his clothes off and force myself on him.

He gets there first.

I’m naked with John Wayne.

I’m naked with John Wayne.

I can’t believe I’m actually, sort of, almost having sex with this man. For once in my life someone I’ve lusted over I’ve now, er, got. I’ve never got anyone I really,
really
fancied. Only ones who were nice and I thought would grow on me, but for one reason or another never did because they had bad breath, or no personality, or an eating disorder, or combination of all three. I want to cry because I haven’t been touched for such a long time like this, and it’s wonderful and I’m angry with Paul for withholding sex but I don’t want to cry because it’s a turn-off for John and it’s unfair on him. So I hold it back. And swallow the pain with the pleasure.

But here I was, with a man I was in lust with, and he was actually wanting to have sex with me. Lucky, huh? I kept looking at him, and he had his eyes open too. He kissed hard and held me very tightly, almost crushing my ribcage at times. Then stroking my back, from the top to the bottom of my spine. Caressing my cheeks (on bottom). Gently persuading me to move this way and that without telling me or forcing me, and making it seem natural, as if it was my idea. It wasn’t, but every time he did it I thought, I wish I’d thought of that.

‘I can’t close my eyes, Sarah. Every time I look at you I think, Hey, I’m kissing Sarah Giles. I’m naked with Sarah Giles.’

I smiled. ‘I’m thinking that about you, but didn’t want to tell you. You’ve slept with
sooo
many women. They must all tell you the same things and I would like to be original and keep my own counsel.’ I stroked his hair and started kissing him again and closed my eyes.

We were completely naked, lying side by side, but hadn’t (as they say at school) ‘done anything’.

John—‘I don’t want to sleep with you tonight. I want to wait.’

Sarah—‘What for? Do you respect me?’ I said half jokingly.

John—‘Yes.’

This made me feel uneasy. It was much easier to think John a hardened womaniser rather than a man with feelings and sensibilities who actually cares about the women he sleeps with rather than just uses them. I reassured myself this was just part of his spiel, and the real, tough John would come out later—if not tonight, at some stage during the next month. At least I would have some time with the lust of my life—albeit brief. And anyway that’s what lust is all about. Brief liaisons, furtive, forbidden and above all short. And dangerous and anything goes.

Sarah—‘OK, then. Are you going to take me home?’

John—‘Yes. I think so. I’ll get dressed.’

And with that my dark prince withdrew, and put on his Next underpants.

He drove fast back along the M25. The journey was quiet. We listened to Dido—‘All You Want’. He had one hand on the wheel, the other between my legs. Making me come every ten minutes with the fingers of an expert who knows what he’s doing without looking. This was a little disconcerting, but my body didn’t seem to mind. And my mind was somewhere else completely.

Through the tunnel. He stopped to get the pound coin, pay, and then resumed his position as I resumed my composure, smiling at the attendant as though nothing was happening and I wasn’t having orgasms as regularly as most tourists ask for directions in London.

It took just over an hour to get home. By the time we arrived I had arrived so many times I was dazed and confused and wanted urgently to take all my clothes off again. And his. But he kissed me on both cheeks (on the face) and
said that I should go in and he had an early-morning meeting and he would call me. With one last sweep of the hand he undid a button, pushed my blouse aside and kissed and sucked my left nipple. Then he did up my blouse and left me standing there. In the middle of the road, with one nipple erect and the other jealous.

12th November

Dinner party at Paul’s home. I don’t want to be there. I’m not there, actually. I’m somewhere else altogether. I am with six of his friends. They are his friends. But because I am going out with Paul they are now my friends. They are nice enough people. Interesting and genuine and some kind. But they’re not my friends. Paul doesn’t like me mixing with my friends. He says he wants to meet them and then passes judgement that he doesn’t like them. These are not my friends. That sounds harsher than it is meant. I wouldn’t choose them in a crowded room to talk to. And I’m sure they feel the same way about me. It’s just that they have known Paul for x amount of years, and he likes them, and so they are here.

I get the feeling with Paul that even if someone doesn’t want to be his friend he will somehow make them be his friend. Controlling. As a trader, he negotiates every day, and I think he takes this into his personal life. His relationships. He always negotiates to get the better deal. We always end up going somewhere he wants to go, and so much the better if I genuinely want to go there too. But in the end I wonder if I wanted to go there genuinely or am being so mind-fucked that I don’t know what I really want any more. But I know he wouldn’t want me to see John, so it’s nothing to do with him. But it has everything to do with him. So perhaps he’s still controlling me. See what I mean?

Anyway. Dinner party for six. Two ask themselves unexpectedly. Paul is cooking boeuf en croûte. Never done
it before and likes cooking. Not washing up. He doesn’t have a dishwasher. I wash up. Then we have sex. Which is good and wonderful and worth it. Paul has an earthy quality. Knowing what to do, when to do it. He’s quite selfish without being rough. He’s a wonderful caring lover and it’s sad we don’t make love now…since the abortion.

It affected him quite badly. Worse than I thought at the time. We agreed it was the right thing to do at the time. That it had happened and that I should have told him, but these things did happen. But Paul was traumatised and from then on we didn’t make love. Or hardly ever. And when we did afterwards there would be silence and he would, he tells me, be overcome with guilt. Guilt is something Catholics do well, it seems. It is part of their creed.
I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the Resurrection of the Body and the Power of Guilt. Amen.
I would cry because it would be beautiful, but so rare these days that it upset me that now I couldn’t make love to this man. With all his controlling ways, I felt this was just another opportunity to control a situation. The problem was it wasn’t controlling it. It was stifling it. Hiding it. Not dealing with it.

I tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to create an argument as I knew he was extremely sensitive and would burst into floods of tears, just like a young child who’s had his toys broken. And I loved him. Not just lust. A spiritual love. A love that comes when you first meet someone and know from the onset that you will marry them and that he is your soulmate. That it doesn’t matter about the fact he picks his nose and eats his bogeys (which he does) and doesn’t do any of the washing up and is selfish in so many ways. You know that you love him, and that is all you know. Or all that I knew. I was sad, but happy to be with the man I loved. Happy I had found my soulmate in life. Chemistry was there, but communication wasn’t, and I knew that would have to do for now. For now.

But over five years I became resentful of the no sex policy and started feeling angry. Hence when I met John I was primed for a fling. Ripe for the picking. Full of anger, pride and above all a sexual imagination which hadn’t been used in years.

Dinner party was fine. There was the usual crowd. Patrick and Kate, Peter and Kelly, Connor and Shelley. These were his schoolfriends. Peter and Patrick he had known for many years. Connor even longer. Connor had been going out with Shelley for six years.

Kelly had been going out with Peter since school. She was blonde and cute and, I felt, very tough. Tougher than she came across. She wanted to marry Peter, and I think he was OK about marrying her. But both Peter and Patrick had a love greater than that for any woman. Rugby. It came first. Women came second. They would play it at every opportunity. Patrick was county standard. Paul who was just under six foot (he lied about his height always) would use them as bouncers. Both over six foot three, with hands as big as cauliflowers and ears that resembled them, they were gentle giants and both, especially Patrick, were rather lazy and selfish, but kind and generous at the same time. I blame the mother.

Kate, whom Patrick had only recently started dating, was a beauty therapist. She was loud and funny and called a spade a fucking shovel and I loved her to bits. She was genuine and kind and you knew where you stood and she said she put up with Patrick because he had a big dick and nice arse. But you knew she was genuinely fond of him and wanted to marry him.

Connor had tight curly blond hair and looked like one of the Marx brothers. The one that couldn’t say anything—just squeaked a horn. He was kind and thoughtful and the least selfish out of the schoolfriends, and I had a soft spot for him because it was he who had suggested Paul call me
and pursue me to France and meet me in Monte Carlo and start the relationship all those years ago.

They all arrived at the same time. In convoy. Despite the fact that they all lived in different towns—all the men were Virgos and therefore punctual.

All from Marks & Spencer except B en C which Paul wanted to cook himself. Even the pastry.

I cooked chicken in white wine with garlic for those who don’t eat beef. That’s Kate and myself.