by Sarah Tucker
Karen pauses, then looks at me again.
Karen—‘What I’m saying is that if you’re not sure, Sarah, don’t do it. Coz if you have a child you don’t want to put that child through it, do you? It’s not fair. It’s not fair on the child, nor on Paul—though I don’t like the git—and nor on you. Think about it.’
Someone knocked on the door. Catherine with bottle of Sauvignon from Tesco. New Zealand.
Catherine—‘Hi there, sweetie. How you?’
Sarah—‘Me fine. Karen’s just telling me I shouldn’t get married.’
Catherine—‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Paul’s lovely, Sarah. You know that. You love him.’
Sarah—‘I know I do. I know I do. But you know the situation.’
Catherine—‘I know. But I still think it’s the last fling, excitement, illicit thing. It’s not real. It’s not the real thing. You have the real thing with Paul.’
Sarah—‘Perhaps I don’t want it, Catherine. Perhaps I’m not ready to have it. And Karen made a point about children.’
Catherine—‘You don’t want children, do you?’(Catherine didn’t want children. She wasn’t child-catcher-I-hate-children material, but she didn’t like the idea of having to look after more children as well as her husband. Strong believer that all men are babies or at least toddlers and that looking after them was enough.)
Sarah—‘I don’t mind. I know Paul would love children, and I think I will one day, and I think he would make a great dad and I would make an unconventional mum, but a good one, and hopefully my kids will think I’m fun and I’ll be there for them. May forget to feed them, but never forget to tell them they’re fabulous and love them to bits.’
Maternal instinct surprised me as much as it did Catherine. But we went in as we’d been gabbing on the doorstep and Karen was wondering where we were.
DVD. Moulin Rouge. Nicole Kidman dying of consumption. Torn between duty and genuine passion and love. Horny music. Made me think of both Paul and John in turn. Paul was a wonderful dancer. John was better horizontal. We sat and drank and got slowly merry. Text from Paul:
Message received:
What you doing sweetheart?
Message sent:
With girls, getting pissed and watching film.
Message received:
What one?
Message sent:
Moulin Rouge. Nicole is just about to die.
Message received:
Don’t cry. I love you. Just remember that. Love is all that matters.
Eyes glazed over at the right time. Nicole was just dying. The other girls thought they understood.
Message received:
How is my wonderful lover?
Message sent:
Fine. How is my wonderful lover?
Message received:
1/2
Missing you. Your touch. Your smell. Your taste. I get so low when you’re not here. I just mope and then kick myself out of it and think how bloody soppy I am. I’ve never been like this.
2/2
With any other woman.
Message sent:
Don’t believe you.
Message received:
It’s true Sarah. This is different. This is different.
Xxxxxxxxxxx
Message sent:
Xxxxxxxx U2
This is different, all right? Women dream about changing men from womanisers into lap dogs and supposedly it seemed I’d done it when I’d had no intention nor wanting to do it. It was extremely inconvenient. As the credits rolled we had a pissy conversation about love. With a capital L.
Karen—‘Do you think the only important thing is to learn how to love and be loved in return?’
Sarah—‘Yes. I think it’s one of those phrases that gets misquoted a lot. You know, like Chaucer’s “the love of money is the root of all evil”. Lot of people say “money is the root of all evil”. Then they go on to say but who creates money? Therefore Man is the root of all evil. But that wasn’t the original quote. It’s desiring it that’s wrong, not having it.’
Karen—‘So learning to love. What is love?’
Sarah—‘Million-dollar question, that. I think most people say it’s when you feel more pain being apart from them than you do being with them, and that you can’t bear to live without them.’
Catherine—‘Yeah, I would say that’s true. But what’s the difference with lust and love?’
Sarah—‘Don’t know. I loved Paul when I first met him. Knew instinctively he was the one for me. Just wanted to be with him. Around him. Wanted only him. Was totally and completely in love with him. Just wanted to be there for him. Be what he wanted me to be. But perhaps that was just lust. Because lust is fleeting. Love’s eternal, or should be. Dunno. I think both of them are like diseases. Like viruses. Uncontrollable. Inconvenient.’ (I was thinking of John.) ‘Happen when you don’t want them to or least expect them to.’ (Definitely thinking of John.)
Karen—‘Think it’s different for men. When I’m in love or lust I can’t focus on anything other than wanting to be with them. Near them. Thinking of them.’
Catherine—‘Most of the men I know say when they’re in love or lust they do better at work, have better focus and achieve more. It’s like their love is more selfish. Perhaps it’s true that men love in a different way to women. Hey, I don’t know. Don’t know on that one.’
Sarah—‘There are sooo many books and sonnets and films on love. I’m deep-down romantic. English teacher said I was romantic coz I used to turn up in flowing flirty dresses in the sixth form and think I was a bit sort of boho chick even then. Flowers in the hair. Loved Keats. Learnt most of the Odes by heart. Bloody difficult. Got them all mixed up. Use to start off with Ode to a Nightingale, move onto Autumn somewhere and end up with the Grecian Urn. He was a miserable bugger, though. He wrote reams on the bloody stuff. Most of it bloody depressing.
‘There’s this poem about this lover who cuts his girlfriend’s head off—after she’s dead, of course. Can’t remember what she dies of, but think it’s to do with another guy or unrequited love or something. Anyway—’(slurping more Sauvignon) ‘—for some reason he puts it in a pot and the pot sprouts a tree. And the tree grows big and strong. Think it was a basil pot or something. Now I can never buy basil without thinking about this bloody woman’s head. And as Paul sometimes forsakes parma ham and melon and goes for mozzarella and tomato salad with fresh basil I often have this subconscious urge to throw up. And then the other guy finds out that the tree sprouted from this girl’s head—and cuts the tree down. And I always visualise the tree sprouting from her head and wonder if it sprouted from her neck or her hair—and think of that film The Thing, where there was that alien that takes over and kills people in this camp one by one and the hand—or was it a head that had legs? and I think it destroyed the whole beauty of the poem for me at the time.’
Catherine—‘Think I remember that poem. Was it Lamia?’
Sarah—‘No, that was about the girl that was a snake, or something, and turned into a girl. Or was it the other way round? But that was a long one too. Wasn’t it?’
Catherine—‘No, no. It was called—think it was called two things, The Pot of Basil. And Isabella. That was it. Isabella. Remember there was this line in it which read…oh, bugger. Forgotten. May have the book somewhere.’
Sarah—‘I don’t think I’ve got it. I loved Keats. I remember there’s this line which when I’m feeling really shitty just about sums up how I feel. “My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense as though of hemlock I had drunk”. Real sort of slit-wrist time, that. And there’s this other line. What is it now? Oh, yeah. “Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death”. Forgotten the rest. But anyway, it’s very good to say out loud when you really want to have a good wail and total emotional meltdown. Keats knew how to be miserable.’
Catherine—‘Don’t you think most poets and creative types are miserable? I remember my Englis
h teacher telling me T S Eliot produced his best work when he was having a horrible time in his personal life. And then he married his secretary or something, and got all happy, and couldn’t write a bloody word after that.’
Sarah—‘Perhaps that’s the secret of it, then. I can marry Paul, be miserable, get creative and make money writing. Knew there was a reason. Must find that book of poems, or at least buy one.’
Karen—‘Can we talk about something else? Didn’t study Keats. He sounds fucking boring and a complete manic depressive. Just watched a film about a beautiful girl dying of consumption and the guy being heartbroken and I want to have a giggle and I’m feeling like shit.’
Sarah—‘Group hug. Group hug.’
We all hugged each other and looked through the DVDs to see if there was anything superficial and fluffy. Sleepy Hollow. Too depressing apart from Johnny Depp looking achingly fuckable. ET. No. Jean de Florette. You must be joking. Big. Reminds me of Paul. Four Weddings and a Funeral. No. Obvious reasons. He soooo marries the wrong woman. What Lies Beneath. Too close to home. Casablanca. Too romantic. Decided on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Decide that girls should live life to the full as well as boys.
Then sex conversation. Topic: masturbation. I start it. All extremely drunk (three bottles of Sauvignon. No food).
Sarah—‘Have you ever been out with a guy who gets really turned on by watching you masturbate?’
Catherine—‘They all do, don’t they?’
Sarah—‘Do they?’
Catherine—‘Well, think about it. They get turned on by watching you come. They don’t have to do anything to make it happen but can actually see everything. Then they can please themselves.’
Sarah—‘Oh. Remember I did that once with Paul but didn’t let him do anything afterwards. I didn’t really look to see if he was enjoying it much. I was enjoying myself so much. Then when I’d finished he went to approach me and I said no. And he seemed really pissed off. Almost in pain.’
Karen—‘Probably was.’
Sarah—‘Really?’
Karen—‘Oh, yeah. I dunno if it’s true, but you know they have to relieve themselves after a certain time if they’ve gone, you know, toooooo far. They just have to come.’
Sarah—‘Oh, well, he did. But not in me, over me or looking at me. He just went to another room and had a strop on for the whole day.’
Catherine—‘So next time you did it you let him?’
Sarah—‘Fuck that. No. Don’t like men who sulk. Act like children. Treat them like children. Told him to say please. Not much to ask.’
Catherine—‘Did he?’
Sarah—‘Yes. With cherries on top. And lots of whipped cream.’
Eleven p.m. Catherine gone home. Karen gone to her room. Sarah goes home.
Message received:
Love you. Xxxx P
Message received:
Want you. Xxx J
15th April
I’m in bed and I don’t want to get up. My head is yo-yoing backwards and forwards. Do I tell Paul? Do I tell John? Do I tell Paul? Do I tell John? I work out case scenarios of how they will react or how I think they will react. Most end up in lots of tears and blood. All mine. So block out honesty. Not best policy here. Policy here is to stay alive and have fun and not hurt anyone.
Message received:
Can I call you? J
I’m still in bed with Paul.
Paul—‘Who’s that at this time in the morning?’
Sarah—‘No one, just work.’
Paul—‘It’s early.’
My mobile rings. It’s John. Got to answer it. Looks strange if I don’t.
Sarah—‘Hi.’
John—‘Hello there, sexy. How are you?’
Sarah—‘I’m fine. How are you?’
John—‘Fine. Very formal, this. What, no kisses and underwear talk? What are you wearing? Are you wearing anything?’
Sarah—‘Yes.’(Pause coz I think I’m blushing and Paul is looking at me, which is making me blush more.) ‘Can I call you back later on that one.’
John—‘On what one? On you wearing underwear?’
Sarah—‘Yes. I need to do something about that.’
John—‘Are you OK? Got your brain in gear?’
Sarah—‘Yes, had heavy night last night. Can’t really talk now. Have to go. Byee.’
John—‘Er, are you sure you’re OK?’
Sarah—‘Yes, I’ll speak to you tomorrow, OK?’
John—‘You don’t sound OK.’
Sarah—‘I’m fine. Bye for now.’
Click. Turn mobile off so he can’t ring again. Paul looks puzzled.
Paul—‘Very strange phone call. Why do they need to call you at seven-thirty in the morning on a Saturday, Sarah?’
Sarah—‘Oh, you know what it’s like. These PRs think they own you. Work, work, work all the time. Not good.’
Paul—‘No, and I want them to leave my fiancée alone.’
He gives me a cuddle which he hasn’t done for months and I involuntarily flinch. He notices.
Paul—‘Don’t you love me any more?’
Sarah—‘Of course I do. Just that we haven’t touched for such a long time. It’s lovely to be cuddled by you again.’ (Strange but true.) ‘I’ve missed it.’ (True.)
He cuddles me again and I snuggle up into his arms and remember how it used to be in the beginning. How I felt protected and loved by him and how now when he does it I just feel trapped and suffocated and it’s not the same person he’s cuddling. So it doesn’t feel the same. And she misses the old Paul. Not this one. And she’s not the same Sarah any more. She’s ever so slightly resentful and is getting her own back, though he doesn’t know it and hopefully never will. But for now I allow myself to be snuggled and stifled and I’ve got the excuse that I’ve got to go to the gym in an hour, despite the fact I desperately need to put on weight rather than lose it at the moment.
At the club, my instructor, Jeff, says, ‘You look ill. You OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Well, you’ve lost weight and it’s not through training. That would make you put it on, if anything. But you’re losing. What’s happening?’
‘Getting married.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You don’t look glowing.’
‘Don’t feel glowing.’
‘Then you’re not marrying the right man.’
‘I think I am. Just a bit under the weather.’
We do five minutes warm-up to ‘You Are My Fantasy’, then kick and twist and do some step—up and down, up and down, up and down to Liberty X and Misteeq and lots of J Lo and some old Spice Girls and some Geri and some Posh. And my mind is not on the jump kicks, or the splits or the pushing the legs to the limit—it’s on John. And on Paul and on how to leave both with good grace.
At the end of the class, I turn on my mobile.
Message received:
You OK? You sounded strange. Call me.
Message received:
Call me. Can’t get through to you.
Message received:
Have I done something wrong?
Message received:
I’m gonna call your home. Think I’ve got that number.
Which home? Call home when Paul is there? Please God he hasn’t answered the phone. He can’t have the house number. Perhaps he means the flat number.
Race back in the car.
Open door.
Sarah—‘Hi—Paul?’
No answer. Answer-machine beeping. Two calls while out.
First: ‘Hi, Sarah. Just popped out. Be back in half an hour. Hope the workout was good. Big kiss.’
Second: ‘Hi, Sarah. You OK? Can’t seem to get hold of you. Will try later.’
Must call John back. Run up to study.
Sarah—‘Hi, John.’
John—‘Hi, Sarah. What happened? Why couldn’t you speak this morning?’
Sarah—‘It
was a bit inconvenient.’
John—‘Why? Were you in bed with someone or something?’ (Getting a bit annoyed.)
Sarah—‘No, of course not. But Paul had come round. He’s getting married.’
John—‘Didn’t know that.’
Sarah—‘No, neither did I, actually.’
John—‘Do you know the girl?’
Sarah—‘Er, no. But I’m told she’s very nice. A bit scatty. Erm. Short. Very short. Big boobs and big bum and, er, reddish brown hair. Name Tina, I think.’
John—‘Oh, right. Well, what did he want?’
Sarah—‘Just to tell me he was getting married. He didn’t want me to find out another way. Wanted to tell me directly and all that.’
John—‘But doesn’t want you to come to the wedding?’
Sarah—‘Well, ex-girlfriend and all that.’
John—‘I’ve been to a lot of my exes’ weddings. Don’t think the grooms either knew who I was or liked the fact I was there, but I still went anyway. Interesting to see how exes choose their husbands. Sometimes it’s surprising; sometimes I can guess exactly who they would choose.’
Sarah—‘And who would I choose, then, oh wise one?’
John—‘You? You wouldn’t marry anyone. You’re not the marrying type. You’re too independent. No ties. No commitments. Don’t think anyone could tie you down, Sarah. And you don’t need a man either. You don’t need one. You’d like one and want one, but I think you like your own space. Positively enjoy it. There are women out there who don’t. They have to be with someone. They need someone. They need a man in their life. I think you enjoy male company but that’s different. Don’t know why. Perhaps that’s why I find you so interesting.’
Sarah—‘Perhaps I do need a man. But I don’t like to show you my vulnerable side. Perhaps I do need that emotional crutch. That love. Need to give and receive love, and perhaps this coolness is all just a ruse.’