50 Ways to Find a Lover

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘Looking for the toilet, love?’ he says kindly.

  ‘Um . . . er . . . ha . . . um,’ I mumble. I can’t think of any questions.

  ‘Bit sleepy, are you?’

  I can hear some big men behind me laughing. It’s like the time I got my skirt tucked into my knickers at youth club when I was thirteen.

  ‘Seven a.m.! Best hour of the day, that’s my motto,’ I say brightly while thinking, Shut up now, Sarah. You’re not funny and people think you’re weird. I ignore my own brilliant advice. ‘Been up for hours! Do you like getting up?’

  I see him register the stupidity of the question. I see him search for a witty retort. Then the gorgeous Geordie appears and slaps him on the back.

  ‘Oi, you, get to make-up.’

  Bollocks and wank. He’s an actor. I thought he was someone with a proper job.

  ‘And I need to take you to your trailer.’

  ‘Yippee. Trailer. Sex and drugs!’ I holler. This makes Geordie man laugh. He’s got nice teeth despite the sugar, and a dirty cackle.

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll be doing much sex or drugs. You’re sharing with Maureen, she’s eighty-two.’ His bloody walkie-talkie whinges again. He points me to my trailer and rushes away.

  I open the trailer door and sitting in front of me is an elderly lady with grey hair and a cosy, cuddly physique. She’s knitting something in a ghastly purple colour. I smile warmly at her.

  ‘You must be Maureen.’

  ‘Yes, nice to meet you, Sarah.’ She smiles. ‘I won’t shake your hand as I’m coming to the end of a row, but help yourself to a Polo mint.’ She gestures her head towards a pack of Polos nestled in between her balls of wool on the seat beside her.

  I take a Polo and get into my costume. I practise my two and a half lines ten times, looking in the mirror. Maureen looks up from her knitting.

  ‘You’re very hard-working, aren’t you, Sarah?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Do you have a stutter, love?’ she asks, concerned.

  ‘Only when I’m playing small parts. More time on camera.’

  ‘Very clever.’ She nods approvingly.

  ‘What are you knitting?’

  ‘A nice jumper for my grandson.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ I exclaim. Poor boy, I think.

  There is a knock on my trailer door and someone shouts one of my favourite words, ‘Breakfast!’

  ‘I love breakfast!’ I howl. Maureen chuckles. ‘Shall I bring you some breakfast, Maureen?’

  ‘Oh no, thank you, love. I had my porridge earlier.’ She smiles. ‘But it was kind of you to ask.’

  I race like a whippet to the breakfast trailer. Breakfast trailers are greasy spoons that move. Cool. I join the queue in the drizzly rain. Other actors I know get jobs on beaches in South Africa or the Maldives. I get somewhere off the M1.

  I’m getting slightly panicky about what to have. I’m not very good at making food decisions. I’m terrified of missing out on something better. I could order the scrambled egg; it might be cold and hard, and someone in front of me might choose a classic sausage and ketchup sandwich, which might look amazing. The result is food disappointment. And lunch is hours away.

  I turn to the massive bald man who is standing in front of me.

  ‘What are you going to have?’

  ‘Kippers.’

  ‘Kippers!’ I respond as though I am five and he’s said, ‘Poo.’

  ‘He has ’em every day,’ says his friend.

  ‘My grandad used to eat them,’ volunteers the giant kipper man.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice, so did my Uncle Peter. But I might be burping fish in my scene,’ I say.

  ‘He’s not so considerate.’

  ‘What do you have?’ I say, remembering I need to ask lots of questions to be loved.

  ‘Bacon sandwich.’

  ‘Mmm. It’s a classic.’ I applaud him. Small Man Who Thought I Needed the Loo appears behind me in the queue, looking unbelievably sexy in a dark suit.

  ‘Have you woken up yet?’ he asks me.

  ‘You look gorgeous in your suit,’ I say excitedly. I realize instantly that it was an inappropriate thing to say to an actor.

  ‘Thank you kindly. It’s a nice one, isn’t it?’ He smiles at me. Blimey, this book is brilliant. He loves me now that I’ve flattered him.

  ‘What will you be having for breakfast?’ I ask.

  ‘Oooh, it has to be a bacon sandwich.’

  ‘Bacon sandwich, never lets you down. We were just saying.’

  What ensues is a full-blown passionate dialogue about food. I order the scrambled-egg-and-bacon roll. People are rightly impressed. The egg is not as runny as I’d like. I am euphoric nevertheless. I have made a vital discovery: the art of conversation is talking about food. I suspect we shall all spend Christmas together, we get on so well.

  I return to my trailer flushed, breathless and excited. I wish I had my laptop with me. I’d like to start blogging about my discovery straight away. I could even write a book, Bacon Sandwiches and the Art of Love. Maureen has obviously been dozing. She wakes with a start when I open the door.

  ‘Marcus?’ she jumps.

  ‘Who? No, it’s Sarah. Sorry to wake you, Maureen.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, love.’ She leans forward and starts to wave her arms around in the direction of the floor. I surmise she is probably trying to pick her knitting up from where it fell, but owing to her rather large bosom and girth she’s having some difficulty. I hand her the knitting.

  ‘Thank you, love. I should really start doing yoga.’

  ‘Yes,’ I laugh, ‘so should I!’

  ‘You’re looking rather flushed and excited, Sarah, is there a man involved?’ she says perceptively.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ I tell her coyly.

  ‘This sounds interesting; do tell me all.’

  ‘OK, stop me if I bore you though!’ I start. I then proceed to tell her my whole love-life story. All about the blog and meeting Paul and Paul turning out to be a shit and now getting back on with my quests. Then I proudly describe my trip to the breakfast trailer.

  All the time Maureen nods and chuckles and makes some truly pained sounds at the disappointing bits. By the end of my tirade I am hopelessly in love with Maureen and hoping she might adopt me as her grandchild and ask me to come and live with her.

  She smiles kindly, then she winks at me.

  ‘I may well just have had a very good idea, Sarah. I have a—’

  There is a violent knock on the rickety trailer door and Gus the Gorgeous Geordie shouts, ‘Sarah Sargeant, get to make-up!!’

  I look at Maureen, itching to know what her marvellous idea was.

  ‘I’ll tell you later, love, don’t let me forget!’

  ‘No danger of that, Maureen,’ I smile and then I give her a kiss on the cheek. This impulsive display of affection surprises both of us.

  I race to the make-up trailer; I love make-up trailers because they’re full of make-up and people who know how to apply it. This one is no exception. A lovely lady called Helen takes my flawed face and applies some quality cosmetics to it. I leave the make-up trailer, wondering if Maureen could ask Helen to live with us as well.

  I am driven to the set of Casualty. I see the entrance to the hospital, which Mum and I have watched on telly every week for years. Men are swarming all over it like ants, carrying cables and lights. I discover that men who carry heavy things are a lot more attractive than men who don’t carry heavy things. I am led inside the Casualty department studio and am introduced to a snotty boy who looks about seven.

  ‘This is Alfie, he’ll be playing your son,’ I am told.

  ‘Hiya, Alfie.’ I smile. ‘Shall I get you a tissue for your nose?’ I am trying to sound maternal.

  ‘Duh, it’s make-up!’ he tells me.

  ‘Cool!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Yeah, snot make-up!’ he giggles, emphasizing the word ‘snot’ to let me know that it’s not a wo
rd he’s allowed to use at home.

  ‘Can I touch it?’ I ask, fascinated. He nods. ‘Urgh!’ I squeal when my finger meets Alfie’s snot. He giggles. ‘I’m so jealous, Alfie, I want some snot make-up too!’ I say, and then Alfie puts his little hand in my slightly sticky one.

  We are led on to the set and start to practise our little scene. I start to really enjoy having a snotty son until Alfie says his lines so brilliantly that I go off the talented little bugger. We shoot the scene in what feels like four and a half minutes. And before I have had time to say, ‘Take me now, anyone with a toolbox,’ I’m being driven back to the trailer. On the one hand thinking, Short of high-class prostitution there can’t be a quicker way to make money, but on the other I have failed to find a well-paid man who works in telly above the age of seven. I open the trailer door and Maureen looks up from her knitting.

  ‘Oh dear, what’s wrong, Sarah? Didn’t it go well?’

  ‘Oh, the scene was fine, actually. But no opportunity to find the man who wants to take on this slightly overweight bit-part actress for life,’ I lament melodramatically.

  Maureen chuckles.

  ‘Thank you, Maureen, for finding my loveless status comedic.’

  ‘Now then, drama queen, I have the perfect man for you,’ she says, nodding towards her knitting. ‘Marcus, my grandson.’

  ‘Really?’ I say suspiciously.

  ‘Mmm. He’s a lovely young man.’

  ‘How young?’ I ask tentatively, clocking the ghastly purple jumper she’s knitting for him.

  ‘Thirty-three.’

  ‘Thirty-three!’ I sigh. ‘Thirty-three is the perfect age for my future life partner.’

  ‘Yes. You’ll love him. He’s a wonderful photographer,’ she tells me confidently.

  ‘Hmm. Maureen, please don’t take any offence at this but if he’s so wonderful why is he single?’

  ‘How long did you say you’ve been single, Sarah?’

  I gasp and smile. I’m impressed.

  ‘Touché!’ I say, because that’s what actors do.

  ‘Sarah, I’ve got a plan. He’s taking me to the theatre next week. I’m going to tell him that I’m feeling under par but that I know you’d love to see the play so I’d like him to take you instead.’

  ‘What play is it?’ I ask, loving this plan.

  ‘That thing at the Haymarket,’ she says.

  ‘Oh great,’ I say. Oh God! I’ve heard of it. It’s about three hours long and has had dreadful reviews.

  Another frenzied bash on the trailer door and the Geordie foghorn: ‘Sarah Sargeant, shift your arse. Your car’s outside. Phil the gaffer’s dropping you back. He lives near you.’

  I look at Maureen.

  ‘Write your telephone number down for me, love. I’ll sort it all out.’

  I do as I’m told.

  ‘Maureen, thank you,’ I say honestly and give her another kiss.

  She smiles kindly and winks.

  thirty-four

  Phil the gaffer is not a looker. He needs:

  1)

  steak pasties and a sunbed session. He looks like something that’s hung up on Hallowe’en to frighten people

  2)

  orthodontic treatment. There’s been a nicotine-stained-teeth pile-up in the front of his mouth. Probably caused by his teeth clambering to flee his tense mouth with its maniacal chewing. Phil the gaffer grinds nicotine-replacement gum relentlessly around his mouth as though his car is powered by it

  3)

  a thorough inside-and-out car valet. Phil’s car is so dirty that Supreme Valet Services placed a sticker on his back door advertising their services. The sticker smugly sits next to the inevitable finger writing – CLEAN ME and ALSO AVAILABLE IN WHITE. Although on Phil’s car someone’s doctored ALSO AVAILABLE IN WHITE to say ALSO AVAILABLE IN SHITE

  Phil is taking me home in his Mondeo full of empty Nicorette boxes because all the other drivers in their luxury people carriers with tellies and heated seats and talking doors are busy. However, Phil could be taking me home on a donkey and I’d still be on a high. I have a theatre date with a young photographer next week! If things carry on like this I’ll need a diary. Or a little black book. Or better still a little pink book with the words ‘man eater’ on the front in diamante.

  Poor unkempt Phil is getting the brunt of my excitement, which is taking the form of verbal dysentery. Not that I am telling him about my love life. I’m not doing much talking myself. I’m just interrogating him. The book is life-changing. I never knew other people could be so interesting.

  ‘So what happened when your dad got out of prison?’ I ask, leaning forward. When I got in the car I asked him how long he’d lived in Camden, then I asked him where he lived before that, and so it went on until now I have his life story.

  ‘He came back to Gran’s where I was living one night and burgled the place. We never saw him,’ he tells me. He speaks in barely audible growls, like a chainsaw on its last legs.

  ‘Shi-ii-it,’ I respond. I’ve responded to Phil the gaffer’s life story a lot with ‘shi-ii-it’.

  ‘And your mum? Did you see her again?’ I venture.

  ‘She lives with me now,’ he says, grinding.

  ‘And are you married?’ I ask. I let a yawn slip out. I feel sleepy after my early morning.

  ‘It’s just me and Mum.’ His eyes are fixed on the road. I wonder whether his mum nags him to clean his car. I yawn again. This yawn is like a plane taking off, all noisy build-up and popping ears.

  ‘If you’re tired, sleep,’ he says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile at him.

  I lean my head back and shut my eyes. Phil the gaffer turns on the radio quietly. Bloody Keane is playing. It’s one of the tracks off their old album. The same album that was playing at the speed-dating event where I met Paul. During the weeks when I thought that Paul was the most sensitive, funny, handsome man on the planet I stopped loathing Keane and their insipid dirge. In those weeks when I thought Paul and I were going to have a lifetime love the likes of which no one else could comprehend, I found myself loving the way each song sounds the same but just a tiny bit more boring. I used to hum Keane when I thought of Paul. I should have known then.

  ‘Bloody hate Keane,’ I mutter. My eyes are closed. I’m on the doorstep of sleep.

  ‘Oh ho ho!’ chuckles the unkempt gaffer with something approaching animation. ‘Keane should only be listened to when tearing away from your cheating boyfriend’s house in the early hours of the morning.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well said,’ I sigh sleepily. Then I realize that it is ‘well said’. Very ‘well said’. Because I bloody said it! I open my eyes wide. I look at Phil. He must read my blog. When I imagine my blog readers they don’t look like this unkempt gaffer. I imagine them to be normal-looking, maybe even pretty. He must be one of the people who were led to my blog via the search term ‘sweaty fanny’.

  ‘Phil, where did you hear that expression about Keane?’ I enquire, trying to sound cool. It is an uncomfortable question. I have never before asked someone to cite a bibliography or reference during a conversation.

  He glances at me in the rear-view mirror.

  I continue, ‘I write a blog on the Internet. I wrote the exact words you just said about Keane. That’s all.’

  Phil ignores me. He concentrates on the road as he slows down near my flat. He parks and switches off the engine.

  ‘Thanks ever so much for the lift, Phil. Bye.’

  ‘Sarah,’ he says seriously.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I love your blog.’ His face lights up like a drawn-on fag. ‘I’m your number one fan.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I close the door and race inside. I need to hit Simon hard for trying to persuade me to go on a date with Phil the Gaffer. My No. 1 Fan.

  thirty-five

  I hate plastic cups. They make me dribble. Hence I am often found dribbling in theatre bars. For some reason the effect of putting
a plastic cup to my lips creates a small, indestructible spider’s web of spittle. I don’t really want to be drooling when I meet my eligible bachelor but I do need this wine to calm my nerves. I take a big gulp. I feel a hand touch my shoulder.

  ‘Are you Sarah Sargeant?’

  I jump and spin round. As I jump the plastic cup flies out of my hand.

  ‘Oh toss!’ I moan at the airborne wine. I take in the man in front of me. I thought Paul was good-looking but Paul looks like Stig of the Dump on a bad hair day compared to the man in front of me. He looks like Jude Law without that slightly simple thing going on. Thank you, God! Thank you, Eamonn, for blowing me out. Thank you, Casualty. The handsome man in front of me is looking at a bit of spit hanging from my mouth. I quickly wipe my chin, rub my palm on my dress and finally proffer my hand towards the image of male perfection in front of me.

  ‘Are you Marcus?’ I say.

  ‘Sarah, so sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I just thought I’d throw some wine around while I waited.’ I smile nervously as he picks up the cup and all my belongings from the floor.

  ‘Right, shall we get a bottle of champagne? I’ve read the reviews of this clonking old play. They’re bloody awful. My suggestion is if it’s utterly agonizing we sod it and go for supper. I’ve booked a table just in case.’

  If I were to imagine the perfect thing a man could say on a date, it would be exactly what Marcus uttered. I may have only just met this man but I don’t think it’s premature to say that I would gladly empty his catheter bag in fifty years’ time.

  ‘Yippee!’ I squeal.

  He looks at me carefully. ‘Yippee?’ he questions.

  ‘Yes, a childish word used to express enthusiasm,’ I state.

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ he replies in a clipped accent.

  ‘Have we suddenly got stuck in an Oscar Wilde play?’ I ask.

  He chuckles and leads me to the bar and proceeds to buy all the nutty snacks they have on offer and a bottle of champagne.