‘You do know that you’re my favourite customer, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Sarah had given up on love and was intent on remaining a spinster but now the reality-TV genre has changed her and she’s seen the light. Now she can’t wait to find a man to boff.’
‘Julia!’ I howl, embarrassed.
‘So what are you young ladies up to this evening?’ smiles my favourite customer.
‘I’m staying in with a bottle of red wine. The new series of The X Factor is starting.’ The words squirt out of my mouth like a premature ejaculation. My favourite customer looks horrified. I blush.
Suddenly I have a vision that I am lying naked in bed with a lovely man watching The X Factor. I don’t know what Fran has done to me but since my interview I can’t stop daydreaming about having a man. It’s getting quite bad. This morning, after I’d pressed Snooze, I fished my teddy out from down the side of the bed and spooned it. I know no one will report me but it’s weird. For ten minutes this morning I spooned a stuffed animal and imagined it was a man. A real man with warm naked bum cheeks pressed into my lap and a hairy chest I could run my fingers through. I know that in real life a real man would have smelt or snored or farted into my lap but in my daydream he didn’t. And it was bliss.
I notice that Julia is waving her hand in front of my face saying, ‘Coo-ee’ and am jolted back into the conversation.
‘Sorry, not very rock-and-roll is it?’ I mumble, embarrassed by my lack of both concentration and planned Saturday-night shenanigans. Suddenly the sound of Bros can be heard clearly over the softly playing Mozart.
‘Oh my God, it might be them,’ hyperventilates Julia. She springs up and my favourite customer’s coffee is knocked into his lap.
‘Bollocks,’ she screeches.
I rush towards him with some paper serviettes. I stand hovering, holding them above his groin. He takes them from me.
‘Answer your phone!’ he insists, dabbing his crotch.
I pick up my mobile. It’s a withheld number. I rush into the kitchen to take the call.
‘Please, God,’ I whisper. ‘I know you never thought you’d hear me say this but please, please say they chose me to do the reality TV programme so I can find a nice man to spoon and watch X Factor with. It’s not much to ask, he doesn’t have to look like Kiefer Sutherland, just not too scary-looking, and please can he be kind and funny.’ I am just about to ask if he can like my family too when my phone stops ringing and my voicemail takes the call. Bollocks. Julia comes into the kitchen.
‘What did they say, Chantelle, are they going to use you? Sare, answer me, are they using you?’ she screams.
‘Um, she’s leaving a message.’
‘Oh my God, it’s so exciting!’ she screams again.
‘Jule, you really should get back into the café, someone might come in and nick all the money.’
‘Fuck it, there’s only about £1.70 in the till anyway. Check your phone!’
‘But what if they have chosen me?’
‘It’ll be great for you, Sare.’ She comes over and hugs me. ‘It’s OK to want a man, you know, and the show will be an adventure, something you can tell your kids.’
‘But it’ll start on Monday!’ I protest.
‘Good! Sare, what have you got to lose?’ she asks me seriously.
I think about what I have to lose. At the moment my life consists of haranguing my agent to see if he can get me an audition for Casualty, talking nonsense to Simon and writing letters to the casting people of 24. I look at Julia and nod slowly.
‘Sare, check your bloody message,’ she insists.
I put the phone to my ear. My favourite customer pokes his head into the kitchen:
‘Um, sorry about this, ladies, but there’s a large group . . .’ He catches sight of the carrot cock and trails off for a moment. ‘That’s quite a work of art isn’t it? A, um, large group of cyclists out here all want serving.’
‘Seriously, a large group of sweaty cyclists?’ enquires Julia eagerly before pulling her hair free from her ponytail, licking her lips and going out to serve them. They leave me alone save for the three Polish chefs, who are creating some potato balls to join the carrot cock. I listen to the message. ‘Sarah, it’s Fran. We’ve made our decision. I’m afraid we’re not going to use you. I’m really, really sorry. I actually think that you would have been perfect for this, but one of the other girls has a sister who’s getting married soon, and it will give us some great footage, so, oh, I’m really sorry. Look, I think you should get out there and try to meet some men anyway. I really think you could meet someone special. Don’t give up on love, please don’t. Life’s too short.’
four
‘Jesus, look at the state of you!’ blurts Simon. ‘It’ll be all right, Sare, you don’t need a TV show to find you a man.’
‘I’m not crying about that, you knob! Look,’ I blub, pointing at the telly, ‘Simon Cowell just told her she’s fat and she can’t sing – and her mum’s ill!’ I am lying in bed in my pyjamas watching The X Factor. I must look awful. I’ve been crying since The X Factor started. It’s nearly finished.
‘What’s happened to your teeth?’ he asks, bending down to look at me closely.
‘They’re probably black from the red wine,’ I weep. Once I start crying I find it very difficult to stop.
‘We’re off out,’ he whispers.
Ruth, Simon’s girlfriend, pops her head into my room. Ruth is my age, blonde, tall and toned. She would be utterly gorgeous were it not for a very large nose. She works in the City for a company called Goldman Sachs. (Simon and I prefer to call it Scrotum Sacs.) I like her but there are two things that annoy me about her. One is that she has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard outside the movies. She sounds like Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins. It is not a voice that someone who works in finance should have. It is the sort of voice that Sarah Sargeant, aspiring actress, should possess. The other thing that annoys me about her is that she’s super-sorted. She owns a flat and has a share portfolio. I have to console myself with the thought that she’ll be buggered when the markets crash. I suspect that everything inside her head is neatly arranged in clearly marked Tupperware containers. Mine on the other hand is arranged in a big pile of mush. I’m quite sure she has never watched The X Factor in her life.
‘Hi, Sarah,’ she sings, and then her mouth drops open at the sight of me.
‘It’s The X Factor, it makes me emotional,’ I explain to her.
‘Right,’ she says uncertainly.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, you’re not upset about the . . . you know?’
‘Si, I’m fine,’ I say to him, trying to hold back my sobs and smile at the same time. The effort creates a high-pitched whining sound the likes of which I haven’t heard since I once attempted to play the violin. Simon stands before me, not quite knowing how to react.
‘Oh, come here,’ he murmurs, wrapping me in his arms. I feel delicious and warm like a cocktail sausage in bacon.
‘Simon, the cab’s here,’ coughs Ruth. Simon gives me a smile and walks out of my room humming ‘50 Ways to Leave Your Lover’.
I clamber out of my bed and stand in front of my full-length mirror. Apart from the black teeth I am unbelievably average-looking. I have brown hair, the most common hair colouring in the UK. I have blue eyes, the most common eye colour in the UK. I am five foot four, the average height for British females. I am a pear-shaped size 12, the most common dress size. My name is Sarah, the most popular girl’s name for the year I was born. My uncle’s wife is called Sarah. There are even two Sarah Sargeants in my family. I am mass-produced.
In one week I have asked a man out and been rejected, auditioned for a Shakespeare play and been rejected, and been considered for a reality TV show and been rejected. I feel numb. Before I asked out Baldy from the pub I had allowed myself to fantasize that he would say yes and we would go out, have a nice time and then get married and have beautiful babies. But he didn’t say yes, he
said no. When I was waiting to hear about the audition I imagined getting the job, going to Stratford, being part of a wonderful production, getting discovered and being catapulted into super-stardom. But I didn’t get the job. Then when I was waiting to hear about the reality TV show I had this beautiful thought that I would meet someone nice and funny and kind. But I wasn’t chosen. Now the life of a celibate waitress looms. I feel as though someone has pinched all my daydreams.
I walk out of the bathroom and read the new quote that Simon has put on the noticeboard, A LIFE LIVED IN FEAR IS A LIFE HALF LIVED. I read it again. There are no spelling mistakes at all. He must have taken care over this one. The thought of Simon carefully writing this for me makes me cry again. I pour myself another glass of wine and crawl back into bed. I hear the front door open and a soft knock on my door. Simon slowly pokes his head into the room, sees me curled in a ball in bed and says softly, ‘Come here, you silly cow.’
I look up and snottily say, ‘Why aren’t you at the party?’
‘Oh, come on, I can’t go off to a party and leave you here all upset. Anyway, it was one of Ruth’s work friends, not really my cup of tea.’
He gets into bed next to me, placing a bag of Nandos and a four-pack of Beck’s at his side. He props some pillows up behind his back and uses my teddy as a headrest. Then he puts his arm around me so that I can nestle into his armpit. I can’t speak so I snivel and hiccup. We sit like this while he eats a leg and a piece of breast. Then he starts singing as he opens a bottle of beer.
‘Be be ne ne boy Roy, be be bebbe be. De de dad ah.’
I start to laugh because Simon can’t sing at all. If tune was London he’d be in Birmingham.
‘What the wank was that?’
‘That song you were just singing, “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover”.’
I sit up in bed and look at him.
‘Fifty ways to leave a lover! What about fifty ways to find a bloody lover?’
‘Yeah, there must be fifty ways to find a lover; you should try them, Sare.’
‘Si, I could try five hundred and fifty ways to find a wanking lover and no one would want me.’
‘Sare, listen to me for a second: you’re fit, not in a cardiovascular way of course but in the other way. You’re fit and people fancy you.’
‘Who?’
‘My mates do.’
‘What, Stinky Bob? And Paranoid Jay?’
‘Sare! Lay off Jay, he had a bit too much skunk at university, that’s all, he’s much better now. But they’re men and they fancy you because you’re funny and attractive, and if you made an effort to go out and actually meet some men you would find someone who you liked too.’ Then he gets up and walks into the centre of the room. He closes his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and slowly saying, ‘If you really want something then the whole universe will conspire to make it happen.’
I roll my eyes, as I normally do when Simon is sharing his self-help wisdom.
‘Don’t you roll your eyes at that. That’s a good one. I could bash one out over that.’
‘Eurgh!’ I groan.
‘I’m serious. You want to find someone. All you need to do is admit it and look for it. It’s easy.’
‘What would I do?’
‘Well, I dunno, speed dating and stuff like that, there’s loads of ways to meet people.’
‘Hmm,’ I say thoughtfully.
‘What time is it?’ asks Simon, suddenly getting restless.
‘Ten-past ten. Why?’
‘Will your mum still be up?’
‘Probably.’
‘Good, I’m going to give her a quick call. I want to tell her about a stretch she should do for her shoulder.’ Simon gets out of my bed and I snuggle up in the duvet. I start whimpering. I intend to wallow.
Simon interrupts me two minutes later. He gets into my bed and pushes me out of it.
‘Your dad wants to talk to you.’
I shuffle to the phone. Dad sounds deliriously happy.
‘It’s brilliant news! Isn’t it brilliant news, Val? I’ve got Sarah on the phone now.’
‘What’s brilliant news?’
‘Your decision!’
‘What bloody decision!’
‘Your decision to explore fifty ways to find a lover.’
‘I never said I’d— SIMON, I’ll bloody kill you!’ I holler to the bedroom. I am just wondering whether I should threaten to shove the chicken leg up his bum or down his throat when my father says some very important words.
‘We’re really proud of you for doing this, Sarah.’
This is not something my father would say lightly. The first time my father told me that he was proud of me was when I graduated from drama school. I remember it vividly. The second and only other time he has said it was after he saw me in my first West End play.
‘Really?’
‘Of course, Sarah, we’ve been really worried about you.’
‘Sorry,’ I say in earnest.
‘Don’t be sorry, just get out there, go on dates and enjoy meeting men. Simon says you’re going to go speed dating.’
‘Did he now?’ I sing.
‘Oh – you know what you should get?’
‘What?’
‘A, um, bugger, what are they called?’
‘No idea.’
‘Yes you do . . . my friend in my DIY class has got one . . . they’re in the papers a lot.’
‘A vibrator?’
‘Sarah!’ He stresses both syllables heavily. ‘No. A blog!’
‘What the bloody hell’s a blog?’
‘It’s an online diary.’
‘Dad, you can’t even text-message and you’ve never used the Internet. How on earth do you know about blogs?’
‘I think it’s a great idea, you can do all your fifty ways and people can read about it.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure I want strangers reading about my desperate search for a shag . . . I mean love.’
I hang up. I quietly practise saying, ‘I’ve got a blog. Yes. A blog! Haven’t you heard of them?’ (Condescending chuckle – I love doing condescending chuckles.) ‘I went speed dating. You can read about it in my blog.’ I feel quite glamorous and à la mode. I return to my bedroom.
‘I’m starting a blog,’ I tell Simon proudly.
‘What the bloody hell’s a blog?’
‘Mwah hah ha!’
‘What the fuck’s that?’
‘It’s a condescending chuckle.’
‘You sound like the Count from Sesame Street.’
‘You have a go at a condescending chuckle then, they’re not that easy.’
Simon actually does a very good attempt at a condescending chuckle but obviously I can’t tell him that.
‘You sound as though you’ve just trapped your thumb in a car door. Now piss off and let me start my blog.’
‘What are you going to call it?’
‘Fifty Ways to Find a Lover, I guess.’
‘Um, I think there’s already a book with that title.’
‘How the fuck do you know?’
‘Look, I go to the Mind, Body, Spirit sections of bookshops, OK.’
‘What about A Spinster’s Search?’
‘Sare, it sounds as though you’re trying to find your clitoris.’
‘Urgh, OK, A Spinster’s Pursuit.’
‘Try saying that when you’re pissed.’
‘I’ve got it!’ I yelp. ‘A Spinster’s Quest.’
Simon leaves me alone. I turn off the telly and I open the beautiful Apple laptop that I bought last year after Halifax bizarrely extended my credit-card limit. My dad’s friend from DIY has emailed me. My father must have put the phone down on me and instantly called him. He’s sent me intricate instructions about how to set up a blog. It is ridiculously easy. Within ten minutes I have given birth to A Spinster’s Quest. Now I just need to think of something to write on it. I sit for ages, staring at the screen and chewing my lip. I drink my wine and listen to the muff
led sounds of a Saturday night in Camden. It’s not until the wineglass is empty that the words begin to gush from me. It’s hard to keep up with my two-finger typing shuffle, but out everything pours about my lack of sex and fear of rejection. I read it back. I feel pissed and purged and peculiarly positive. Then I make a pledge: I, spinster, will explore fifty ways to find a lover. I will start with speed dating. I will set myself some rules. Under no circumstances will I
1)
kiss on the first date
2)
get naked on the second
3)
waste anyone’s time by leading them on if I don’t think there’s a spark
4)
continue in any way with unemployed, aspiring musicians, however good I think their music is
I will also enlist some help in what to wear and say. I will stop dressing like a male road protester and brush my hair. I will stop asking men stupid questions such as ‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’ and ‘If you were a biscuit what sort would you be?’, which only I ever find entertaining.
It’s so tempting though. There’s got to be another bourbon out there somewhere.
five
I am sitting on the bus, petrified. I want to go back to bed and watch Casualty. I don’t want to go speed dating. The idea is repulsive. I bet they don’t have speed dating in Italy. Two things that shouldn’t be rushed are food and love. Even Diana Ross’s mum knows that you can’t hurry love. I’m shaking and sweating. I feel like I’ve stuffed a lot of cocaine up my bottom and I’m going through customs in Mexico and there’s a sniffer dog barking at me and a Hispanic man running towards me putting plastic gloves on.
Two facts are stopping me from going back home. One is that I’m meeting Julia there. The other is that I have announced in my blog that Quest No. 1 is Speed Dating. I even hatched a plan, which I described in my blog. The plan involves
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 3