The Last Year of Being Single (9 page)

And so it was for most dinner parties. The same. Everybody disliked Shelley but no one told her to her face, or told Connor. She was insecure and put everyone and everything down. Everyone else’s achievement could be bettered in some way. First time she came round to a dinner party at Paul’s house she kissed him full on the lips and groped at his groin. Just for me. That was nice. Anyway, I wanted to tell her to her face, but no one else seemed to want to rock the boat with Connor, so it was the conversation piece before and after she left the room. A sort of bonding amongst the others. As I had known her from the past I was an honorary Shelley-hater, despite the fact that I actually felt sorry for the girl. Everyone ‘put up’ with her and she didn’t even know it. Made me wonder if they did the same with me. Paul assured me not.

En croûte was undercooked. So everyone wanted my chicken. Conversation revolved around music, sex, drugs and Shelley—and not in that order. I did the washing up. Kelly helped. Kate talked a lot and told Paul he was boorish and I was an angel to put up with him. Shelley sulked a lot. Paul drank the most port, but got least drunk out of all the men. Then we watched
Highlander
(Paul’s favourite film), then Paul in a rally car race (Paul’s favourite video), then played Led Zeppelin at full blast and the men played air guitar till three in the morning while the women talked about fluff. They then left, women driving home.

Paul went to bed.

Sarah finished washing up (I would have to do it in the morning anyway), then came to bed to snoring, farty
boyfriend. He slept till two the next afternoon. Then got up. Had something to eat and then back to bed again.

It was the same every time there was a dinner party. Occasionally we would get up at one and go to the Punch Bowl. I still loved the restaurant because it was romantic and it had good memories and it reminded me how much I loved Paul, which made me as melancholy these days as it did happy in years past.

I remember when we had lunch the first time, returning from France. We couldn’t eat anything. We then went to the cricket ground and watched them play and kissed in the hope that a ball wouldn’t knock us out or kill us. I have never been happier in my life than those first nine months of meeting Paul.

At the end of dinner party evenings, if I had drunk a little too much champagne or wine or a combination, I would try to think of people I was indifferent to. Who made me numb with their blandness. It was a sort of mental anorexia. Think of people who starve you of feeling about them and with them, and there is no chance for sadness or any emotion. It worked. Usually. Sometimes I would sit in the downstairs toilet and sob. Then wait while the flush died from my cheeks and I could go out into the dinner party crowd once again and face even the sulking Shelley.

We had about ten of these a year. Sometimes Paul would invite his broker friends. Once, my friends were invited, but he didn’t like them, so they weren’t invited again.

13th November

Two p.m.

14th November

Phone rings.

‘How are you? Been thinking about you all weekend. Amanda was here and she kept asking if I was OK I was so distracted. We’re supposed to be going on holiday for a week, but I don’t want to go.’

Sarah—‘You must. It will do you good. Anyway, you can still contact me. Where are you going?’

John—‘The Caribbean. St Thomas. Got it at that travel agent at Liverpool Street Station, ironically. It’s the most built-up but it’s a cheap deal. They are renovating and the water sports are supposed to be good. Hiring a car and touring the island.’

Sarah—‘Have fun.’

John—‘I won’t.’

ACTION LIST

Buy presents which are meaningful for friends and family but are also cheap.

Don’t eat everything at parties.

Don’t drink too much at parties—makes me too honest.

Be nice to Paul.

Be nice to me.

Go to gym six times a week, two hours on Saturday morning.

Enjoy work.

1st December

I am miserable. John has not called. He was back over a week ago but Medina, his PA, says he is out of the office and can’t be contacted. He hasn’t texted or phoned or left a message on my machine or anything. Karen says he hasn’t left a message and I trust her. Haven’t told her about him, that I like him, but I think she guesses.

2nd December

Still miserable. Still hasn’t phoned. Paul asks why I’m distracted. I just say pressure of work and that I may be made redundant and that I’m looking for a new job. I’ve had about fifteen since I’ve been going out with him, but that includes temporary work. I want to be a travel journalist and get paid for travelling but don’t know how to do it. So far my jobs have been in every conceivable field bar the one I want.

I got a week on the
Mail on Sunday
once, as a junior reporter at the start of the Gulf crisis. Told them I’d worked on the
South China Morning Post
and on regionals. They gave me a break. I got them a scoop (first British family to escape). Made page three (only beaten to front page by torpedoes being sent off). But second week they discovered I was just a wannabe so gave me the push. Ironic that when I’d managed to prove myself in one week they didn’t give me another chance. But that was life. And it proved that I could do it—given the chance. But here I was, working for Rogerson Railways, hoping to become a travel writer.

3rd December

John still hasn’t phoned. He has forgotten about me, obviously. Am getting the
Guardian
and UK
Press Gazette
. Must focus on something positive. Plus have lots of parma ham and port dinner parties to prepare for. And go to. The dinner parties Paul’s friends organise obviously sing from the same cookery book. Some are Delia. Some are Nigella. Some are Oliver. All taste the same. All finish with some sort of chocolate decadence and all finish with men as pissed as farts. And the women drive home. And the conversation is always the same.

4th December

I’ve given up on him. He’s not going to phone. He blew on my calves and rolled about with me half naked and didn’t even get to second base, but that was it. My wet dream has to stop at that point. I have to wake up and smell the roses. I love Paul. Forget John. He’s an unknown. The deep blue sea. Better the devil and all that.

5th December

He phones. Back to the deep blue sea.

John—‘Sorry I haven’t called.’

Keep cool.

Sarah—‘Don’t worry. I’ve been very busy.’

John—‘Really? Medina said you phoned quite a bit. Six times in three days, in fact.’

Sarah—‘Must have been another Sarah.’

John—‘No, she said it was you. The one she overheard calling me a rude wanker. Anyway, I was in a stream of meetings, so very busy.’

Sarah—‘How was the holiday?’

John—‘Fine. Lots of sunshine.’

Sarah—‘And sex?’

John—‘Some.’

I shouldn’t have asked. It made me feel sick to think of him with Amanda. But why should I worry? He wasn’t mine. We’d just had a grope after all.

Sarah—‘That’s nice.’

John—‘No, it wasn’t actually. It was quite disconcerting. I thought about you all the time. I kept seeing your face in my head.’

That’s nice, I thought.

Sarah—‘That’s nice. I’ve been thinking about you too.’

John—‘When do you want to meet next? Tomorrow?’

Sarah—‘I can’t do tomorrow. Have a date I can’t break—’ (true) ‘—with Paul and friends.’ False—just friends, but didn’t want to break it.

John—‘When can we meet, then? Can you do a weekend?’

Sarah—‘How will you explain that to Amanda?’

John—‘She’s moving out of the cottage soon. She doesn’t know about you but suspects. I’ve told her it’s nothing. Which of course it is, isn’t it Sarah?’

Sarah—‘Of course. I’m just a bit on the side, John.’

John—‘Quite.’

Sarah—‘I can’t do a weekend, but I may be able to manage an evening. Can you come over to my flat and stay the night?’

John—‘I should think so.’

Sarah—‘Fine. Next week.’

6th December

Called into the boss’s office. Edward Benjamin. In his forties. Bright, drinks too much, ruddy-faced. Likes me, but not sexually. Level-headed. Worked with John lots.

Nine a.m. I’m being made redundant. Nothing personal. Culling at Central Office pre-privatisation. I’m a good one; they want to keep me. But I can take redundancy and cheque if I want it. Either that or I can move to a new department. Do I want to move to one of the regions? Rogerson Railways Southern? John Wayne has suggested that he needs a good PR. Would I like to work for him?

I think hard.

Sarah—‘No. I would rather take the money. Next question.’

Edward—‘Are you having an affair with John Wayne?’

Stunned silence.

Sarah—‘No, er, isn’t that personal?’

Edward—‘It’s been noted you’ve been talking to him a lot recently and calling his office.’

Sarah—‘That was just on business.’

Edward—‘I understand, Sarah. But remember John is amoral. He doesn’t know right from wrong. He’s a womaniser and plays with the minds of young ladies, as he does their bodies.’

For some strange reason this turns me on. I smile. Edward sees it.

Edward—‘Just be careful, Sarah. I like John, but he’s no good for you and no good for women. OK?’

Sarah—‘OK, Edward. Thank you for your concern but I think I can look after myself.’

15th December

Last day in the office. Huge bunch of flowers. John due to meet me at Liverpool Street Station. He’s staying at the flat. Karen has decided she will stay with her boyfriend tonight. I’ve asked her to. Train journey takes for ever. We don’t say anything. Just look at each other through the foliage. He asks who the flowers came from. I say an admirer. In reality they came from a PR company that wants me to work for them.

Six-thirty p.m. we arrive at my flat. Only thing I have in the fridge is vodka and fresh orange juice. I fix two drinks. Then order pizza. I don’t eat pizza, but John does and I’m not hungry. For food anyway. I want him to blow on my calves again. This time I’ve waxed.

Six thirty-five p.m. TV on. Clothes off. He rips my knickers. La Perla, £55. Why do I bother? I tell him he can buy me more. He says he will. Rolling around. Trying to tease one another into submission but neither gives up. He doesn’t want to ‘take me’, he wants to save the moment until Amanda has moved out. Do I understand? Yes, I do. But that doesn’t stop me trying to tease him into submission. It
doesn’t work. He is controlled and in control, and it’s wonderful and illicit and dangerous and I’m high on him and his touch and just being with him for the moment.

Seven thirty-five p.m. Pizza boy arrives. I pay him. Dressed in dressing gown. He smiles. Takes money and leaves.

One a.m. Still rolling around. Naked. John says he will sleep in Karen’s bed. If he sleeps with me, he may be tempted. He tells me Karen keeps all her underwear under her pillow. She is a size 12-14 and likes M&S cotton.

One-twenty a.m. Watch bedroom door, wondering if he will come in and ‘take me’.

One twenty-five a.m. He doesn’t. Fall asleep.

16th December

Eight a.m. John goes. Very cool. Make him toast. He says it’s slightly burnt. I apologise. No kiss on cheek. Seems too clichéd. I’m not going into work today, but don’t want to wish him a ‘nice day’. He tells me he is having dinner with his work colleagues. I ask him not to mention that he’s seen me naked or that my cuffs and collar don’t match. He says he will.

Eight-thirty a.m. I’m daydreaming and call Catherine. Catherine tells me she is in lust and love with yoga teacher and wants to come round and talk about him and how wonderful he is at sex. I tell her about John. She understands why (she knows about abortion and no sex and stuff).

Nine-thirty a.m. Catherine comes round and talks about Liam. Solidly for three hours.

Twelve-thirty p.m. We go to Pizza Express and get a salade niçoise and Diet Coke (me) and cheese pizza with extra mushrooms and apple juice (her). She tells me more about Liam and then I start to talk about John.

Two-thirty p.m. Still talking. People on surrounding ta
bles stop talking and listen to our conversation. Far more interesting.

Catherine—‘When I’m with him I just want to rip his clothes off.’

Sarah—‘It’s lust, not love, then.’

Catherine—‘But I think about him all the time.’

Sarah—‘What about Freddie?’

Catherine—‘I can’t bear for him to touch me. And anyway I know he has seen other women. Once I found scratch marks on his back and he admitted there was someone else, but only a one-night stand.’

Sarah—‘Why are you still with him?’

Catherine—‘There was no one else and he said he would never do it again.’

Sarah—‘Do you believe him?’

Catherine—‘No, but I don’t care now.’

Sarah—‘What are you going to do?’

Catherine—‘Freddie wants to move to Richmond. I want to stay put, for obvious reasons. He’s buying a place there. Think he’s almost completed.’

Sarah—‘Have you seen it or had any say on where in Richmond?’

Catherine—‘Freddie never asks, Sarah. He just does something and expects me to follow his lead.’

Sarah—‘And you’re not going to this time?’

Catherine—‘Right. All I can think about is Liam. When I’m with him, the next time I’m going to be with him. It’s nearly Christmas and I’m wearing skirts up to my bottom and don’t care. He makes me feel sexy and wanted and it’s wonderful. He’s also experimental.’

Sarah—‘In what way? With sex?’

Catherine—‘Fruit and chocolate, and he does things Freddie would have never considered.’

Sarah—‘Like what?’

Catherine—‘I wouldn’t like to say.’

Then she spends the next hour saying what she wouldn’t like to say. How flexible, focused, fun and fuckable Liam is, and how she never gets to bed but he doesn’t want her to stay the night at his place ever or stay over at her place ever. And how the oral sex is good. And the anal sex is good. And how well-endowed he is and how size matters. Which disturbs me, but I say nothing.

Catherine—‘He keeps asking about my parents. He seems concerned that they are both dead and asks if they left me OK financially.’

Sarah—‘Does he think you’re loaded, then?’

Scowl.

Catherine—‘No.’ More upbeat. ‘But perhaps I should tell him I am and then he’ll ask me to marry him.’

Sarah—‘Do you want to marry him?’

Catherine—‘At the moment I want to spend the rest of my life with him. All I can think about is being with him. Smelling him. Touching him. When I go to his classes all the other girls lust after him. When he stretches our inner thighs he steps over us, and the girls try to look up his shorts and he looks at me and I look at him and we know what we will be doing in two hours’ time and that this exercise is just the warm-up.’

The conversation continues. The surrounding tables are silent. The closest ones have had three cups of coffee and are phoning their offices, telling their bosses or secretaries that the meeting has overrun. I suggest she tries Pilates instead.

17th December

Seven a.m.

Phone rings.

‘Hi. Where are you?’

Sarah—‘Still in bed.’

John—‘What wearing?’

Sarah—‘Nothing.’

John—‘Pity. Much sexier with something on. Put something on.’

Sarah—‘When I have something on, knickers for example, you rip them off. So why bother? And I’ll wear or won’t wear what I like, OK?’

John—‘Sarah, I would really like you to put some lacy knickers on. Do you have lacy knickers?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

John—‘Could you please put them on for me?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

Sarah gets lacy knickers and thinks, This is stupid, but, hey, it’s seven a.m.

John—‘Have you got them on?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

John—‘Where are your hands?’

Sarah—‘Where would you like them to be?’

John—‘In between your legs.’

Sarah—‘Where are
your
hands?’

John—‘I’m in the office. I’m not going to start wanking off in my office.’

Sarah—‘Why not? You’re asking me to do it.’

John—‘OK, then.’

I hear fumbling.

Sarah—‘You’re pretending.’

John—‘Suppose I could fake it, but it’s got to be quick. I’ve got a 7.30 meeting and I’ve got to be on time.’

Sarah—‘Then start talking and turn me on.’

John—‘You’ve got to turn yourself on, but I’ll talk you through it. We’re in a restaurant. Late lunch. Midsummer. You’re wearing a skirt. Silk. Just below the knees. Tight white top and cardigan. Lacy knickers.’

Sarah—‘How can you tell?’

John—‘I can tell. It’s my story so I can tell. Shut up and listen. You’re wearing lacy knickers.’

Sarah—‘You’ve already said that.’

John—‘Shut up. Do you want to come or not?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

John—‘You sit down on the other side of the table. I ask if you can sit by me. I ask you to go and take your knickers off and return and give them to me.’

Sarah—‘Mmm. But that’s not exactly original. Didn’t Sharon Stone or someone do something like that in a film?’

John—‘She nicked the idea from me. Don’t interrupt. You do it. You go and take your knickers off and return, hiding them in your hand. You hand them to me as the waiter appears for our order. He sees what you are doing and you’re embarrassed, but he says nothing. You sit down opposite me. We order. Something light.’

Sarah—‘What do I have?’