The Last Year Of Being Single

I rang the number.

‘Pierce?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me another one of your “fucking” messages. Don’t do it again or I will tell Paul and he’ll be furious. OK?’

‘OK. Very sorry, deeply embarrassed and mortified.’

3rd October

Seven a.m. Beep on the phone. Message waiting.

I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re driving me crazy. I imagine your wetness in my mouth. The thought of your nipples is driving me crazy.

Right. That’s it.

‘Pierce!’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me one of those messages again.’

‘I didn’t. I’ve sent nothing this morning. You must have got it from someone else. Perhaps Paul.’

‘Doesn’t sound like Paul.’

‘Ring the number back.’

‘Er. Well, sorry, Pierce for bothering you.’

‘That’s OK. Bye.’

Click.

I looked at the text message. Didn’t sound like Paul. And now I looked at it again it had a little (though not much) more finesse than Pierce’s drool.

I called.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘John Wayne. Who is this?’

Heart stopped. Then beat very loudly.

‘Sarah Giles.’

Silence.

‘Have you just sent me a message on my phone … by accident?’

‘What did it say?’

‘Nothing much. It’s just that it was slightly personal—well, very personal, actually, and you sent it to me. Was it meant for Amanda? I think it was. Or Stephanie, perhaps.’

‘What did it say?’

I repeated it.

‘Mmm. Sounds pretty strong, doesn’t it? No, I didn’t send it.’

‘Well, it came from your phone.’

‘Perhaps someone stole my phone and typed it in for a joke.’

‘Who would do that?’

‘I don’t know. Anyway, how are your lovely nipples today?’

‘You did send it, didn’t you? Why?’

Silence.

‘John? You have a girlfriend and a potential bodice-ripper in Stephanie. I have a boyfriend, who I love. Why are you contacting me with messages like this?’

Silence.

‘Hi, you still there?’

‘Yes, Sarah.’ (God, I loved it when he said my name. He made it sound like Sarah, I want to undress you now and make love to you in one word. Amazingly no one else heard that, which is perhaps a good thing.)

‘Did you send me the message?’

‘Yes, Sarah.’

‘Did you mean to send me the message?’

‘Yes, Sarah.’

‘Oh, er, right, then. Well. Don’t send any again. As I said, we’re going out with different people.’

‘Fancy lunch some time soon?’

‘Lunch should be OK. Next week?’

‘Thinking more tomorrow, or the day after.’

‘Er, haven’t got my diary here. Wait a minute.’

I gave myself space to think. What was I doing? Lunch with John Wayne. Had done it before but then I hadn’t had the message before. The signal. The idea of him thinking about me that way was firmly in my mind. Couldn’t get it out of my mind. He wouldn’t be able to do the chocolate cake trick on me. My breasts wouldn’t fill a teacup, let alone a cake tin. I returned to the phone, having not found the diary but found some breath and balls.

‘I can do day after tomorrow.’ Anything or anyone that day would have to be cancelled.

5th October

Day after tomorrow. Don’t know where tomorrow went. Lunch at one p.m. at the restaurant up the road from Pizza Express. None of the staff go there. Food is limited, service slow, you need more than two hours to meander over the courses and wines and coffee.

I was early. Chose the table. He was late. Ten minutes. I smiled. So did he. I went up to kiss him. Both cheeks. He smiled again. His smile was scaring me less each time. Always a good sign. Perhaps because he looked less like a wolf, or perhaps because I didn’t see the wolf-like qualities any more. Only the deep brown eyes, the dark hair and his smell.

John Wayne smelt fabulous. I know women can smell great—but this man smelt of pheromones. I personally believe when he was a research chemist he concocted some artificial ones and impregnated himself with them. Whatever, they worked. I found him more and more irresistible every time I met him. Despite the fact he was just six foot and had a bit of a belly on him, I found the way his mind thought fascinating. Occasionally disgusting but always interesting.

I asked him about his cottage. He told me he’d got all the interior design done for free.

‘What, did you sleep with the decorators?’

‘Actually, yes.’

His story was that there were two girls who were designers that he had known from university, and that he’d kept in touch with them. That they had always liked him and he’d invited them round for the weekend. He’d propositioned them by saying that if they would paint his house inside and out he would sleep with them both all weekend. My mind was whirring round like crazy. Imagining them covered in paint, taking it in turns to sleep with this supposed sex god. I told him this was all bullshit. He said I could phone them and ask. I said it was bullshit and didn’t have to. Anyway, the arrogance of the man was sometimes phenomenal.

He told me that Stephanie’s brain was like a lighthouse to his torch. And that my mind was like a match to her lighthouse. I held in there for the pheromones.

He told me about his sexual prowess at college. How with one girlfriend he only had to touch her breast lightly and she would come.

‘Really? That must have been inconvenient if you were in a pub with friends and you brushed past it by mistake.’

‘It used to be my party trick.’

Why did I like this man? Arrogant, misogynistic, rude, undoubtedly bright and sexy, and pheromonal and animalistic and, and … Keep focused, Sarah. The guy is an arsehole!

He did more of the wrist-tickling and then asked if I would like to see his little cottage. And meet his cats. And have a drink in one of the pubs which do really good English beer (salivating here).

At three-thirty p.m. we get up and go back to the office. Kiss on both cheeks and he smiles again. I positively squeak with pleasure, floating off back to the office and fourth floor.

Text message:

Thank you for a lovely lunch. You are quite lovely Sarah.

Methinks was that quite lovely as in quite amazingly lovely, or quite as in quite almost OK lovely?

I return message:

1/2

Thank you for a lovely lunch. Wonderful company. Don’t believe your story about the decoration, but am sure the cottage is fab. Can’t wait to stroke your…2/2

..…Cats.

10th October

Text message:

Hello Sarah. We’ve never met but John suggested I get in contact with you as you specialise in recovery. I am working on a project for the Change Management Team and wondered if you could help me. My name is Amanda.

Amanda? Miss Piggy Amanda?

Respond:

Amanda—John’s girlfriend Amanda?

Text message: Yes. Can we meet?

Respond: Yes, when?

Text message: This afternoon.

Er. Right. Didn’t expect this.

Three p.m. Amanda Cruise walked into the office. Beautiful, but then I looked at her legs. John was right about everything, but she looked nothing like Miss Piggy.

‘Hello, I’m Amanda.’

‘Hello, I’m Sarah.’

‘I know. John described you very well.’

‘He described you well too.’ (I was wondering which Muppet I was supposed to look like.)

Amanda sat down and we talked recovery for thirty minutes, twenty minutes more than it deserved, and she said thank you, and I said it was a pleasure, and she asked if I would like to go out for a drink and I said fine (really thinking not a good idea) and then she left as quickly as she came.

WINTER

NOVEMBER

ACTION LIST

Have fun.

Have fun.

Try to enjoy dinner parties.

Avoid dairy and wheat products as Anya has told me I am allergic to loads of things, but mainly dairy and wheat. I can eat lots of trout and carrots and garlic. (I live off it for two days and give up.)

Be nice to Paul.

Go to gym five times a week to work off aggression and frustration.

FIREWORKS

1st November

BANG. I’ve gone nearly a whole month without talking to John or Amanda. Or e-mailing either of them. I’ve been manic handling the conference on crime on the railway. Making sure all the speakers know what they are saying and stick to it and don’t nick each other’s thunder or soundbites or unique selling points. That each has equal time and that their graphs and charts and pie charts are the right colour and everything is correctly spelt.

Then there is the catering. Ninety per cent of those attending are male so they want hot food which is plentiful and there on time. So lots of beef stroganoff—for two hundred. Not easy to do. Plus no gristly bits, which the Head of Publicity has told me about. Lots of bigwigs attending. The sniffer dogs will also be there. They don’t want a crime conference being raided for any reason. It would look silly, somehow.

Getting back to the food. Then there is the salady stuff for the twenty or so token women who want salady stuff—unless they are trying to be macho, in which case they’ll opt for the stroganoff. I almost feel like contacting them and asking them what they will want on the day. It’s winter, so it could be hot for all I know. The weather has been unpredictable so far this year. Like my feelings. Up and down in emotional turmoil.

What am I doing flirting with someone at work when I have this fabulous guy at home? Or at least living fifteen miles from me. OK, we don’t have sex. We haven’t for years. But that’s because he wants to save himself now until we are married. But he hasn’t proposed, and I’m not waiting for ever. But apart from that he is fine. And, oh, yes. He’s quite mean with money. But that’s because he is saving for the future. Supposedly our future. So we have a future. So everything will happen soon. But not now. It’s just that not now has been happening for a long time, and I’m becoming an I-want-it-now girl. And I think, if I asked John nicely, he would give it to me. Paul, alas, would not.

Perhaps the only fireworks I’ll see this month will be the ones on the fifth. Hey ho.

5th November

Fireworks. Party. A friend of Paul’s. All our friends were originally friends of Paul’s. All my friends are still my friends. But not of Paul’s. They don’t like him very much and I don’t think he likes them either. He likes to be around people he knows. It’s just that I find them all so incredibly boring. The interesting ones don’t last. The girlfriends who have some fire to them. Some substance. Don’t last. Well, they last for about six months and then disappear into the never-never land of ‘it wasn’t meant to be’. But I liked those ones. Instead I’m always left with the boring ones who are destined to be together. Attached at the hip. Happily having charted their life and two point five children, they won’t have to say much. So they don’t. Fun fun fun.

Fireworks at a friend’s home. This friend had wanted to build his own house and was doing so in Surrey. He’d bought a plot of land that overlooked a valley but also overlooked a motorway and railway line which on a clear day, you could hear loudly. He talked about his architect a lot. Eight to dinner. Patrick and Peter, twins; Kate, Patrick’s other half; Kelly—Peter’s. Then there was Connor and Shelley—who no one liked and everyone talked about when she left the room. I’d known Shelley from nursery school days, but we’d never swapped toys or anything. She’d moved away, then for some inexplicable reason my parents had moved to where her parents had moved ten years later. And we’d ended up at the same comprehensive. Paul and I had bonded through our mutual loathing of her. It had been over a dinner in Versailles.

Paul was talking about friends.

He mentioned a girl called Shelley who was going out with his best pal Connor.

For some reason I said, ‘Not Shelley Beale?’

‘Yes, Shelley Beale. She’s horrid, isn’t she?’

‘Totally. Even the Sunday School teacher said she probably had three sixes on her head.’

‘Match made in heaven, then.’

Mutual disappreciation society was duly formed. Everyone in the ‘group’ hated her, but I was the only one to be honest enough to be cold. Bullshit was never my forte. Not in personal relationships anyway. But perhaps these days I was kidding myself.

As I stood, waving my sparkler about, listening to Paul pontificate about life and love and stuff, I thought, Fuck, is this it?

Text message:

Hi, there. Are you having fireworks like me today? John

Respond:

Yes, but it’s boring the fuck out of me. How you?

Message received:

1/2

Me fine. Pity you’re bored. Been thinking about you a lot. Amanda has been giving me a hard time about seeing you and contacting you again and she’s a good friend of Medina, so she knows if you call my office. How are your …

2/2

… nipples?

Respond:

Nipples erect and firm. Must be because I’m cold. Anything of yours erect and firm John?

Oops, perhaps I went too far. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps I should delete all messages received just in case Paul happens to look through at some stage for his loving ‘I am thinking about you’ messages and spots a nipple one.

Message received:

Yes. When can we meet?

Respond:

What’s happening with you and Amanda?

Message received:

She’s moving out next month. She has found her own flat. I helped her look for one.

That was helpful of him.

Message received:

I’m feeling filthy. I wish I could stick my long hard cock in your mouth.

Christ. And I’d thought I was going too far.

Respond:

That’s a bit heavy.

Message received:

Sorry Sarah, I think I’ve sent you a message by mistake. Pierce.

Respond:

Don’t do it again.

I decided to call John rather than risk e-mailing Pierce John’s messages and vice versa. I was just going to ask John how big Amanda’s flat was.

‘John, thought it best we speak rather than texting all the time.’

‘Nice to speak to you, Sarah. When would you like to meet? This Saturday?’

‘I can’t do weekends.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, just busy.’

‘With the boyfriend?’

‘No. We’ve split up, actually.’ (Why did I say that? That’s a lie. Why did I say that?)

Bullshit. I know exactly why I said that. Deep water here, babes. Mind you, this could make me less attractive in his eyes. I’m not so unattainable any more. I read it somewhere that men who are womanisers—which I had been told reliably by at least twenty of the men and women I worked with that John was—prefer those women who are otherwise attached. Perhaps this was a good thing. Perhaps he wouldn’t like me so much. That and the fact I was due to leave work soon through voluntary redundancy. So perhaps I told him this to get rid of him. Perhaps.

‘Oh. Well, then, how about Friday?’

‘Fine.’

‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye.’

It would have been almost furtive if I hadn’t kept reminding myself that this guy worked for Rogerson Railways. His name was John Wayne. And the whole idea was totally ridiculous. But that was the fun of it. The sheer surrealism of doing something that everyone I knew would utterly disapprove of. After all, everyone liked Paul. Everyone. Then why didn’t I? I think he’d grown dull. Controlling and dull. He wanted a square and I’m a circle and you can’t change a circle into a square and he was trying really hard. So I wanted a bit of freedom. No marriage vows on the horizon, so, hey, why not. Even if it was with a guy called John Wayne who was a renowned womaniser with a fetish for chocolate cake, cats and English beer.

6th November

Call from Amanda. Could she take me to supper as a thank you for helping her out? OK. When? How about Friday? Er, couldn’t make Friday. How about Thursday, then? Fine. Fine. Bye.

10th November

Thursday. Supper with Amanda. Meeting at Victoria Station. I am five minutes late.

‘John says you’re always late,’ she says as I tap her on the shoulder and say hi.

‘Yes, I am. But at least I’m consistent.’

‘John suggested this restaurant in Victoria. Have you been there?’

‘No.’

I was bemused by her continual references to John this and John that. I wondered if she was going to suggest things to eat that John recommended. Fuck John. Well, not tonight anyway.

The restaurant was romantic and intimate and not really suitable for two girls together, but, hey, John had recommended it. Perhaps he got some perverse kick out of his girlfriend, soon to be ex, having dinner with his perhaps soon to be next lover. Anyway, we sat down and ordered. And.

‘John says the sole here is good.’

‘I’ll have the chicken, then.’ I smiled.

Thank God. So did she.

‘Me too.’

Amanda talked about herself. How much she loved John. How she had met him. She omitted the chocolate cake bit and I hadn’t drunk anything so didn’t ask about it. Alas, there was no chocolate cake on the dessert menu, so I couldn’t even ask if she fancied any. She talked about John a lot, and told me that he highly respected me. Really? I thought. Respected me. That’s nice. She told me she’s moving out because she needs her own space and that John has bought her a TV and that he is very generous. I said that was nice. I said that I was pleased he respected me, because I’d thought he only made time for me because he liked my legs. She smiled.

‘No, he likes you for your mind, Sarah.’

She paid. I offered, but she paid. As we left the restaurant I felt rather sorry for her. I don’t know if she really loved John but I wanted to tell her that he wasn’t worth her time, her love or her sympathy. That any man who could treat her so badly didn’t deserve such a sweet, gracious girl. That he was much more deserving of someone who could be as emotionally ruthless as say … me. Anyway, she kissed me on both cheeks and said it had been really fun and turned round towards Victoria Station.

I never saw her again after that. John told me months later that she had thrown a few plates when he told her that we were seeing each other, and that she had cut her wrists and threatened on numerous occasions to kill herself. And that she had started to write a letter to me but had never finished it. Somehow wish she had.

11th November

The Friday.

Message received:

Hi there. Love you. P

xxxxx

Respond:

Love you too.xxxxx

Message received:

What are you doing today?

Respond:

On a training course. In Sussex.

Message received:

Have fun. Love you. xx

Respond:

Will do.

What am I doing? Betraying the sweet guy I’ve known for five years with someone I know to be both devil and deep blue sea entwined. Perhaps it’s the danger and immorality of it all that attracts me. I’ve never done anything very wrong in my life. But surely this is morally wrong? Well, no, I’m not married, am I? And Paul hasn’t proposed, has he? And we’re not having sex, are we? And we haven’t for years, have we? So why not? Amazing how you can logic things out so quickly when you want to. Even when you’re wrong.

I think that’s what men do with their logic. Men automatically think they are right all the time. It’s their mothers. They bring them up to think they can do no wrong. Firstborn are the worst. I can understand why Herod wanted to get rid of them. It was nothing to do with Christianity. It was probably the fact he got so pissed off with men who were first sons being boorish and phenomenally arrogant all the time. I blame the mothers. Anyway, when Paul does something wrong he makes me think it’s my fault. Somehow my behaviour leads to him behaving the way he does. So it’s nothing to do with him. It’s natural. It’s nature. It’s excusable. No, not even that. It’s right, and validated, and therefore I must be in the wrong.

Problem is, this screwed-up logic is catching, so now I validate actions which really are morally wrong. Like the phone call. Like the meeting with John. It’s wrong. But, hey, I haven’t had sex with Paul for years. He isn’t treating me well. We haven’t been getting on recently. But I love him. But he doesn’t understand. So be discreet. And flirt with someone else who makes you feel sexy and wanted and womanly. But that’s not wrong. That’s just being natural. It’s nature. It’s right.

Woke up at eight a.m., knowing I was doing the right thing. Full of the joys of spring despite it being November. Speak to Karen about how I feel. Karen listens. Says nothing. Says it’s natural and it’s nature and I’m right and Paul should treat me better. I tell her what I want her to hear so she validates my feelings and ideas. But I’m using male logic here. So I’m right and I know it.

Karen—‘You’re right. Go for it.’

Sarah—‘I’m being logical and doing what’s natural—right?’

Karen—‘Go for it. Whether you’re right or not. Go for it. A man in your shoes would have left years ago. No sex? No sex is ridiculous. You’ve tried to talk but he won’t talk. You love him, you say, and he loves you, he says. But actions speak louder than words, and his words are empty. There’s something wrong with him, Sarah. Deal with it. Face it. You are. Just not straight. John is a crutch. He may not be Mr Right either, but at least he’s Mr Right Now and he’ll sleep with you.’

John’s asked me over to his little yellow cottage in Redhill. For a drink. After work. I tell Paul I’ll be late home. He’s already working late, so he won’t miss me. He says he will and makes me feel guilty by saying he was thinking of cancelling his night out with the boys. I say, no. You enjoy it. You have fun. I’ll be OK. Some boring course about customer focus and how you can get more by giving more. The irony is wasted on him.

I speak to newspapers about editorial. Meet advertising company in Kings Cross with posh offices. Fantasising about John and his little yellow cottage. He has told me about his cats, Hannah and Jessica. Hannah is fluffy and scatty and lovely. Jessica is beautiful and proud and arrogant. He loves both of them. His tone softens when he talks about them. He talks in the same tone as when he talks about English beer … and my legs. I feel honoured.

I go out at lunchtime and buy a short red skirt. I never wear short red skirts, but for some reason, in November, I consider this to be a practical buy I believe I will get lots of wear from.

We are having a dinner party tomorrow. The day after I visit John’s cottage. Paul has invited some of his friends.

Smoked salmon with avocado? Or fresh figs with parma ham? Decisions, decisions, always decisions. Then chicken in white wine, or coq au vin? Same thing but one has more mushrooms than the other. Fruit salad, cheese and biscuits. Marks & Spencer chocolate sponge pudding. Individual portions with cream or ice cream or crème fraiche? Port, choccies and more port and cigars. Big fat ones for his big fat broker friends. U2, AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. I like Paul’s musical taste much more than I like his taste in friends.

J Day. Seeing John tonight at his place. John at his cottage. Wonder if he has a blue room in his yellow cottage. I’ve seen Nicole Kidman in The Blue Room, and wonder if the yellow cottage will be anything like that. Will he jump on me? Will he try to seduce me? Or will he be cool, in his yellow cottage, with his two cats purring at me?