The Last Year of Being Single (4 page)

Sarah—‘That’s not fair, Paul. Give me a break.’

Paul—‘Why should I? You didn’t give me one.’

Tears. Both of us.

Within the next six months the sex died. I quietly mourned. In silent desperation I would get up and go to work and come back home and go for a workout and organise birthday parties and Christmas drinks and dinner parties and be the devoted girlfriend and feel very lonely. And I knew he felt lonely too but I couldn’t reach him any more and somehow he didn’t want to be told I loved him any more. I loved this man in a spiritual as well as emotional sense. Paul had only a single bed, and we would snuggle up, spoon-like, so close all night. Somehow we managed to sleep and it was fine. We would ring and text each other every day. E-mails were long awaited.

After dinners out or the cinema the last message would always read something like:

After work lunches or meetings he would always remember and send:

We’d go to weddings and listen to the vows. I never caught the bouquet, but friends would always ask in their subtle-as-a-brick sort of way ‘So, when are you two getting married?’ It was a naff cliché and we both ignored it, but as years progressed it started to bug. Breeding insecurity and resentment and cutting communication of how I felt, because I knew it might open the wounds of the abortion again. Which he never talked about. Even when others opened a conversation at one of the many dinner parties we went to and were talked at.

He had been my white knight in his Golf GTI. He had helped me to gain confidence about my body and sexuality. And then he had taken it away. He didn’t feel it was right any more and so we didn’t have sex any more. We hugged naked. We occasionally, in drunken stupors, made love or had sex, but he was always slightly irritable in the morn
ing—as though I had made him to do it against his will. I had tempted him against his better self.

We started to organise dinner parties. To meet his friends and acquaintances. Some of whom initially talked about Gillian a lot, but who eventually realised that Sarah existed too and she was a person in her own right. Paul told me he loved me every day. He e-mailed and texted and called and wrote and every day I felt loved. But not physically loved. Not touched. Which doesn’t matter. Sex isn’t everything. But when you don’t have it at all, it gradually becomes everything. And he hugged me a lot. But it wasn’t like the first nine months. I’d got the chastity belt without even realising it was on.

So by September I was feeling a bit tired of a no sex, no going anywhere relationship—despite the fact I still deeply loved him. I was happy in my little world.

Meeting Paul for lunch today. Our favourite. The Punch Bowl. Posh country restaurant with fine wines. I remember Paul took me here first when we started going out. Arrived at twelve midday. Stayed until six p.m. in the evening. Romantic. Then we walked to the cricket ground and watched them play. Perfect. Fell in love with him.

Five years going out with each other. Perhaps he will propose. Perhaps he will go down on bended knee at the restaurant where we went on our return from that French trip. Perhaps it will be a birthday—his or mine—or perhaps a Christmas or perhaps a holiday overlooking a golden sunset or perhaps at dusk when music is playing in the background. Or perhaps at a concert while the music is live and throbbing. I’ve gradually forgotten to wonder any more. Forgotten to think that maybe this month he will ask me. I didn’t want to ask him. Not even in a Leap Year. Still thought that naff.

Anyway, I knew I would be with him for a very long
time. Perhaps not a lifetime. But still for a long time. But not quite like this.

We arrived at twelve midday. We left at two p.m. Food was good. Fine wines still fine. Conversation still OK. Ish. But less room for gaps somehow.

Sarah—‘How are you, Handsome?’

Paul—‘Very well, Pixie.’

He still called me Pixie. It was an endearing nickname.

I liked it. Felt perhaps when it was in my forties it might not be so appropriate.

‘I will always think of you as my little pixie, Sarah,’ he would say. ‘Even when you’re not little or pixie-like any more.’ Ahhh. Warm gooey feeling inside. Perhaps this was the real thing. Perhaps. Had got fingers burnt before with David, so did I want to do this again?

Paul—‘What would you like to eat? The usual? Melon with Dover sole and new potatoes—right?’

Sarah—‘OK, OK, I know I always have the same thing, but I like it.’

Paul—‘Why don’t you try something new?’

Sarah—‘I have and I don’t like anything else on the menu. We could always go to a different restaurant. And you would think in five years they would have changed the menu a little more than they have. But they tell me it works, so why change it?’

Paul—‘OK.’

Sarah—‘How is work?’

Paul—‘Fine—busy. Love working with Richard. He’s fun and he’s thinking of getting married to Caroline. But she’s a fickle girl; she likes someone else and keeps going back to him.’

Sarah—‘Perhaps it’s not meant to be.’

Paul—‘He’ll win her over, I know.’

Sarah—‘Do you still love me?’

Paul—‘Of course I do. We’ve been through a lot together and I still love you very much. I sometimes sit and think that we could so easily have split at the time of…well, you know…and we didn’t. I love you so much I ache sometimes. I hope you realise that.’

Tears in his eyes.

Sarah—‘I do.’

I didn’t. Tears in my eyes now.

Sarah—‘I love you so much, Paul, but we must try to be kinder to one another. I know that other couples take each other for granted over time and I never want to do that with you. You’re wonderful and I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’

Paul—‘I will always be here for you, Sarah. I will never leave you. I will always love you. You lift my heart to the highest point and yet let me down to the deepest despair sometimes. But I know you are always there for me. Loving me. This is the real thing, Sarah.’

Sarah—‘I know it is.’

He leant across the table and with his forefinger wrote on the palm of my hand I LOVE YOU. I reciprocated. It was something of a little tradition. Even when there had been rows we would always touch hands and somehow everything would be all right. Admittedly we did it less, but it was a sort of innocence that we had managed to salvage through the abortion.

We both wanted to fill silence with something these days. Before it was enough to look at each other in stunned silence, in awe of how lucky we were to have met each other. Today we were more in awe of the fact we were still together.

4th September

A Sunday. Am excited as tomorrow will be seeing or speaking to John again. Have to ask question of him about cus
tomer focus. This has put me in a good mood about everything. Am very sweet to Paul. Paul reciprocates and is sweet to me. A master of Latin phrases, Mr O’Brian. Oral pleasure a house speciality.

5th September

I’ve phoned. His PA stops me from getting through. Her name is Medina. I keep wanting to call her Medusa. I visualise snarling snakes emerging from her dandruff-ridden crusty head. Turning people to stone who dare to ask her the time of day. She sounds as though she is in dire need of oral pleasure.

‘Who is this, please?’

‘Sarah Giles.’

‘Does Mr Wayne know what it’s about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you tell me what it’s about?’

‘No. It’s a bit complicated.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Wayne is very busy and can’t speak to anyone.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘Then you can tell me, can’t you, dear.’

(Don’t you ‘dear’ me, you sexually frustrated and probably bearded and moustached Medina-Medusa person.)

‘OK. I want to know what his views are on the customer focus issue raised in the management document issued by Central Office last year and if he could provide me with a quote as I am now writing a report and it needs to be in by two p.m. this afternoon. OK?’

‘I will see if he is free.’

Big sigh.

Muzak. Barry Manilow singing ‘Could it be Magic’.

‘He will speak to you.’

Click.

Silence.

‘Er, hello?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that John Wayne?’

‘Yes. My time is precious. You need a quote. Do you have pen and paper ready?’

‘Yes. Do you know what I’m going to ask?’

‘Medina has told me.’

‘Then fire away.’

‘I have no views on it. Quote, unquote. Is that OK?’

‘Yes. I mean no. I want a quote from you. You must have an opinion on this. You have an opinion on everything else. Cats, English beer, women’s legs. Why not customer focus, which is your speciality?’

‘On that particular paper I have no comment and no opinion. Is that all Ms Giles?’

‘Well, if you can’t give me a comment on this, then who can?’

‘No one.’

‘Great. Well thanks for, er, nothing.’

‘My pleasure, Ms Giles. And thank you for an interesting lunch last week. Are you still wearing those culottes?’

I was. I lied.

‘No.’

‘Good. They looked disgusting on you. You should burn them.’

Click.

‘Rude arrogant bastard.’

‘Ms Giles?’

‘What—er—?’

‘Mr Wayne has handed you back to me. He has suggested I arrange another lunch with you as you don’t seem to understand the issues revolving around customer focus.’ Medina sounded less sexually frustrated.

More amused this time. She had obviously heard what I thought of her boss.

‘Er. Right.’

‘He can do a week on Wednesday. I will book Santini’s. Is that OK with you?’

‘Where is Santini’s?’

‘By Victoria Station. One o’clock. It’s smart.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

Click.

I’m wearing those culottes again. Screw him.

14th September

I am meeting John Wayne today for lunch in Santini’s. And, no, not wearing the culottes. And I’ve binned them. They were old anyway. Instead I’m wearing a dress. Sort of white, empire line and just above the knee and feminine. Not see-through. Just nice. Virginal. I feel virginal these days. Neat pumps. I look like a potential for the
Sound of Music
.

I arrive late. Ten minutes past one.

‘You are late, Ms Giles.’

Dark, brooding, rude bastard scowls at me.

I make no excuse. It seems a bit churlish to blame the trains when I actually work for the railway at the moment.

We are shown to our table. Middle of the room. Harsh, unforgiving light. We order sole. And eat in silence. I start conversation.

‘So, do you think Rogerson Railways will improve its customer service?’ I ask.

Stares into my eyes.

‘Who gives a fuck?’

Silence then smile (God, it makes me nervous when he does that).

‘No, really. I think it will get better but it will take time
and money, which the government are not prepared to give at the moment. Why are you wearing a bra?’

Somehow the sentences seemed a little incongruous together, and I wasn’t quite sure whether to comment on the first bit or answer the second. So I did both.

‘Do you think the funding structure will change with the new government and do you think privatisation will work? And this dress is slightly see-through and I didn’t want you to see my nipples.’

‘I don’t think the funding structure will change within this government or the next. The petrol and car industry subsidise government coffers so heavily, and the catch-22 is unless the service improves customers will not use public transport over private transport. It’s a pity I can’t see your nipples. I think that would make you look quite sexy.’

I stare straight back into his eyes, which are now boring into me.

‘How do you know all this about the government subsidy and the link with the car industry? Is it common knowledge? Surely there must be some sort of policing committee to stop this from happening or continuing to happen? Travelling by air is still the quickest and easiest way to get around the world. And, yes, it would look sexy, but I don’t want to look sexy today. I want to look professional and have a conversation about airlines rather than my nipples. OK?’

‘I know about the subsidy because we work closely with local government and we get told, like many journalists do—’(pointed look here)‘—off the record about back-handers. What we need to do in the railway is change the culture so that we can better manage the limited funding we have and then we can progress from there. And I like talking about your nipples. Interesting. Are they very responsive to touch? And you have nice legs, Ms Giles. The dress allows me to see that you have very long legs. Long calves. Long thighs.’

John Wayne starts to salivate, which puts me off my sole. I get up, taking my legs and nipples with me to the Ladies’. I can feel his eyes following me, but he doesn’t.

In the Ladies’ I sit on the loo, pontificating whether I should allow him to kiss me. Or pat my bottom. Or hug me goodbye. Of course, he may not want or offer to do any of these things. And, hey, Sarah,
you have a boyfriend, right
! Yes, yes. Out of mind. Get John Wayne out of your head. Ten minutes later and no pee. I leave the Ladies’ and go back to the table. John is coming towards me.

‘I was going to send out a search party. Thought you’d flushed yourself down the loo. You OK?’

‘Me OK.’