The Last Year of Being Single (13 page)

I wanted to nail this coffin and bury the box with flowers on then and there. I wanted him to leave without any doubt at all. There was absolutely no chance of a return lunch. I had experienced lunches like this in the past. An insurance salesman from Cobham, a Jewish banker from Loughton, an Essex young farmer from Colchester, a Turkish hotel-owner from Bodrum. I’d tried to be nice and say no thank you nicely, but they’d never got the message. I wanted to be cruel to be kind on this occasion. I knew he had had one near-death experience and wouldn’t go for another, so had no doubts he wouldn’t try the ‘I’m going to kill myself’ scam, which I’d had once before and it scared
the shit out of me. I might have damaged the ego, but it would be short lived and he would hate me. He did.

Tony—(scowling)—‘Fine. I get the message. You could have been a bit more subtle about the way you told me. After all, being proposed to doesn’t happen every day. Especially to someone who looks like you. You’re not exactly Cameron Diaz, you know. You’re not that special. Nice arse, but small tits. Nothing there. And your conversation sucks. And I bet you do in bed as well. You’re just a prick-tease, aren’t you? Met your type before. Pathetic little cow. You should be grateful for what you get.’

The prick-teasing pathetic little cow with small tits and nice arse realised she’d gone too far in an attempt to kill any suggestion of romance. So to get rid of the psycho for good I conceded graciously that I was and would always be the ugliest most ungrateful thing on the planet but that I still wouldn’t sleep with him or entertain him as anything other than an acquaintance—which was obviously out of the question now. Because I didn’t want to know of him, let alone be with him.

He decided that lunch was too much and left. He stood up, chest out, stomach in, chin erect, gave me an I-could-strangle-you-bitch look, took out his wallet and threw a couple of fifty-pound notes on the table, saying that I could finish my lunch on him. And that I should take five pounds for myself, because that was what my company was worth. That he would take the ring back (what ring?) and wouldn’t contact me again. That I was a sad bitch and would doubtless die a lonely wrinkled spinster without friends or memories to lighten my days.

The marrieds on either side of our table hadn’t touched their food, nor their drinks, and were now overtly staring at me and then at him and then at me again.

Sarah—‘Thank you, Tony. You are probably right. And thank you for the money.’

He left like a drama queen should. In a flurry of anger and bruised ego. His black cashmere coat brushing against the tables and knocking a few Badoit bottles over in the process. The fact he was balding meant he couldn’t swish back his hair. Instead he swept his scarf round his neck. Dunno if it was cashmere.

I sat there. On table twenty-five. With my fifty-pound notes and smoked salmon starter untouched. A bottle of finest something untouched. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I felt completely numb with indifference. I started to laugh into my hands. One of the marrieds leant over and asked if I was OK and would I like a glass of champagne?

‘Some Americans are wankers, darling. All marketing, no substance. Shitty little man.’

I finished the salmon and offered to pay for it. The waiter said he had heard everything and I could have it on the house. So I took the one hundred pounds, went to Agent Provocateur, bought several sexy pairs of almost-there knickers. Cut across the cheek, just the way I know he likes them. Thank you so much, Tony. John would be oh, so very happy with these.

And he was.

ACTION LIST

Get legs, armpits, moustache and bikini line waxed. Try Brazilian if not too painful.

Go to gym every day. Twice on Saturdays and Sundays.

Practise box splits.

Get roots done.

Have fun.

Be extra nice to Paul.

THE YELLOW LOTUS

7th April

D Day. Dirty weekend. Told Paul was at a business seminar. Assertiveness training. Not contactable most of the weekend. Was he OK with this? Yes, he would be in Ireland, with the boys, playing golf. Was fine with it.

I would meet John at Reading Station at eight p.m. on Friday. He would then drive to the hotel. We hadn’t spo
ken or even texted each other for several weeks. I had been up to armpits in organising nonsensical functions for regional journalists who for some inexplicable reason wanted to promote Year of the Pier. Why this year should be the Year of the Pier I didn’t know. I continued to ask but, having never received a sensible answer, promoted it for all it was worth. Which wasn’t much. All the journalists I spoke to asked why this year should be the Year of the Pier, and I told them because it commemorated the first ever pier going up. Forty years ago. This was complete and utter bollocks, but they bought into it and we received good coverage, albeit a little inaccurate in parts.

So I was nervous about meeting John. Would I still fancy him? Why was I doing this? I was starting to get on marginally better with Paul. I had almost resigned myself to a life of domesticity, but perhaps the four-hour journey in and out of work was wearing me down, as well as Paul’s consistent nagging about having the house decorated this way and not that. That being my way and my suggestions. I gave in. We had the panelling polished to its natural finish. We had wallpaper instead of plaster and paint. We had water-colour paintings and Old Masters and black and white architectural drawings of churches. Granite tops in the kitchen. Fitted bedroom furniture that was made not to look fitted. I didn’t even flinch when he suggested gold and green curtains for the dining room. Hey, why not go the whole hog and turn the house into a fucking mausoleum for old folk?

The train journey to Reading took about an hour. It was on time. I was on time. I carried one light overnight bag. Had all the latest skincare products. Aromatherapy oils. Wearing red. Stockings for the first time in ten years. Last time I had worn them they ended up round my ankles at the end of the evening. Not because of any wanted or un
wanted advances. But because I have slim legs and they slipped over them. There I was, walking down the steps to Liverpool Street Station, and ping they went. Bankers I’m sure still talk about it to this day. Bright purple they were too, so not even subtle.

So, black stockings, black suspenders. Little red dress. Slut. Slut. Slut. I hadn’t had anything to eat that day. Only black coffee and buzz gums so was feeling flying and hyper. Work had been difficult. I’d been in front of the manager, who was querying some of the excellent, albeit untruthful copy we had been getting about Year of the Pier and asking me how she would explain to the Travel Editor of the
Times
this was complete fabrication. She told me one more instance like this and I would be out on a leg. I didn’t care. I had lasted more than two days—so what? Two months was long for me.

John was on time. He was waiting at the station. He hadn’t changed. I kissed him on the cheek. He looked at me.

John—‘You look tired.’

Great. Hadn’t seen him for months and first thing he says is that. Not, I want to fuck you. Or, You look gorgeous. Just, ‘You look tired.’

Sarah—‘Thanks. So do you.’

John—‘Touché. I’ve got the car just round the corner. Can I take your bag?’

Better.

Sarah—‘Thank you. There’s not much in it.’

The coffee is making me jittery. Wish I hadn’t drunk so many pots of it that morning. What with being shouted at, nearly fired and the coffee, and not being able to take solids that day, I was almost faint with stress.

We reached the car and he opened my door.

John—‘Like the stockings.’

Sarah—‘How do you know I am wearing them?’

John—‘I can tell.’

Better. I smiled at him. He just looked at me as if I wasn’t wearing anything. Perhaps just the stockings and suspenders. But then he always looked at me that way. Just I’d forgotten over the past few months.

As we drove out of the station he put his hand between my legs and started to stroke my right inner thigh.

John—‘So, have you had a good day? You look stressed.’

Sarah—‘I am stressed. But this is relaxing me.’

I nodded to his hand. The hand that seemed to be having so much fun with my suspender top.

John—‘I’ve had a bad day too. Had to fire two men. Plus make a presentation to a group of students, some of whom were good, others of whom were complete wasters. We should be at the hotel in an hour. It’s not close to anything. Very quiet. Ideal for us. If you want to go out we can. But you may just want to sleep. You look as though you need it.’

Sarah—‘You look haggard too.’

John—‘I’m not saying you look haggard. Just tired.’

Sarah—‘I’m fine.’

John—‘As long as you are. I don’t want to overtire you.’

His hand was moving further up the thigh. I was starting to wake up. He only took his hand from me when he changed gear.

John—‘Wish this car was automatic sometimes.’

Sarah—‘That was my suggestion. Perhaps the next car will be.’

By the time we arrived at the hotel I had come once and was close to coming again. I felt the bed was superfluous. The front seat of a car would be fine.

As we drove into the car park I did up my suspenders and brushed down my dress. Looked in the car mirror to
see if I looked ruffled or had that ‘I’ve just come’ look on my face. I looked flushed but nothing that too much caffeine wouldn’t do. Plus hair was thankfully unruffled, which is what usually happens with me post-sex.

The Plumtree at Peerton is a boutique hotel. With twelve rooms. And three four-posters. John had booked a four-poster. Actually Medina had booked a four-poster. With views over the surrounding fields. The receptionist greeted us and asked us to sign the book. John signed his name. I signed as Sarah Smith. Original, huh? Credit card details and then shown the room. The girl first. I followed. John led from the rear.

Up two flights of stairs. It seemed to take an eternity. Room Number Four. Byron. Would we like Byron? Yes, we would.

Girl—‘Tea served at four in the afternoons. Breakfast from seven a.m. till ten-thirty, lunch from twelve till two p.m. and supper from seven until ten-thirty. If you would like anything, please call Reception.’

John—‘Thank you.’

Sarah—‘Thank you.’

Door closed. We looked at each other. He walked towards me. Knock on door. Bags.

Door open. Bellboy with bags, looked nervous. John took them. Thanked nervous bellboy and closed the door. Turned round. Put bags on floor in front of door. And walked towards me.

I stood there motionless. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t kiss me. He undid the front of my dress, having some difficulty with the buttons. I took over and undid the ones he couldn’t. Neither of us said anything. I felt nervous and not quite sure why I was there or what I was doing. I could walk out now and say, Hey, I’m getting married in five months’ time. This is my last fling, do you understand? I’m
sure you do. But I didn’t. I just walked round the bed and slowly undressed, leaving the suspenders and stockings he had been so eager to play with. He undressed himself. Black shirt that all men who are slightly overweight wear because it makes them look cool. And thinner. Or they think so. John was in OK shape. Not great. But he was manly compared to Paul. Broader.

Stripped down to his underpants he looked much more vulnerable than I had seen him before. Gone the arrogance, the power of the boardroom. He looked nervous. Perhaps he was unsure too. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps I was seeing too much in something and should
feel the fear and do it anyway
. I walked over to the end of the bed and pulled down his briefs. Valentino. Black. Stroking him, I leant over and began to move my hand over him.

I sort of thought myself an expert at oral sex. Had had loads of practice with first boyfriend David, then lots with Paul when the no-sex kicked in. And, as Clinton knows, oral sex isn’t sex, really, is it? Plus the porno magazines Paul bought had taught me even more. Like most men he had a stash of porno magazines under his bed which he showed me when we first started going out. He had the good idea, methinks, of getting me to read the words—something I don’t think anyone who buys them ever does or anyone who writes in them ever expects to happen. They were hilarious. Sexy, filthy and funny. And it worked. They were a turn-on in a funny sort of way. Word most used: Cum. And phrase most used: Fuck me, baby. Fuck me, baby, up the arse. Fuck me, baby. Kept thinking of Britney Spears but sure they weren’t the lyrics. Perhaps Suck. Anyway, I forget.

Girls were always called Britney and boys Tony. I never read about a Sarah, which was strangely reassuring. Perhaps disconcerting. Perhaps Sarahs weren’t thought of as slutty but Britneys were, and I didn’t know any Anthonys. Probably for
the best. Paul said there were probably a lot of Sarahs but they changed their names to remain anonymous.
Anonymous!

Anyway, learnt a lot from those magazines. Mostly about oral sex and the fixation men have with it. And that they don’t get it enough and would like it all the time. And that some men are really into big tits and others into pussies and others into bums. Really big bums. And some men like to be peed on and some men like to be sat on and some even like to have nappies put on them, but they are mostly MDs and CEOs of the larger multinationals. Mostly in media. And, oh, yes, they would quite like an intelligent woman. Yes, it helps keep the relationship ticking over. That and the ability to cook their favourite meal. They are pluses. Depending on the intellect of the man.

According to the magazines, oral was tops. Beat penetrative, anal and bondage hands down. Cut across all classes, professions, nationalities and religions and men have one thing in common. Men love women who love going down on them. Fortunately I had had a lot of practice with David. In the back of his BMW Five Series convertible, blue, I would try to make him come, sometimes counting up to five thousand up and down by the time I succeeded. It was easier when he had some good music, coz at least then I could get a rhythm going. U2 was probably best. Good fast rhythm and he liked it as well and I usually made it to five hundred and then he came. Some, Whitney Houston or Sting, were no good at all. Sometimes I would be there for hours and have to give in to just using my hand and kissing him slowly up to his belly button or trying some new manoeuvre.

I was usually covered in sweat and on the verge of fainting, but felt a genuine sense of achievement and also lost a few pounds in the process. Something that is always a plus point for girls of an anorexic disposition. Plus I’m sure this is why I now have very prominent cheekbones. All that
mouth-work makes you ache, but it does have its plus points. One of my friends recently told me spunk is full of a lot of calories. As many as one double vodka. But saltier. I felt that I could handle the calories because by four thousand five hundred I needed them.

I didn’t know what to expect with John. Would he be a two hundred or a two thousand? However, as I started I felt his hand on my hair, stopping me.

‘This doesn’t usually happen to me. It’s never happened before. I’m very sorry.’

And, with that, he came.

Wow. Two. Record for me. I didn’t know whether to feel an incredible sense of achievement or disappointment. This man was the stud. A man who’d slept with hundreds of women and I’d made him prematurely ejaculate. Surely men like this don’t do
that
. I stood up and said, ‘That’s OK.’ Then swallowed.

‘Don’t worry. Shall we have a bath now? Or go down to dinner as it’s quite late?’

‘Yeah, let’s have a bath. I’ll run it.’

He seemed shy and unsure of himself. I liked it. I felt more in control and better able to handle the situation. Perhaps he was like a little boy after all. I had this theory that men, no matter how mature they seemed, were still all mummy’s boys. No matter if they hated them, had been bullied by them, abandoned by them, spoilt or unspoilt by them, they were still all wanting to be nurtured till their last breath. And, quite frankly, I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to nurture in a maternal way. I wanted a partner in life and crime, and despite the fact men had told me that was what they wanted too, they didn’t. They wanted a mother. Perhaps not their mother. But a mother. I thought there were enough women to go around who were happy to mother and nurture their men. Just I wasn’t
one of them. Perhaps a mistress, then. But never a wife. That was until I met Paul. I wanted to be with him for ever because he made me feel like an angel. I was an angel when I was with him. But not now. And anyway, now I was with John, in a boutique hotel room, almost having oral sex.

John—‘I’ll run the bath.’

Sarah—‘OK.’

As we were both half naked perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. Taking all our clothes off made me feel more vulnerable again. Sitting opposite him, he said I looked like Chrissie Hynde from the Pretenders. As she was fifteen years older than me I didn’t think this was such a good thing.

John—‘I’ve never done that before—ever.’

Sarah—‘Done what?’

John—‘Come as early as I did.’

Sarah—‘I just seduced you so much that you couldn’t help yourself. It’s natural.’ I said it half self-mockingly.

He smiled.

John—‘Perhaps.’

We got out of the bath. I said I wanted to wash my hair. He said he would do it for me. I bent over the bath as he shampooed and rinsed and conditioned and rinsed my hair, massaging in between. I found it very sensual. Rather than sexual. By the time he had finished I felt as though he had taken back all the power he had just lost. I think so did he. He wrapped a towel around my head and then started to dry my body, then his. Led me back to the bed and started to kiss me. First on the lips. Then the neck. Then the breasts, then to the belly button. He hovered around there for a long time before making his way down.