The Last Year of Being Single (11 page)

So, nothing to do with spontaneous romance, then, or an undying urge to want to spend the rest of his life with me. Nice. But practical, I suppose. Practical. I don’t think I will ever be poor with this man, or feel insecure. I may feel unloved and unwanted and stifled and controlled and aching for affection. But I will never want for food or clothing or material comforts. All things that matter to my
mother and which I don’t give a fuck about. But perhaps this is what marriage is all about. Compromise and seeing a sense of what is and isn’t important. After all, romantic love dies, doesn’t it? And marriage evolves into friendship. It’s just that I thought that happened when you were in your sixties, not
just
getting married. And perhaps waiting will increase the excitement. After all, Paul is wonderful and I love him and he loves me. Or what he wants me to be or what he thinks is me. Which isn’t the same thing—but does that matter?

New Year’s Eve

I haven’t contacted John. I haven’t answered his calls. I haven’t answered his text messages. What can I say to the man? I’ve got to do it at some stage, right? He’ll get bored with me and I won’t need to chuck him—he will chuck me. Right? At some stage, before September. It’s nine months, after all. He’ll get bored with me in nine months. And I live in Chelmsford and he lives in Surrey and I don’t work for the railways any more. So it will be difficult.

ACTION LIST

To be loved and feel loveable.

To become a yoga instructor.

To be as fit as I possibly can.

To have fun.

To win an award.

To present a TV series.

To present a radio series.

To write a bestseller.

To cherish my friends and build upon their friendship.

To be lovely to Paul.

To kick-box with style.

To avoid all dairy and wheat products.

To go to the gym every day of the week.

How many ticks this year? Last year I got two out of ten, but, hey, some of them were impossible. Like: Have orgasm with penetrative sex.

Don’t think it happens. Especially when you’re not having sex.

Spend New Year’s Eve with Mike and Gemma. Mike is
a schoolfriend of Paul’s. He is nothing like any of Paul’s other friends. He is not rich. He is not from the City. He is genuine and kind and loving. He is also a karate black belt, so few people argue with him. Both twenty-eight. He doesn’t have to bully or emotionally manipulate because he can kick you in the neck and kill you as quick as you can blink (probably quicker). He knows it. Gemma knows it. The pets know it. Other people know it. The only interesting times are when people don’t know it and they find out. But he hasn’t killed anyone yet. Fabulous body, lethal and loving disposition. What more could a woman ask? I don’t fancy him, have never had fantasies about him, so despite his many and wonderful qualities, he remains unsexy to me. And anyway, I am newly engaged and my thoughts are for two men—my husband-to-be and my lover-to-be.

Mike and Gemma live in Reading—Caversham, which is supposed to be the nice part according to Paul, who lived there ten years ago before moving to Chelmsford. They are preparing the main course. We are given the starter and dessert. Paul brings port, which he loves and Mike hates. So more for Paul, then. I bring avocados and melon and parma ham and figs and various cheeses and green apples and grapes and biscuits and pre-prepared chocolate sponge puddings from Marks & Spencer and luxury extra creamy custard. Something different.

Their house is Victorian and messy and loved. Good vibes about it. Sort of smiles at you as you enter the door. They’ve got a black cat called Cherish and a retriever called Harry who get on and take over the house and their hairs are everywhere. Paul is allergic to cats. Perhaps over the years it’s why I’ve grown to love the place and visiting Mike and Gemma.

New Year’s dinner is in their kitchen. They’re happy for us. We drink ten bottles of champagne between us. Mike is almost unconscious by two a.m. He doesn’t usually drink. Paul is telling bad jokes and playing air guitar to Led Zeppelin. Mike does a party trick of breaking a walnut shell be
tween his buttocks. Paul doesn’t try. I keep getting text messages from John.

Gemma to Sarah—‘So, when’s the happy day?’

Sarah to Gemma—‘I think sometime in September. We don’t want to wait too long.’

Mike to Sarah—‘There’s a lot of arranging to be done. If we get married we don’t want any fuss. Where are you planning to do it?’

Sarah to Mike—‘Um, probably the local church.’

Mike—‘Toast. To the happy couple.’

All up-standing. Glasses clink. Big smiles.

Methinks perhaps not a good time to tell Paul that I’m
not sure about marrying him and why. Perhaps not. Wait till later in the year. John will be sick of me by then…

5th January

Nine a.m.

I check the sender. It’s Paul. This type of message is usually from John. I call.

Sarah—‘Hi, lover. What’s the surprise?’

Paul—‘I’ve bought a house. Well, almost. I will only buy it if you like it. Are you doing anything today?’

So much for respecting my opinion.

Sarah—‘Well, I think this might take priority.’

I cancel my lunch and cinema with friends. I tell them why. They think it’s wonderful and inconsiderate at the same time.

I drive over from my little flat. Karen tells me it’s not right that he should buy a house and expect me to just lump the idea. My mind’s not really on the house or Paul. It’s on John. I’m due to see him this weekend.

The house. Large. Four bedrooms. Victorian. Large garden. Lots and lots of heavy wooden panelling which people older than fifty absolutely love. I hate it. Next door to park. High ceilings. Some rooms nicer than others. Small kitchen which needs gutting. If Paul says, ‘It has incredible potential,’ once more I will thump him.

Paul—‘The family who lived here before were the Godlys. Mr Godly has now moved into an old people’s home and that’s why it’s being sold. I got it only because I was able to strike the deal really quickly. Working in a bank helps. Some of Mum’s friends wanted it, so we’re very lucky.’

Sarah—‘It’s a family home.’

Paul—‘I know.’

Sarah—‘But I don’t want a family. Not yet, anyway. I
want to have fun. This is not a fun house. This is a dinner party, stuffy, formal entertaining and children running all over the place sort of house.’

Paul—‘You don’t like it, then?’

Sarah—‘Well, no. It also needs lots of work doing to it. It will need lots of cleaning. And it’s too near your parents. Electrics and everything probably come from the Dark Ages. Don’t think you should buy it.’

Paul—‘Well, I have.’

Sarah—‘Well, it’s your house, then.’

Paul—‘But we’re getting married, so you’re living here as well.’

Sarah—‘Perhaps you should have thought of that when you bought it without asking my opinion first.’

Paul—‘It’s a beautiful home. You’re very ungrateful. You’re lucky I’m marrying you. Your mother seemed very happy to get you off her hands. You’re marrying above your class, you know. This is a wonderful house. Worth nearly half a million and you’re turning your nose up at it.’

Sarah—‘You shouldn’t have bought it without asking me. I don’t like it. It’s an old person’s home.’

Paul—‘I thought you would like it.’

Sarah—‘You thought wrong. But it’s done now. I suppose we can always funk it up a bit.’

Paul—‘It will be our home. We will make it wonderful.’ (Hugging me and looking into my eyes with his big doe eyes and fluttering his long dark eyelashes. But it doesn’t work any more.)

Sarah—‘Yes, perhaps.’

I pull away and say that I need to see the rooms again.

What the fuck am I doing? I’m now getting married to a man I’m not sure about at all. I’ve gone out with him for years, but we don’t have sex, we increasingly can’t communicate, I’m fantasising about someone else and there’s no one I can talk to really. Catherine is smitten with Liam, and feels the same way about her boyfriend Freddie as I do about Paul. So she’s telling me to go for it. My mother is the last person I could speak to about anything. She still doesn’t know about the abortion. Only other person I can tell is Anya.

Anya is a reflexologist, a masseuse, a nutritionist, a qualified alternative therapist. She knows her stuff. She is half-Portuguese and half-Iranian. She is beautiful and fifty and looks about thirty. Bright, multi-lingual, with two gorgeous and brilliant children and Boris, Belgian husband she finds boring.

I confide in her.

Anya—‘Don’t go through with the marriage, Sarah. Postpone it. It’s not right. You wouldn’t want to do this with John, let alone actually do it, if you felt OK about the wedding and being Paul’s wife.’

Sarah—‘But couldn’t it be the last fling? I haven’t had sex for such a long time. Couldn’t that be it? I love Paul.’

Anya—‘If you loved Paul you wouldn’t be doing this, Sarah. As for the sex, Paul has an issue he has got to deal with,
but he hasn’t and you’ve been stuck with it not for months but years. Now, could you lie down and take your clothes off?’

Going to a reflexologist and masseuse has been a lifesaver for me. Did you know that animals, if they don’t have sex, end up biting one another? Well, I haven’t had an affair with anyone since I met Paul, and one of the reasons, I’m sure, is because I’ve gone to the gym so much and started—only recently—to have a massage. Once a month, then once every two weeks and now once a week. I need it. I need to be stroked and pummelled and caressed. And even if it is painful it’s doing me good, which is more than you can say for some men when they supposedly make love to you.

Anya—‘I’m too old to change now. I’m fifty. I’m going to massage your shoulders. This may hurt as you’re very tense today, Sarah.’

Anya pushes her fingers into my shoulders and I emit a loud yell.

Sarah—‘Ugh. Fucking hell, that hurt. Anya, you don’t look it. And Boris loves you.’

Another pummel. Other shoulder. Another yell.

Anya—‘Don’t do what I did and wait. And have children and get trapped, Sarah. You don’t want that. You are young and have a life to lead. Paul is not the one for you if he can do this to you and if you want to see and be with and sleep with John. Learn from this. Take my word for it. I know what will happen. Don’t get trapped in a sexless marriage. Sex isn’t everything, but when you don’t have it, it becomes the most important thing. What’s John like?’

Anya works fingers down spine. Down to sciatic nerve. It kills me.

Sarah—‘Ugh. You bitch. You’re enjoying this. John is dangerous. Potent. He has more sexuality in his little finger than most men have in their whole bodies. But I think he’s ugly. He used to be a research chemist. I’m sure he injected himself with pheromones. He has the most amazing smell. Doesn’t that sound weird, that I’m attracted to his smell?’

Anya—‘Not at all. Smell is a very basic instinct. It’s just
that we hide our smells with perfume and aftershave and crap so that we don’t smell how we should any more. Amazing we find the right mate at all. This may hurt.’

Anya starts reflexology on my feet and touches the bit which is supposed to represent my knees. I want to die.

Sarah—‘It hurts.
It hurts.
I’m in absolute agony. Anyway, I love his smell. But his eyes are too close together. He has jet-black curly hair—you know, tight curls—and a small, almost mean mouth.’

Anya—‘He sounds disgusting. And you like him?’

She pushes the part of my foot which is my heart. I inadvertently start to cry.

Sarah—‘I’m crying coz it hurts, not because of the conversation, Anya. OK?’

Anya—‘OK.’

Sarah—‘Yes, first time I met him I thought he was ugly, and I still look at him occasionally and think yuck. But, hey, there must be something. Chemistry. I love being with him. And find him fascinating to talk to—or perhaps it’s just the illicitness of it all. Perhaps that is why I am excited.’

Anya stops working on the feet and starts the nice stuff. Oils—patchouli, ylang ylang, lavender and other stuff which she keeps a secret and will sell off one day and make millions.

Anya—‘That’s why you’ve got to give yourself a break from Paul and see if it’s for real or not. Plus you’re not being fair to Paul either.’

Sarah—‘I can’t very well say to Paul, Hey, there, can we not see each other for a year while I get my head straight and see if the man I want to sleep with is my love or just some last-minute nerves before I swear eternal love to you in the eyes of God. Don’t think that will wash, Anya.’

Anya—‘You can’t have your cake and eat it, Sarah. It won’t work. It will screw you up and John and Paul. Just think about it. What happens if you get more involved with John? What then?’

Sarah—‘He’ll get bored. He’s a womaniser. You just wait and see. He will dump me long before September.’

Anya—‘Perhaps.’

We don’t talk for about ten minutes. Massage is wonderful and I think I’m falling asleep. Then:

Anya—‘Would you marry John?’

Sarah—‘No.’

Anya—‘Everyone is brought to our lives for a reason. Perhaps he’s just a catalyst to make you re-evaluate your life.’

Sarah—‘Perhaps. But I think it’s just bad timing. He is sexy, and I haven’t had sex for years. I’ve been faithful and celibate and now feel resentful. I don’t want Paul’s children, or any children for that matter. I may in the future, but not now. And now he’s bought a big fuck-off family house five minutes from his parents and I feel trapped and confused and unhappy.’

Anya stops massaging and asks me to turn over so she can work on my face and scalp. She does the most fabulous scalp massages.

Anya—‘Don’t do it, Sarah. I’ve been there, seen it, done it. Got the T-shirt. I see so many women who’ve been through this. You don’t want to go there. John may not be the right one, but you don’t want to waste your life. You are young and beautiful and intelligent and Paul is a nice guy. I’ve met him, but he’s not for you. He is a rock. Yes. Perhaps
your
rock. Problem with rocks is that they are stabilising but they also hold you down. Hold you back. There is an element where he may be protecting you from yourself. This is good. But it can also be bad, because, Sarah, you’ve got a lot of life to live and he’s an old man before his time. The house sounds like an old family home. He’s into drinking port and dinner parties and, yes, he likes going to the Grand Prix and, yes, he can afford to go, but these are all fast cars and show-offy things. He likes cigars, for goodness’ sake. He’s not even thirty and he has all the trappings of someone twenty years older than himself. And you’re a young girl. You’re not for him. You like the security he brings, and, yes, you may love him, but you’ve got to see with better eyes and see it for what it is. It may be love. It may not. The only way you can find out is to let go
now and see for sure. But do you have the balls to do that, Sarah? Do you?’