by Sarah Tucker
I’m in tears. Silent tears. Letting the tears run down my face and onto the floor. Like so many times on the rare occasions I make love to Paul. Crying silently in anger for allowing myself to do this. But feeling this is the bed I made, so should lie in it. I deserve it. This is what I deserve. And Paul is a good catch. And fun and steady and romantic and honourable. My mum says he is very honourable, putting up with me, taking me off her hands, and will always be honourable to me. I think of Anthony in Julius Caesar talking about Brutus and saying what an ‘honourable’ man he was. And I don’t think Paul is honourable.
And I get angrier, enraged, but this makes me tense and it hurts even more. And I almost sense Paul is angry at me. For the past five years. For the abortion and the fact he feels I’ve tricked him into believing I’m something I’m not, don’t want to be and never can. And I’m angry at putting up with him for so long and he’s pushing harder to hurt me. As he’s really hurting. And thank God he comes. Coz I think I’m going to split or scream out in pain and overwhelming anger and hatred. More self-loathing than loathing for him who, strangely, at that moment I pity because he’s pathetic as he kisses me on the back and hugs me round the stomach as I’m bent over on all fours, crying silently and uncontrollably and wishing myself somewhere else. Preferably in the arms of John, kissing me gently on the neck, running his fingers through my hair, just loving me. Just being gentle and loving me for me. But how can he? He doesn’t know who I am. And I see in my mind’s eye Guy mouthing ‘Don’t do it’.
Paul—‘I love you, Sarah.’
He says it almost as a thank-you, turning me round and kissing my tears away.
Paul—‘With pleasure there is always pain.’
At this point I want to kick him in the balls very hard and put into practice all my kick-boxing techniques. And make Nicholas not the only one-balled wanker in the area that night.
Sarah—‘That’s nice. Now I had better go to shower.’
Paul—‘Let me know if you fart cum.’
So witty. I don’t laugh. Prat.
And I think back to the trip through France and dancing on the steps of Versailles and the drive back to the pub when he said those sweet things. And then I think of what’s just happened. And I wonder where the gentle man I loved has gone and wonder if he was ever there. And don’t know whether to feel duped or angry or guilty. Because perhaps I’ve changed him. Or it’s just time that’s changed him. Or it’s experience. Or it’s a combination of everything. Or the fact he’s doing well at work. And it’s his environment. Anyway, he’s not as sweet and loving as he was. And perhaps I’m being idealistic and perhaps all men are secretly into anal sex and don’t admit it because it’s unnatural. Illegal. And all women do it and don’t admit it. And nor will I.
23rd April
Morning after the night before. Paul and I compare notes on the anal sex. He enjoyed it, but not as much as he thought. Great, perhaps he won’t ask me to do it again.
Paul—‘It’s more a case of curiosity for men. Want to see what it’s like. Sort of tick the box. Some men like it; others don’t. It was OK. Didn’t think it was as great as I thought it would be.’
I said I hated it and it made me feel degraded, and it’s not because I’m frigid or not a game girl. It’s nothing to do with affection. Or caring. Er, at a push, it’s ‘fun’. But couldn’t help think of Italian’s words, describing the ‘sandwich’, as he called it. Thing is, people think he’s such a lovely guy as well. Just like Paul.
I’ve done it now. Sort of tick box for that one. But it’s one that wasn’t on my list in the first place. I’d rather have done a bungee jump. Or naked free fall. Or run round the supermarket naked screaming ‘cream me’. Less humiliating. Not a turn-on. He listened and said he apologised if it had made me upset. But, looking back now, I don’t think he was sorry. Just felt it was the right thing to say. Then, half way round the M25:
Paul—‘Are you OK about the wedding?’
Sarah—‘What do you mean?’
Paul—‘I mean, do you still want to get married? I’ve just felt recently you’ve been more distant. I know we’ve had our difficult moments, Sarah. Our difficult times. But it’s worth waiting for. I know how you’ve felt about not having sex. And I wouldn’t blame you if you had had an affair because I know it’s been a lot to ask. But it’s worth waiting for something very special and we have something very special.’
I felt like shit.
Sarah—‘I know. It’s just that sometimes I feel you don’t love me. I’ve needed the physical affection and it’s not there for me. And when we have an opportunity to be intimate, and show we care about each other, we do something like last night. Which was horrible. Perhaps I wouldn’t have felt the same if we had had a normal sexual relationship. But, Paul, this is weird by anyone’s standards. It’s not normal and it’s not natural and it hasn’t been for a long time. And you won’t see anyone about it. Not a counsellor or anyone. And you won’t tell your parents and you need to talk to someone.’
Paul—‘I don’t need to see anyone. You know why we’re not having sex. We’re not having sex because I don’t want to go through an abortion again. I don’t want to risk that. It had an incredible impact on me and I don’t want to repeat that. Plus the fact that you’re bad with money means I respect you less, and I need to respect you. I trust you, Sarah, but I don’t respect you as much as I should. The guys I work with have girlfriends and wives who earn good money. They have a good living to look forward to. You could earn good money, but you flit from one job to another and it’s not good for starting a family.’
Sarah—‘I don’t want to start a family. I’ve told you this. Not at the moment anyway.’
Paul—‘Let’s not talk about it.’
Sarah—‘I think we should, Paul. I do have doubts about the wedding if we can’t resolve this, but you seem to think it will all be resolved by marriage. I don’t.’
Paul—‘But think how special sex will be on our wedding night. How we can make love and it will be special.’
Sarah—‘It doesn’t work like that. Think how much I have grown to resent you. Think about that. And go and see someone.’
Paul—‘Let’s not talk about it.’
Sarah—‘Can’t you discuss this with your parents? You say you’re close.’
Paul—‘No way could I talk to them. They’re Catholic, for God’s sake.’
Sarah—‘They’re also human beings, aren’t they? Aren’t they realistic as well? These things happen. You need to talk to someone, Paul. I don’t think our wedding day is going to be the panacea for all evils you think.’
Paul—‘I don’t want to talk about it. Sorry I brought it up.’
Sarah—‘I’m not. We need to. I love you, but you need to deal with this. It’s not natural to sleep with a woman whom you love and not want to hold and touch and make love to her. It’s not natural.’
Paul—‘Shut up and drop it.’
I dropped it. I arranged to see John on the following Friday, who wanted to make love to me and hold me and touch me. And didn’t think much of anal sex. And, no, he didn’t want to do it. Even when drunk. He just wanted to kiss me and stroke my hair and listen to me.
28th April
Picnic with John. On Box Hill. Made excuse to Paul was looking for wedding shoes, when in fact know ones I want and ones I want to get Catherine. Break golden rule and go to Tesco and buy olives and fresh figs and cherries (which are extortionate) and kumquats and champagne and Badoit and chicken and poached salmon and samosas. And it’s warm and there are few people about in the early afternoon and we find a place by a tree. Which is semi-secluded and I can’t keep my hands off him.
I want him to slowly undress me. And he teases me and says he won’t, while he does. And his words don’t match his actions. Lying on top of me, he occasionally blocks out the light and all I can hear is the wind through the trees. There are even bluebells, and it’s my Ryan’s Daughter moment—albeit without the voluptuous breasts
. And there are ants, and a few bees buzzing about. And I don’t care. And as I breathe out he breathes in, and as I breathe in, he breathes out. And he’s inside my head and body and I feel lost in his arms and in time and don’t want to go and wake up and remember who I am or why I’m there. Just know that I am. And it’s real. Of sorts.
John—‘You rarely mention your past boyfriends.’
Sarah—‘It’s not exactly a turn-on for the current one, is it? I know you do it with yours, but I take it in my stride as you seem to get a kick out of it.’
John—‘Well, I don’t mention them now. Amanda is going out with someone else now, I think. She may even be pregnant.’
Sarah—‘You don’t keep in contact, then?’
John—‘Why should I? She’s good with the cats, and occasionally comes round to see them, but I think she’s over me now.’
Sarah—‘How do you feel about that?’
John—‘Fine.’
Sarah—‘No ego, then?’
John—‘No.’
Sarah—(taking risks)—‘What would you say if I said I wanted marriage, kids, the lot?’
John—‘I wouldn’t believe you. That’s not you. You’re too independent.’
Sarah—‘Perhaps.’
John—‘Well, do you want to get married?’ (Looking surprised.)
Sarah—‘No—’ (first honest thing said in a long time) ‘—but one day, perhaps.’
John—‘When you’ve found the right man.’ (Putting his right hand slowly between my legs and stroking very slowly.)
Sarah—‘Yes.’
Mobile buzzes with a text. In the bag. I reach for it. John moves for another olive.
Message received:
Hope you’ve found something you like. Miss you. P xx
Feel like shit again.
Message sent:
Still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Miss you too.
S xx
John puts his mouth to mine and blows champagne into it. Then kisses my eyes and nose, telling me it’s my best feature. That and my bum. And that he is amazed I’m with him and I tell him (jokingly) so am I. And that I don’t want to get him more arrogant than he is. And he says Is this possible? And I say probably not. And we go back to his house and don’t eat and drink or go to the pub or watch TV. We go to bed and stay there—just sleeping and making love when we are awake. And sleeping again.
29th April
John is getting good at knowing my body. And I his. He likes me to dress in short skirts. Flirty short skirts. As summer is approaching I have an excuse to wear short skirts. As in just below the lacy pantyline. This means I must wear knickers, which John says is fine if the skirt is that short you can see them. He says he loves my legs. That when we go out he likes walking behind me so that he can look at them. I say he must look perverted. He says he doesn’t give a fuck.
I begin to dress for him. Wear colours he likes. Wear skirts he likes. Wear perfumes he likes. He enjoys massage. His feet. His back. Stroking his hair. I teach him to kiss me when I come so that my energy isn’t wasted into the air but absorbed by him. He says he likes this and tells me it’s Tantric sex. I say I know nothing about this, but that I know Sting practises it. We breathe for each other. When I breathe out, he breathes in. Sometimes we’re so close I want him to enter my body. Not just sexually but all the way.
We break the bed one time he is pushing into me so hard. He has fun asking his friend to find another strut for the bed.
‘How did you break it, John?’
‘Having sex with Sarah. We got carried away.’
He says he was very proud when she asked.
John—‘I wouldn’t have told her if she hadn’t asked.’
Sarah—‘Of course not.’
Home life is limited and limiting. I can’t face Paul’s face, so I don’t. I told Anya I have decided to drop John and go back with Paul. But she notices I am on a high.
Anya—‘You look good.’
Sarah—‘Thank you.’
Anya—‘You still seeing John?’
Sarah—‘Maybe.’
Anya—‘Be careful. You look good. You look in love or in lust or both. Be careful. Postpone the wedding, Sarah. You must postpone the wedding or come clean with John.’
Sarah—‘I will.’
I don’t.
MAY
ACTION LIST
Go to gym every day.
Have fun.
Be nice to Paul.
Be nice to me.
See more of friends.
See less of John.
IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
I’m pregnant.
Five weeks. I feel sick. How can I be pregnant? I’m on the Pill. Perhaps having too much sex means the Pill doesn’t work as well. Anyway, I’m pregnant and I can’t tell anyone.
Plus I’ve lost my job at the advertising company. The journey was awful. And I’d already worked there for over two months, which was a breakthrough for me after the two-day fiasco before. They said I was great, and had achieved a lot, but perhaps wasn’t right for the position. I wasn’t good with systems and procedures. Good way of saying I didn’t stick politics and bureaucracy and didn’t see the value of things like Year of the Pier and having meetings about meetings—or, more obscurely, who should attend the meetings to make them of more value. All bollocks. Forget the tax payer, what about the wasted talent who has to manage this crap?
But as one door closes another opens. Radio station wanted a travel correspondent. I had been interviewed several times by the Travel Editor, Alastair, and he liked the way I spoke. Good talking head. Or was it good head? Can’t remember. Anyway, he called me. In short, I kept going until he wanted me to stop and I talked sense. So he asked me to produce some reports for him. Initially in the UK, then overseas. First was to a balloon meet. I took Paul. We went up with twelve dignitaries, including the Mayor. We landed in a freshly manured field on our side. The Mayor landed on top of me. His medals pushing into my cleavage. Last report made to microphone:
‘We’re landing in a field which has been freshly manured and the Mayor has landed on top of me…aghhhh.’ Descriptive or what? Anyway the editor liked it and I was sent to France next trip. To the Dordogne. No Paul this time. Just myself and ten other journalists, all of whom smoked and drank and threw up and had opinions about everything, including what a lot of wasters journalists are and how they are all up their own arses. And they swore a lot. And some got off with each other. I just recorded the lot of them and threatened to use it when they were famous. If they ever got famous.
The trips away meant more time away from Paul. Only short trips—three or four days. But some got longer. John also didn’t like these long trips, and it was perhaps because of spending so much time in different time zones that the Pill failed to work, or I didn’t take it at the right time. Anyway, I was pregnant. Ten tests couldn’t be wrong. The clinic confirmed it. Three hundred pounds poorer I found myself at seven a.m. on a Friday morning in the middle of May waiting to be ‘seen’. I had told Paul I was in a meeting. I had told John I was in a meeting. No one knew. I told Catherine, who was horrified but said if I needed money she would help me. I said it was fine. I hadn’t made provision for this. It was to come out of the wedding fund. It was sick. I felt like shit. I was shit.
In the ward before I went into the operation theatre I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Could I have the baby? After all, only thirty and a second abortion. That’s bad. Very bad. But I couldn’t have John’s son and bring him up in a marriage with Paul. Plus, did I really want John’s child? I lusted after John and perhaps, just perhaps, was falling in love with him, but did I want his child? No. I was doing the right thing. But, as ever, what timing, Sarah. What bloody awful timing. Two days before Paul’s birthday. What a lovely present. Three months before the wedding. I couldn’t have sex for two weeks after the termination. Would have to make an excuse to John. John would dump me. Perhaps this was the reason this had happe
ned. Perhaps it had all been for the good. John would get sick of not having sex with me for two weeks and dump me and pick someone else up. Yes, that’s what would happen.
I was the oldest in the ward. Everyone else appeared to be a teenager. Except one woman who looked about forty.
‘Hello, I’m Edith. I’m forty and feel a bit of an old-age pensioner in here.’
‘Hello, I’m Sarah, I’m thirty, and so do I.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Chelmsford.’
‘So am I. I manage the Ashby Arms. You know that restaurant?’
‘Never been, but I’m told it’s very good.’
‘It is. If you come in, say hi.’
‘If it’s with my husband, I won’t. He doesn’t know about this and if he asks me how I met you I will have to lie.’
‘Hmm, I understand. Say we met at the doctor’s surgery. It’s sort of true.’
‘Sort of. Why are you having a termination?’
‘It’s my fifth pregnancy and we can’t afford five. I have four lovely children and have always preferred even to odd numbers. And you?’
‘Too early into the relationship.’
I didn’t want to tell her how I felt. The fact that this was my lover’s baby, that I was due to be married in three months’ time to a man who hadn’t made love to me in five years but whom I loved. And that I was very confused and that this would make matters worse. I kept thinking, Perhaps this happens to lots of women and they don’t talk about it and perhaps I should tell her. But then I stopped myself. When I heard myself talk back about the past nine months I sounded like a slut. But it wasn’t like that.
It wasn’t like that.
Honest.
General anaesthetic should be sold at Boots. It is fabulous. I am told nitrous oxide should also be sold at Boots. My friend, who had just had a baby, said it was the closest she had ever got to euphoria and that it was like when you were first in love or in lust with someone. I said I knew how she felt. I thought, This is how John makes me feel when I am with him. With the GA I completely relaxed for the first time in a long time. It knocked me out completely. The last thing I remember seeing was the doctor’s face leaning over me, saying, ‘You will be fine. You will be fine. You will be fine. Count backwards from ten.’ I made it to eight. I remember nothing else.