The Last Year of Being Single (5 page)

‘Good.’

He escorted me back to the table, now soleless. And asked if I wanted dessert.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Coffee?’

‘That would be nice.’

Two hours, two liqueurs, two coffees and wafer-thin mints later, I was beginning to relax in his company. As we sat at the table, he started very slowly to stroke my wrists. The inside of my wrists. Very gently with his fingertips and then with the back of his hand. It made me feel quite dizzy.

‘Why are you doing that?’ I asked him, knowing full well why he was doing that.

‘Why not?’

Why not, indeed?

‘When you were in the loo, it took me back to when I was a child. Do you know that if you prevent yourself from going for a pee for long enough you might orgasm?’

‘I thought I would just wet myself, or worse get severe stomach cramps.’ (God, this guy is weird.)

‘No, it’s true.’

‘Did you read that anywhere?’

‘No, one of my girlfriends told me this is what happens. It was always very exciting having sex with her when she was dying to go to the loo. She would have the most amazing orgasms.’

‘I presume you weren’t giving her oral sex at the time? Would be a bit messy, what?’

John smiled. (Ughh). ‘Yes, I suppose so. But keep that in mind next time you go to the loo. Hold on and you never know—you may relieve yourself in more ways than you think.’

This guy was certainly different, and entertaining in a very unexpected way.

‘Tell me about your boyfriend, Sarah.’

‘I told you. He works in a bank. He is a trader. His name is Paul. I love him to bits.’

‘Why aren’t you married?’

‘He hasn’t asked me.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I don’t believe in the woman asking the man.’

‘Not even in a Leap Year?’

‘No. Are you still with Amanda?’(Miss Piggy cropped up in my mind.)

‘Yes. But she may be moving out. She was married before she met me. For a month. She realised on her wedding day she’d done the wrong thing. She was brave to do what she did. I met her on a management training course in the New Forest. She thought I was interesting and asked if I could take a walk with her round the grounds after dinner one evening. I did. She seduced me.’(Yeah, right.) ‘She told me about her trick with chocolate cake. She said she could smear it all over her chest and I could lick it off her. I’m rather partial to chocolate cake so I tried that evening. Very good it was, too.’

All the while John talked about his chocolate-coated Miss Piggy he continued to stroke my wrists. Occasionally reaching up my forearm to the inside of my elbow. It was as though he was pretending my arm was my leg. That he was playing with the ankle and gently making his way up the calf. Then stopping, and gently pushing to go even further. I was so pleased I was wearing a bra. My nipples have a life of their own.

He continued…

‘You see, Sarah, I went into the railway because after leaving university I trained as a research chemist, but there weren’t many women in that job. Or not that I found attractive. I joined the rail industry, because I considered myself on the fast track in life—’(he smirks; I don’t) ‘—because I liked the challenge it presented and also because I thought you’d find more women working in the industry.’

I must admit, I found this argument totally unbelievable and told him so.

‘I thought you would have found other industries with more women in them. Advertising or marketing, for example. Far more women, and attractive ones. Or PR. That industry is full of women who give good head as well as PR…I’m told.’

He smiled.

‘I know. They do. I’ve met quite a few.’

He pays the bill. Scowls at the cost. But he chose the restaurant—not me. I thank him.

‘Thank you for a lovely lunch.’

‘My pleasure.’

He walks and talks me to the station.

‘I came here with a management consultant last week. Her name was Stephanie. She was very beautiful, soon to be engaged and she told me she was quite fixated by me. She pushed me into that alcove over there—’ (he points at
alcove in wall of station) ‘—and ripped my shirt. I had to go back home to Amanda and explain.’

I didn’t quite know if he meant to tell me this because a) he wanted me to do it to him—and wanted to put the idea in my head; b) he didn’t want me to do it, just in case I’d considered doing it, as Amanda might understand once but not twice in a fortnight; or c) he liked Stephanie and she was going to be Amanda’s replacement after the chocolate cake fetish had turned mushy.

I said… ‘Oh.’

Unimpressed by my lack of response and clever riposte, he said he would see me to Liverpool Street Station, to make sure I was safe. I said I would be fine.

‘No, I’ll make sure you’re OK.’

And that’s what he did. Made sure I was OK till Liverpool Street Station. Ten stops Circle Line. Standing up all the way. No conversation. Just lots of staring. Mostly at my legs and then into my eyes. No smile, laugh or sign of light. No wrist or calf or ankle-stroking. Nothing. Very peculiar end to a very peculiar lunch with a very peculiar, sexy, ravishable dark prince.

20th September

I’m bored. I have done nothing to report about. Nothing to recover from. John Wayne has not been in my life. Touched my heart or my wrists. Every time I go to the toilet I think about him. And he was right about the pee thing. I contact his office and get Medina, who says he’s gone away for a fortnight with his girlfriend Amanda. I tell her to tell him he was right about the ‘pee thing’. I tell her John will understand. She huffs that she’s sure he will. I try to find out where they’ve gone. Some hotel in the middle of nowhere with a four-poster bed and an
en suite
bathroom with a bath for two and a shower for two. Probably. I wonder if he’s tick
ling her wrists as I’m writing my appraisal on why Rogerson Railways fails to communicate with its customers while disruption occurs. I wonder if he’s eating chocolate cake off her voluptuous breasts. I wonder if it’s chocolate with or without milk, if it’s home-made or from Marks & Spencer. I wonder if he’s drinking English beer or the crap foreign muck and if he’s eating sole in the evening and thinking ever so briefly about me, or about Stephanie, who tore his shirt.

30th September

‘Hello. This is John Wayne.’

Unexpected voice. Unexpected pleasure first thing on a Friday morning. Indian Summer of a morning and John Wayne calling
me
. Not Medina saying John is on the phone. He is actually calling me direct.

‘I wanted to know how you were.’

‘I’m fine. Did you have a good holiday with Amanda? Not too much chocolate cake, I hope? Or ripped shirts? Or foreign muck to drink?’

‘It was fine. Amanda is definitely moving out. I’ve suggested she moves out. She needs her own place. She moved into my cottage just as an interim measure. She needs to find her own space. I’ve told her as much. I got your message from Medina.’

‘What message?’

I’d forgotten.

‘About the pee. Good to hear it worked. Hope you’ve been practising. I find it quite exciting, the thought of you in the bathroom now, Ms Giles.’

‘Whatever turns you on, Mr Wayne.’

Silence.

‘Well, I’m at the Crime Prevention conference in November, which I believe you’re organising. So look forward to seeing you there.’

‘You too.’

‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye.’

Click.

What a weird conversation. Started so well. So promising. Sort of sexual innuendo. Literal toilet humour and then nothing. Just a goodbye, and a tease about his girlfriend moving out. The Miss Piggy I’ve yet to meet. Perhaps Stephanie will be the replacement. Anyway, girl, focus on your man. Your Paul. Your Rock. Leave the chocolate cake to someone else…

ACTION LIST

Enjoy work.

Go to gym four times a week. Be able to do the box splits.

Try out new kick-boxing class.

Beat crap out of bitchy girls in office.

Try to seduce Paul into having sex with me.

Drink eight glasses of water a day. GMTV suggested this helps eyes shine.

Eat less low-calorie chocolate drink.

Take vitamin pills. Despite making pee very yellow.

TEXT SEX

1st October

My mobile phone is an extension of my right hand. It is almost a spiritual thing. It is another intrinsic sense. To smell, to touch, to see, to hear and to text message. I have discovered the power of text messaging. It was designed for
me. Short and sharp and to the point. Ability to spell totally irrelevant. In fact, lousy spelling adds a certain charm. You can be as smutty as you like. It doesn’t matter. You can say you meant to send it to someone else. That is, of course, if it doesn’t continue to happen after repeated warnings.

Paul works in an office of men. Their bodies are full of testosterone. Their egos are huge and wallets are full. These testosterone-filled money bags are surrounded by women who work there with one goal in mind. To bag these money bags. Ideally by getting them in the sack and getting them to realise that they can’t live without them. These girls are pros. They should work on the streets (albeit SW1 streets), and some of them (I am told) have done so. Anyway, out of every ten who enter the trading room, one usually gets her man. Or someone else’s. Wedding rings are totally irrelevant.

Paul is different. He wears no ring (we’re not engaged), but he’s faithful and loves me. He goes to lap-dance joints because his brokers pay for it, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He tells me so himself. Like a dog, really.

He texts me every morning:

At Christmas:

That sort of thing.

Then I started to get:

Sort of slightly different in tone.

I contacted him to find out that, no, these messages had not come from him but a salesman called Pierce, who was a close friend of his and was into bondage in a big way, was thirty-eight, on his third wife, and had at least four sex kittens on the go—all of whom worked (loose term) in the Square Mile as secretaries and salespeople, and all of whom liked to be ‘fucked up the arse’ and tied up. Nice.

The aforementioned Pierce was also a Harvard Graduate, played piano, guitar and saxophone and had a wonderful singing voice, lovely home in the country (used to be a pub, now converted with taste and money—the two are not
synonymous). Background and appearances can be deceptive.

I contacted Pierce. First of all by text reply, after one particularly explicit ‘cock-sucking butt-wrenching, I know you’d enjoy being fucked up the backside really’ message. And then by phone.

‘Hi, Pierce. I’m Paul’s girlfriend. I think you keep sending me messages meant for someone else. Could you please delete my number from your phone as I don’t want to get them any more? Have a nice day.’

‘I’m so sorry, Sarah. Big apologies. Just that one of the kittens is also called Sarah. I’ll change her name.’

‘Thanks, Pierce.’

2nd October

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

Definitely not Paul.

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.

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?

10th October

Amanda? Miss Piggy Amanda?

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.