The Last Year of Being Single (18 page)

Sarah—‘Where are you from?’

Guy—‘Southend.’

Sarah—‘Essex man.’

Guy—‘Yep. And you?’

Sarah—‘Chelmsford. But really Gants Hill.’

Guy—‘Essex, yourself. Actually, no. You’re Greater London now, aren’t you, really?’

Sarah—‘Supposedly. Anyway I live in Chelmsford.’

Guy—‘With your man?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

Guy—‘Happy about getting married?’

Could he read my mind?

Sarah—‘Don’t know.’

Guy—‘Perhaps you shouldn’t do it, then.’

Sarah—‘Bit late now.’

Guy—‘Not too late.’

Sarah—‘When is too late?’

Guy—‘After you say I do. After you give birth to a child. That’s when it’s too late. When you fuck up not only your life but others. What does your husband-to-be do?’

Sarah—‘Works in the City. Fixed Interest.’

Guy—‘Trader. Mmm. Well, some of them are OK.’

He doesn’t look as though he is convincing himself.

Guy—‘Do you want children?’

I tell the truth.

Sarah—‘No.’

Guy—‘Told your man yet?’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

Guy—‘Did he listen?’

I looked at Guy. He looked a bit like John. Dark curly hair.
Clear complexion. Bright brown eyes. Not as close together as John’s. Smiling eyes. Steady gaze. Soft voice. He reminded me of John in his questioning. Incisive. As though he could read my mind. See my discontentment. Made me wonder. Can anyone else see it? Can Paul see it? Is he ignoring it? Does he think it’s just last-minute nerves? Or is he so arrogant he doesn’t think anything could be wrong? Or doesn’t he want to see it? Being honest I said, ‘No. Probably not.’

Guy—‘So he thinks he can change you, then?’

Sarah—‘Probably.’

Guy—‘Can he?’

Sarah—‘No.’

Guy—‘Then don’t marry him.’

Sometimes I feel as though I have a guardian angel who tries to show me the way. Sometimes she does it subtly. Sometime she bashes me hard on the head. This was a definite head butt.

Sarah—‘Sometimes it is too late.’

Guy—‘It’s not. Do you love him?’

Sarah—‘You’re getting very personal.’ (Getting very defensive.)

Guy—‘Well, you haven’t got personal with your fiancé if you haven’t talked about this. He wants kids. You don’t. You don’t talk about him in glowing terms. In fact you don’t talk about him at all.’ (In quieter voice.) ‘Is he the guy to your left?’

Sarah—‘No, he’s sitting three seats away.’

Guy takes a sip of champagne, looking over the glass at Paul, who is now peering aggressively and intently at him because he’s been talking to me for more than the recommended half-hour. Paul doesn’t like me talking to any man for more than half an hour as he thinks it is rude of me not to talk to other people. I’m excluding them.

Guy—‘Looks like a banker. Nice eyes. Catholic, you say?’

Sarah—‘How does a banker look?’

Guy—‘Smug. Tired. From time to time up their own arse. I know because people in the media are the same. Except they are usually up someone else’s arse as well as their own.’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

Guy—‘Catholic, but not practising. Why not?’

Didn’t want to tell man-I-had-just-met-and-got-more-in-common-with-than-my-intended about the abortion.

Sarah—‘Things happened which made him realise that there was hypocrisy in the religion.’

Guy—‘Yeah, but you’re still having a church wedding?’

Sarah—‘Yeah, Paul—that’s my fiancé—’(realise this is the first time I’ve mentioned him by name) ‘—says the Protestants took all the best churches so he wants the best of both worlds. I don’t believe in the church. Think it’s just there to keep the masses in place. An establishment like any other. A meeting place. But then I’ve got the gym now. Worshipping of a different sort. I believe in God.’

Guy—‘Do you pray?’

Sarah—‘Every night.’

Guy—‘What do you pray for?’

Sarah—‘Wisdom, health and happiness.’

Guy—(looking me up and down)—‘Well you look fit.’ (He smiles.) ‘Are you happy and switched on, then?’

Sarah—‘Think so.’ (Unconvincingly.)

Guy—‘Hmm. Your man’s got a good catch. Sharp your man.’

Sarah—‘Yes.’

Guy—‘He should know he can’t change you, then. Make sure he doesn’t start a trade on you, Sarah. These men can turn nasty if they don’t get their own way. Men’s love is very fragile. Very selfish, Sarah. They can turn their work into their pleasure, if you know what I mean.’ (Looking at me
closely.) ‘And you don’t strike me as the marrying kind. Women getting married are usually, well, more glowing. Happy about it. They mention their intended usually in the first few sentences. You’re not acting like a soon-to-be-married woman. You’re acting like a single woman. It’s not that you are flirting. But you don’t talk about him at all. You’re interested in me, what I do, what you do, but most women talk about the event—especially when it’s fairly soon—like four months away.’

Sarah—‘I’ve got more interesting stuff to talk about.’

Guy—‘Expect you have.’

This Guy I’m sure can read minds.

Sarah—‘Can you read minds?’

Guy notices the message received. I think he sees it.

Guy—‘No. But I’ve met a few women like you. You’re bright. Sharp. Got lots going for you. You look good. Fit. You’re interesting and interested and I don’t think your banker, however nice or not nice he may be, is good enough for you. Or right for you. Or will make you happy. He sounds insecure and confused and—’ (looking down at my mobile text message)‘—controlling. And that isn’t a chat-up line. Coz I’m happily married and love my wife to bits. You don’t fit in here, Sarah. Neither do I. But at least I know it and can see it for what it is. It’s one big fucking fake. Every other conversation I’ve had today has been about that fucking Aston Martin and do I know who owns it? Well, I do. And it’s fucking boring. It’s my dream car, and it cost a fucking fortune, and it is what it is, but the way this lot have been talking about it you would think it’s the second fucking coming.’

Message should have sent:

His name is Guy. He is the only real person here. Including me. He’s telling me not to marry you coz you’re probably a control freak and you wouldn’t make me happy. And I don’t want to have your children. And I’m kidding myself. So mind your own fucking business.

Best man shouted very loudly. ‘Speeches about to begin. Pray silence for the father of the bride.’

I didn’t hear the speeches. The jokes by the father of the bride. The jokes by the two best men, by the groom. The bride wanted to say something, but it wasn’t the right thing to do, so she stayed sitting and looked pretty and thin. And, well, sort of miserable. And the men looked happy and drunk, or perhaps just excited with the expectation of getting drunk or stoned. And I remember looking at Guy during the speeches and catching his eye and him looking back at me and mouthing ‘Don’t do it’.

After speeches and coffee and port and cigars and the obligatory nose powder (for the girls) and bum-licking (for the boys) the band plays lots of Dire Straits and old rock ’n’ roll. Everyone thinks they look sexy.

In the ‘powder room’, which is larger than my old flat.

I felt sick and elated at the same time. Elated coz it was a wonderful message. Sick coz the Chessley Arms was the pub we were staying in tonight.

I introduced Paul to Guy. Guy smiled and took all the compliments Paul bestowed on his car with good grace. And congratulated him on finding such a lovely girl as Sarah for his wife-to-be. Paul cuddled me, pushing me to him as though to say ‘she’s mine’ rather than ‘I’m hers’ or ‘I love her’. Guy introduced Fiona, who said she had to go soon coz of the children. Guy suggested Paul have a look at the car. Paul was very happy and stopped squeezing me to look at the car. Guy asked if I would like to see it. I said no. Paul said I wasn’t interested in cars. I said I was, but not at the moment.

Guy—‘It was good to meet you, Sarah.’

Sarah—‘Good to meet you too, Guy.’

Guy—‘Good luck.’

Sarah—‘You too.’

I never saw or spoke to Guy again. Paul told me in the car on the way to the pub that he thought the Aston was fab, and Guy seemed OK. Bit distant. But OK. Typical TV type. Bullshitty. He told me he was complimentary about me. We compared notes about that wedding and how ours
would be. How it would be better. More genuine. We’d have more friends there and it would be lovely. And special and just right. And he was so happy we were getting married and it would be the happiest moment of his life. And that wedding had been a bit too much ostentation. And I looked at my slightly drunk fiancé, and thought, Sometimes you say the right things at the right time.

At the Chessley Arms we didn’t see John. Arrived at one a.m. No one in the bar. Paul too drunk to ‘do’ anything. But kissed me and told me he loved me. And how lucky he was. And how wonderful I looked today and how everyone said I looked wonderful and how he was so very proud of me and all my achievements and that we had been through some tough times together but that would make the two of us, working as one, a team, two against the world, stronger. And I didn’t speak. And then he sort of spoilt it. He asked if I would consider anal sex. Just like that.

Paul—‘Would you consider anal sex?’

Sarah—‘Er, no.’

Paul—‘Don’t be so prudish.’

Sarah—‘I’m not. You’re drunk and I’m not drunk enough.’

Paul—‘Italian—’(one of his friends) ‘—says it’s fine. But you end up farting cum all the time afterwards.’

Sarah—‘Does he say the girl enjoys it?’

Paul—‘Italian doesn’t give a fuck if the girl enjoys it. He does it coz he does. He once had this girl sandwiched between him and another guy and they took her from both sides.’

Sarah—‘Did she consent?’

Paul—‘Italian didn’t tell me. He said she was so loose she would have given in to anything.’

Sarah—‘I don’t want to do it.’

Paul—‘You’ve become frigid.’

Sarah—‘Wouldn’t be surprised if I have. We don’t make
love any more. And now you ask for something like this, which I don’t think is exactly caring, of the face-to-face variety.’

Paul—‘Why don’t you try to explore, Sarah? I’ve taught you how to masturbate. Just think of the pleasure you had with that.’

OK. I remember the pleasure I had with that. First time I did it I almost rubbed it off completely. Paul taught me because it turned him on to watch girls getting themselves off. So even that was selfish. I remember Paul looking over me as I lay on the floor, legs apart, as though about to give birth and him saying—‘Do it there. Try it there. Do it that way. Try it that way. No, not that way. Faster. Slower. How does that feel? Too harsh? Getting anything there? Let me have a go.’ Twat. Got there eventually, and gradually it became less and less painful. At the beginning, thinking about Paul helped, and over the years, as I had sex with Paul less and less and made love to myself more and more, I didn’t think about him any more. Well, not as much. I found that when I did I would cry after I came. If I thought about someone else it was somehow less emotional. Less meaningful. But the pleasure was still there. Anyway, it had kept me sane since Paul had decided celibacy was the best policy.

Sarah—‘Yes, you taught me. Very grateful I am, too. It’s come in handy when you haven’t been there or didn’t want to make love over the years. And occasionally you’ve wanted to watch, or have mutual masturbation sessions, which are fine. But it’s not really enough for me, Paul. I want more.’

Paul—‘Well, this is more, darling.’(Taking me in his arms and making me look into his big blue doe-eyes.) ‘Why don’t you try? Oh, go on.’

Sometimes I don’t just think I despise Paul. I know I do. He asks me as if he’s asking me to iron one of his shirts. Not that I would want to do that either these days. How
can the wonderful, romantic man I first met have turned into this arrogant, boorish prat? Perhaps it’s the port talking. The finest vintage. Perhaps.

Sarah—‘No.’

Paul—‘Please.’

I think, Shall I do this? After all, I know girls who have. They say they have. I think it sounds degrading, especially the way Italian talks about it (his name is not Italian—it’s Terry—but he’s half Italian, and Italian is sexier-sounding than Terry so everyone calls him Italian. Or rather he makes everyone call him Italian). Wonder if John has done it. We haven’t talked about anal sex yet. Perhaps I should have talked to him about it. Asked if he would do it. What he would think of it. If it would be natural, or is unnatural, or whether it’s just something men like and women have to put up with. Am told men enjoy it coz it’s tighter. And that women love it. But none have said they do. Just that they get turned on coz their men get turned on by it. It wasn’t on my action list for the month. ‘Have anal sex with Paul.’ Nope. Not there. But perhaps if I do it just this once he won’t ask again. And he will know that it’s not that great anyway. So I do.