by Sarah Tucker
John—‘Perhaps. Could be. Could be wrong. But don’t think so. You seem too independent. You’re an only child, like me. And you’ve got used to your own company. People who’ve influenced you. Think you said there was David, your first, right?’
Sarah—‘Yes.’
John—‘Well, he sounds like a right pretentious prat. But then he worked in a bank. Not all bankers are prats. Just sounds as though he was.’
Sarah—‘He wasn’t. He was lovely. Bit confused, but lovely.’
John—‘And then there was Paul. Right? He’s another banker and he sounds very confused. Wouldn’t sleep with you or something. Honestly, how can a man sleep with you and not sleep with you? He should have got help. Think he probably needs help. He’ll probably do the same to the next girl he meets and the next. He sounds like a control freak, but, hey, lot of them about.’
Sarah—‘So you think you’re Mr Right.’
John—‘Could be. But you know two Mr Wrongs don’t make a Mr Right.’
Sarah—‘Very droll.’
Methinks relationship with John is getting more exciting. Taking more risks. John has told me he is falling in love with me. I do not believe him. I tell him I am falling in love with him too. But do I? How can I fall for someone I’m treating this way? He doesn’t know I’m getting married. Or even still have another boyfriend. So how can I love someone I blatantly don’t respect? I love Paul. But I don’t act as though I love him either. I’m fucking someone else, for fuck’s sake. But men do it. I know they do. My male friends tell me they do. At the stag do, they usually bonk the stripper, don’t they? One of Paul’s friends had one come into his room after the evening was supposedly over and give him a blow job. Pressie from his mates. Everyone sworn not to tell the wife. Someone did. Tears on wedding night. From groom, after bride went down on him to prove her bite was worse than her bark. Didn’t need stitches.
Do any of Paul’s friends live in Surrey? Get real, Sarah, what’s the chance of being spotted by one of Paul’s friends in Tesco with John buying bananas and whipped cream? How do I explain?
Sarah—(walking down dairy aisle with John, in search of low-fat cream I can spread and lick off him, John tells me cottage cheese won’t work the same way. Hand in hand. Pre- and post-coital) spots Peter—Hi, Peter, hi, Kelly. Just happen to be in Surrey and thought I’d do some shopping. With friend John. (Introduce John. John will look as though he has just gone down on me or just about to and game will be up.)
Peter—Hi. (Looks confused.) Spoke to Paul this morning. He said you were on a course in Lincoln.
Sarah—(flushing violently)—yes, but I came back early and popped in to see some friends. (Turning to John.) This is John. He came on the course as well.
Peter—still looking confused. Kelly looking…knowing. John looking very confused and angry.
John—Paul?
Don’t go there, Sarah. Scenario won’t work. No, can’t let it happen. Plus won’t go shopping with John in Tesco. Bad move. Plus too domesticated. This is the last fling, surely? So it’s all about being in bed as much as possible. Or wherever will support two naked/near naked/soon to be naked bodies.
I’ve discovered I have a thing for al fresco. Preferably olive grove somewhere remote in Tuscany. Doubt if there is anywhere remote left in Tuscany, but in my dreams there is. I’m outside with John. Walking through the olive grove just before lunch. Very hot. Midday. He turns me to him. I’m wearing white Ghost top, with laces down the front. The air is heavy with the smell of olives. He has to very slowly undo the laces in order to get to me. I don’t allow him to take the top off immediately. Too soon. Too easy. Then the skirt. Silk. Flowers. Floaty. Easier. Just unties and falls down around my feet. Then he kisses me on the lips. For ages. He’s still fully clothed in white shirt. Crisp, half open. And I’m near naked and can feel the heat on my back and bum and hair. He hasn’t touched me other than kissing me on my lips and cupping my head in his hands. And I’m becoming frustrated and start to pull away and want him to do more. And then he moves his hands down from my belly button to my thighs. Very slowly. Almost painfully slowly so I move my body as though I want him to feel my urgency and my… Then he kneels and kisses me on my…
Message received:
1/2
I’m on the underground and I can taste you. Am licking my lips and the guy next to me says he knows what
I’m…
2/2
…thinking of. And then he spoils it by saying supper. I can still taste you. J xx
Message sent:
What do I taste like?
Message received:
Parma Ham. Have you got it for next week’s dinner party? P.
Message sent:
Yes I’ll get it this evening at Tesco.
Message received:
1/2
Of you. The smell and taste of you drives me wild. You’ve a unique taste. I could say like sunshine or…
Message received:
Cod. We need cod for the fish pie. Trying something different from Delia’s book. I don’t like the taste of fish but everyone we’re inviting seems happy with it. Do you like cod?
Message received:
2/2
…bluebells. Most girls taste salty. Fishy. Those that don’t wash. Like prawns or cod gone off. Like some sort of botched fish pie.
Message sent:
I’m happy with fish. Something plain grilled. I can get something fresh from Tesco.
Message received:
You taste fresh and clean. Not fishy at all. And your taste gets stronger as you’re due to come. If you like the taste is more of a good thing. If you don’t best to steer clear.
21st April
I haven’t kept up with my diary for fear Paul will read and find it, and also I can’t express what I’m feeling. It’s lust. It can’t be love. John is potent. Sexed. Not over-sexed. Just sexed. The only word for it. I’m walking on air. Nothing matters other than being with him. Work, friends, family, health, nothing. I can’t concentrate on even the dinner parties I’m supposed to be preparing. I want the avocados to stuff themselves. I go to aerobics classes and practise pelvic thrusts thinking about him. My instructor (Jeff) seems to know what I’m thinking.
‘You’re getting good at those. Had a lot of practice recently, have you, Sarah?’
I’m more flexible and toned. Sex is soo good for the bum.
When Paul is away I drive my new yellow Lotus from Chelmsford to Redhill and park it in the car park by John’s road. It takes me forty minutes. I get excited from the moment I get in the car to the moment I arrive at his door. It’s the anticipation of knowing at the end of the journey there is going to be him waiting for me in his yellow cottage. We manage to make love in every room of his house. I complain I wish it were bigger. He says so does he. We make love on Box Hill in his car (with difficulty). Choose hotels from brochures, all of which are designed for lovers, not businessmen or newly weds. He takes me to see where he was born. Where he grew up. I say I don’t want to meet his parents. This is too eerie. Too eerie for words.
SARAH, YOU ARE GETTING MARRIED IN FOUR MONTHS.
I don’t hear this.
Catherine realises I’m getting in deep and says I should cool it.
‘Tell him you’re getting married. Just say you want to cool it as it’s getting too intense,’ she says.
I say I will. I drive in the yellow Lotus to his yellow cottage and start to tell him and then he touches me and kisses me and undresses me and seduces me into silence. Well, almost. He tells me all women are different when they come. He says some are moaners from the word go. You don’t have to touch them. Just the thought of you being near them makes them start to moan. He tells me again that he went out with one woman who all he had to do was brush past her nipple and she would come. He says he has to work more on me. I tell him I’m pleased. Very antisocial behaviour. Good party trick, though. He tells me that I’m quite quiet. That I just breathe deeply but that he can t
ell when I’m about to come. I’m a sort of air raid siren. I say this is very unsexy. He says a siren is sexy. Air raid perhaps not so. But that it’s very reassuring for a man, any man, to feel he has satisfied a woman so much. Some men are more interested in their own pleasure, but John tells me they are missing a trick. They will get as much from giving pleasure as receiving it. I say this is what God tells us in the Bible. He says he doesn’t think God was thinking about sex at the time. I tell John he doesn’t know this for sure. He says he doesn’t but would average a guess that He wasn’t.
22nd April
In bed with Paul.
Message received:
Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about you. Coming over your face. J xx
Paul—‘Who’s that?’
Sarah—‘No one.’
Message sent:
Was I smiling? S xx
Message received:
Of course.
Wedding. Paul and I have been invited to the wedding of one of his broker friends. Paul tells me he is a friend who happens to be his broker. I tell him I think he’s a wanker, but if he is good for business that is fine. He is marrying Eleanor and his name is Nicholas Gravestone. Handsome rogue-type marries Sloane. I don’t know if she’s a bitch because I haven’t met her enough. Think once. I know more about him. He went to public school. A lesser one. His father sailed him round the Caribbean Islands for his eighteenth birthday present. He always talks about it.
I’ve known him since going out with Paul. He’s had fifteen girlfriends during the five years. This excludes the one-night fucks. One dinner party, he got his dick out and nodded at it arrogantly, exclaiming, ‘Do you know how many cunts this has been inside?’ Some of the men guessed, others applauded. I made tea. Plus, he’s only got one ball as he tried to kiss Kevin Spacey and a bouncer kneed him so hard he had to be taken to hospital. They settled out of court.
She is a headhunter and settled for his one ball. Size six, five foot nothing, and allegedly wants to become triple-barrelled with her Bavely-Hunterdon surname. But doesn’t like the idea of her initials (GBH).
Wedding in Surrey. Near where John lives. Have bought new Chine, Ghost, sexy knickers. Not that Paul cares. But he notices. And kisses me as we’re changing and says how much he loves me and how beautiful I look. And I don’t care. But I smile and say thank you. I’m looking and feeling good for John. Not Paul. We drive in yellow Lotus. Top off. It’s a sunny day. Warm for spring. Hair is fucked.
Sarah—‘My hair is getting fucked.’
Paul—‘Brush it when you get there. It’s lovely today.’
On arrival, hair is so matted I just shove it under hat. Drive the car the same path that I take to John’s house. I try very hard to not look as though I know every turn of the road and where to buy papers and cards and confetti. I suggest the High Street would be good as they usually have a shop that sells such things and, hey presto, they do.
Wedding is in twee church. Eighteenth century. Neither bride nor groom are churchgoers. Over half work in the City. Over half cars outside church are Porsches, Beemers, Bentleys, four red Ferraris and even a silver Aston Martin—which all the men ogle. Girlies all wearing very short skirts. Cream. With long navy jackets. Next to nothing blouses. Big black hats. Tall if they’re short, wide if they’re emaciated. Thin if they have a metabolic disorder. Groom’s parents look disappointed.
Groom’s father—‘I preferred Jessica. She was nice. She went off to Australia.’
Kept thinking of John’s cat Jessica.
Groom’s mother—‘I know. But this one is fine. Bit quiet. But she’s fine. Has he got her pregnant, do you think?’
Groom’s father—‘He wouldn’t tell us, darling. Last to know. You know that. Plus, with only one ball, do you think we’ll get a grandchild?’
I’m not meant to hear the conversation. But as no one is approaching me (not wearing obligatory cream and navy garb), I’m being a wallflower, taking in the conversations and realising how much I don’t fit in and don’t want to. I text John.
Message sent:
How are you? At wedding. Boring. Full of stiffs.
No answer.
Bride’s father, shape of a pot-bellied-pig, I overhear saying, ‘I haven’t been in a fucking church since I was christened.’
Congregation of over two hundred. Church full. No one sings. Choir get extra time. Bride enters to Vivaldi’s Gloria. Broker friend of GBH reads The Song of Solomon with as much gravitas as he can muster post-two Bloody Marys. Ave Maria sung beautifully. ‘Toccata’, Symphony No 5, by Widor stirs everything it should, and somehow the service comes and goes without it looking too superficially meant to impress.
Reception held in old manor house owned by Earl or Duke of something. No one could tell me. Everyone says how pretty and thin the bride looks. Groom has two best men. They don’t say what went on at the stag party. Paul and I sit on a table of Nicholas’s friends. They all work in the City. They all ignore their partners and wives. They all talk about car size and who the fuck owns the Aston Martin. And who’s got cigars and does anyone want a spliff? No, wait till later. And wager on how long the marriage will last. If at all. And who will dump who. And the fact Nick hasn’t invited any ex-girlfriends and that’s a pity coz some of them were rather a laugh and good shags. And I don’t want to be there. Guy on right introduces himself.
Guy—‘Hi, I’m Guy.’
Sarah—‘Hi, I’m Sarah.’
Guy—‘Who do you know? Bride or groom?’
Sarah—‘Groom via a friend.’
I’m doing it again. Why the fuck didn’t I just say, I’m here because my fiancé knows the groom?
Guy—‘Oh. I don’t know either of them very well. Her not at all, him coz of work, but couldn’t really call him a friend. More a sort of acquaintance. Business.’
Sarah—‘Oh. I think I’m the only non-banker here. Everyone seems to work in the financial markets.’
Guy—‘I don’t. Work in TV.’
Sarah—‘That’s interesting. Some people have an idea about people who work in TV. I think the word is “flaky”.’
Guy—‘Yeah, a lot of them are. I do the creative stuff. Very frustrating. Have all these wonderful ideas which are fun and funky and educational and interesting and people will actually learn from and, for fuck’s sake, the station will make money from—which is what it’s all about. And all they want is game shows and snide TV which makes the general public look like fucking idiots. It’s cheap in every way, but that’s what they want. They say with TV, the presenters have either got to be funny or fuckable. Now all they want is presenters who are happy to be laughed at, and/or fucked on screen—preferably live. It’s sick.’
Sarah—‘Why are you still in it?’
Guy—‘Pays the mortgage. And there is a creative side. Occasionally you get the odd gem through. It’s always someone else’s idea. But, hey, shit happens. There are more important things in life. What do you do?’
Sarah—‘Well, I used to work in a bank. Then PR and marketing. Now I work in advertising. On the marketing side.’
Guy—‘Is it interesting?’
Sarah—‘Yes, but I would like to write a book one day. Think I’ve got some living to do.’
Guy—‘Why don’t you start now?’
Sarah—‘I think I am.’
Guy looked at me again as though he was looking right through me.
Guy—‘Mmm. Change subject. I’ve got two kids. Do you plan to have kids yourself?’
Don’t plan to get married, let alone have kids.
Sarah—‘Haven’t thought of that. Not really. Not ready yet.’
Guy—‘Married?’
Sarah—‘Actually getting married.’
Guy—‘Congratulations. When are you getting married?’
Sarah—‘September.’
Guy—‘Everything planned?’
Sarah—‘Well, yes. Fiancé’s doing a lot of it.’
Guy—‘That’s unusual. Know my wi
fe wanted to do the lot. I didn’t mind. Less work for me. I chose the honeymoon.’
Sarah—‘Fiancé asks my opinion on stuff, but basically he’s choosing what happens. It’s mushroomed a bit. We’ve got a third my friends, a third his and a third family. We’re sharing the cost.’
Guy—‘Sounds fucking confusing to me.’
Sarah—‘It is.’
Guy—‘Obviously not if you’ve got a Catholic priest with a mass. I was Catholic, but don’t believe now. Got married in Leeds Castle. Fabulous. Friends, no family. My family’s a bit dysfunctional. Divorced parents. Father buggered off when I was three. Left my mum for a younger model. Ten years younger. Albeit a woman with the same name as my mum. So that confused me a bit. The new woman came from a divorced family too. She reassured my dad that she was OK, and that I would be OK too if my mum and her could handle it maturely. Now I think back and realise what an arrogant self-serving shit he was and how badly he treated my mum and how it knocked me for six. It took me a long time for Fiona, my wife—’(he nods to the girl sitting at the other end of the table and smiles at the brown-eyed beauty) ‘—to make me think marriage was OK. God, I want it to work. I don’t want to do that to my kids. They always say kids are tougher than you think, so it’s best to part, but I think that’s a cop-out. Don’t get married in the first place, or have kids, if you can’t make the commitment. That’s what I say.’
I liked Guy. He wasn’t the usual full-of-shit banker Paul usually introduced me to. The fact that Paul didn’t know Guy was probably why.
Sarah—‘Did Fiona invite her family to the wedding?’
Guy—‘She has divorced parents too. Actually, not strictly true. Her parents are still married, but four months before our wedding date her father went off with her mum’s best friend. They didn’t want us to put off the wedding. Thought they’d be mature about it. So there we were, all dancing at the reception. They had all been going to salsa classes together. Remember them strutting their stuff round the dance floor. And Fiona’s mum looking on and trying not to cry and trying to look as though she didn’t care. And her father telling me it was great that Katie—that’s the wife’s mum—was being so mature about it. And me thinking, What’s fucking mature about that. This is sick. If I’d been Fiona’s mum I would have kicked both their arses into touch.’