The Last Year of Being Single (10 page)

John—‘It doesn’t matter.’

Sarah—‘It does matter. Can I have sushi?’

John—‘It’s not a Japanese restaurant, but if you want sushi you can have it. Shh, just listen and come. I ask if I can see you. See between your legs. You agree. I drop my napkin.’

Sarah—‘Bit obvious, isn’t it?’

John—‘That’s the sex in it. Stop interrupting. I bend down to pick it up. As I do so, I move your legs apart and watch you. I move my hands slowly up your thighs and almost reach you, but stop short. I pick up the napkin and call
the waiter to order some wine and water. When the waiter has gone I ask you to put your hand down your skirt and to gently start playing with yourself. Move yourself closer to the table so people cannot see. You’re starting to get wet.

‘I ask you to move to my side and sit by me to read some papers I have brought with me. As you do so, I move closer to you and lift your skirt and move my fingers into you, which makes you flushed and vulnerable and nervous the waiter might return at any moment. Apart from the tablecloth you are on show. The restaurant is half full and you’re on show and starting to feel very turned on, and can’t stop yourself. You’re so wet now, Sarah.

‘The waiter returns. I take my fingers from you and ask you to move back to your seat. He delivers the food. He returns with the wine. Asks me to try it. I say it will be fine. Then the water. I eat the food and feed you some of mine and you feed me some of yours. We drink the wine. I dip my fingers into my glass and ask you to come to my side of the table again. You do. Once again I put my hand down your skirt. This time my fingers are moist and I gently stroke you. I’m talking to you all the while about business and asking you questions which you are increasingly not able to answer. You are more aware that people are looking at us, but you can’t help yourself. You can’t help yourself, Sarah, and I’m stroking you more urgently and you want to open your…’

Sarah—‘Aghhhhhhhhhhhh…’

John—‘And you come.’

Sarah—‘Have a nice meeting.’

John—‘I will. I also need a tissue now.’

Sarah—‘Sure Medina will get one for you.’

John—‘Er, no. She does most things, but this I think I will do by myself.’

Sarah—‘Thank you. Lovely wake-up call.’

John—‘Next time I see you. I want to do it for real.’

18th December

Seven a.m.

Five past seven to seven twenty-five a.m.—phone sex.

This time a crowded beach. Sand gets everywhere. Make myself come thinking of him…

19th December

Seven a.m.

Five past seven till seven twenty-five a.m.—phone sex.

This time a board meeting. On the table. In front of all the directors. Purpose of meeting: a lesson in customer
focus. How to give and receive it. How to manage expectations. Benefits and concerns—

20th December

Seven a.m.

Five past seven to seven fifty-five a.m.—phone sex.

In cinema. Matinée. A comedy. Back row. Semi-crowded. Coming at an inappropriate moment. Having to be quiet. No screaming. Difficult for me. Very wet. Very turned on.

21st December

Seven a.m.

24th December

I don’t feel Christmassy. I feel lustful and in party mode but not for and with my boyfriend of five years. I go to church
more times in a week than I do all year. With my family, his family, friends. We sing carols and say prayers. But Paul’s not in my head or my understanding. Not in my eyes or in my looking. Not in my mouth or in my speaking. He’s still in my prayers and in my thinking. But not the way he was—five years ago. I’m thinking of John. I’m thinking of what John will be like. If I will see him again. If he will decide to stay with Amanda or if he will decide to give me a try. Or if he will find another squeeze to be festive with this season.

I wonder how I can break it to Paul that we should perhaps give each other space. The ‘I need space’ line. You know—the one that precedes ‘I’ve found someone else’ if you’re pressed. I can’t do it before Christmas. It will ruin his holiday. He’s doing well at work, expecting a large bonus, going to buy a new house and seems happy. I haven’t been asking or hinting about marriage because, hey, my mind’s been on something and someone else—so I’m cooler but also more energised with Paul, because I’m thinking of John and Paul gets the benefit of John’s influence. Win win win situation, methinks.

Spending Christmas with cousins. Paul picking me up from my flat. Karen staying with her on-off boyfriend and his family. Exchange gifts. Leave flat at five p.m. and drive to Weston Turvill. Paul says he wants to stop off at a pub on the way. We pull into the car park. Six-thirty p.m. Paul hands me a little black box.

Paul—‘Will you be my wife?’

Stunned. Have been thinking about John all day and on the journey, and thinking about breaking up with Paul. Now he proposes. He hasn’t gone down on one knee. He is proposing to me in a car park. Of a pub. On Christmas Eve. Do I say no and ruin his Christmas so he has to spend it with my parents and cousins knowing that I don’t want to marry him? He’s bought the ring. I open the box. It’s
lovely. Diamonds. Four. He’s chosen it without consultation, but he’s chosen well.

Paul—‘I chose it. I hope you like it.’

I don’t look at him. I think fuck. What the fuck shall I do? Devil or deep blue sea? John is lust. I know that. I’ve just met him. I know that. It’s sex. I know that. Paul is my love, my soulmate, but there’s a problem. I know that. What the fuck do I do? Can I call a friend? No, I cannot. I choose.

Sarah—‘I would love to be your wife, Paul.’

I lie.

He kisses me. I kiss him back. We go to the pub and order champagne and look into the log fire and tell the girl serving us that we’ve just got engaged and she’s happy for us. Happier than I am for us. I look at Paul and know I love him, but also want to tell him stuff that I can’t tell him. I love him but can’t talk to him any more. I can’t open up to him any more. I can’t tell him I resent him. Not now. Not now, as he has just proposed and given me this ring, which he proceeds to tell me cost more than £1500, which somehow takes the magic out of it.

After an hour drinking champagne we return to the car. Holding hands. Arrive at my cousins’. He tells me he hasn’t asked my father. He goes to the house first. He goes to my father, who is sitting by himself in the sitting room. My mother and cousins are in the kitchen. I go into the kitchen and make small talk with my cousins and try to ignore my mother.

When Paul returns I go in to see my father while Paul breaks the news to my mum. As I walk to the sitting room I can hear silence, then screams of delight coming from the kitchen. I hope they don’t follow me in. I want to be with my dad at this moment. He smiles at me as I enter the room.

Dad—‘I’m very happy for you, Sarah.’

Sarah—‘Thank you, Dad. He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

Dad—‘I hope he will make you very happy. Are you happy, Sarah?’

I look at him as though he can read my mind or my face or see through me that I’m not quite sure. But I think it’s just the way it’s come out. No. I look at his face and it’s a genuine question. He asks it again.

Dad—‘Are you happy, Sarah?’

Sarah—‘Yes, Dad. He’s a very good man. He loves me very much.’

Dad—‘Do you love him? Will he make you happy?’

Sarah—‘Yes, I think so. Yes, I do.’

Dad—‘Good, Sarah.’

He looks at me and says nothing. As if he knows but will let me lie in my own bed and sleep in it and learn from it.

Mother comes in with cousins. Hugging me and kissing me. Mother cries. It’s for herself. She’s got her daughter off her hands to a well-off young man. She has something to tell her friends. Her coterie of Hyacinth Bucket ladies who lunch. I can see in her eyes she is planning the big white wedding. Boasting about how wonderful the groom is. What a nice family they are. The church. Who she will invite. Who she will tell. What dress she will wear. All the things that are not important. How it will be her day. And I don’t want her there. For fuck’s sake, I don’t know if
I
want to be there.

Dad—‘When are you going to get married?’

Paul—‘Well, probably in about nine months. We were thinking September. Why wait? We’ve been going out for over five years.’

Dad—‘The weather will still be good then. Good idea.’

I’m given a glass of champagne and drink it quickly. Then another. And another. We drink until four a.m. the following morning. Christmas Day. And then make our way to the bedrooms. I cuddle up to my fiancé. I feel good and comforted
but disturbed. I should be ecstatic but I’m not. I should feel secure but I’m not. I love Paul. There is no doubt. But until this moment in time, this very moment in time, he’s been far from my thoughts and my dreams. And I think of John and how I shall tell him and how I shall broach the subject.

Sarah—Hi, John, did you have a good Christmas?

John—Yes, Sarah. Did you? Get anything nice?

Sarah—Well, yes, actually. I got a really lovely diamond ring and I’m going to marry Paul. OK? In September. Big white wedding. Would you like to come?

Yes, I can see it now.

25th December

Blur. Turkey went in late so we ate at six in the evening. Lots of laughter, tears and dirty jokes. Feeling numb. Holding Paul’s hand a lot. Dad keeps looking at me as though he knows. He smiles and stares at me. And then at Paul. Mother totally oblivious of everything. I wonder if she really is my mother or if I was swapped in the hospital. I am so unlike her. She is horrible. Like Hyacinth without the humour.

26th December

Early start. We set off to Paul’s parents. Back to Chelmsford. Paul rang his parents on Christmas Day to tell them the news. He tells me they are delighted. When we arrive at their home the only one there is his brother Mark. His parents and younger brother are at church. They are Catholics and Irish and Mark doesn’t believe and is the rebel and is the one out of all the family (including Paul) I most like and respect. He’s honest with his anger. He’s the black sheep and talks to his parents, whereas Paul and his other brother Andrew don’t. They are economical with information. Don’t think it’s an
Irish thing. Or an Irish Catholic thing. Or a son-parent thing. Perhaps it’s a combination of the lot. Anyway. They don’t talk.

Mark hugs me and says, ‘Hello, sis.’ And I cry. It’s a genuine hug and I think he’s genuinely happy to be having a sister and I’m genuinely happy to be having him as a brother. Only children miss out on that. Got to play with all the toys, but would have liked a brother. Preferably an older one who would invite his friends round. Potential boyfriend material.

The others arrive about ten a.m. Hugs all round. More champagne. More turkey—this time at a reasonable time. No TV allowed. Just games. Mark likes to win. Even with his new sister-in-law. I like being part of this family. They are nice people. I prefer them to my own family. They seem to like each other. There’s always a tension with mine. Sort of dysfunctional but I love them all. As individuals. Just not together in one room for any given period.

I should forget John. This is what I want. A proper family. Nice people. People who will accept me for what I am. Er—hold on one minute there. They won’t accept me for who I am. They don’t know who I am. I’ve been seeing someone else. They don’t know about the abortion. They would be devastated if they knew. Paul has not told them. They don’t know about our problems. Paul won’t tell them and neither will I. They won’t accept me for who I am. They accept me for what they perceive me to be. Which isn’t me.
Which isn’t me.

Boxing Day afternoon I find myself for a few minutes alone. Sitting on the toilet. Contemplating life. And finding space. I think, Shall I go through with this? I’m deceiving everyone, but especially myself. Do I come clean with Paul? Do I say, By the way, I’ve met someone else, but it’s just a sexual thing? A fling? Or do I keep my big mouth shut. After all, John is a womaniser. He’ll get bored of me—
right? He’s amoral and I’ll grow to hate him as he’ll treat me badly, and Paul, despite the fact he won’t sleep with me, is a nice guy. He’s a lovely guy and I love him. But I’m sleeping with someone else. Well, not exactly sleeping with. We haven’t actually done
it
yet. Phone sex? Does that count? It’s not even oral sex. Does rolling round naked count? Or snogging? Or thinking about it? According to the church if you think about it, it’s as good as doing it. Then again, it may all fizzle out with John anyway, so why rock the boat and tell Paul? He’ll be upset and I love him.

Keep it to yourself, Sarah.

So I do. For Christmas. I smile and drink and get drunk and get a headache and a fucking migraine which bangs away at my head. And I fall asleep and Paul tells me that despite the fact we are engaged it would be nice to wait. And that we can hug naked and would that be all right? Wait for the wedding day before we make love properly? Wait nine months. Nine fucking months to make love. Do I understand?

No, I don’t, but I will have to
try
to understand. Yes, I understand.

He tells me he proposed because we had been long enough going out, and that we had had our ups and downs, but now that I had left the Situation Manager’s role at the railways I would be getting a job locally, and that he had done well in the City and was expecting a big bonus and that it was the right time to do it.