‘Oh ho!’ I scoff. ‘I get over sixty hits a day.’
He chuckles. I hadn’t meant to be funny.
‘I wish you well, Sarah. I hope you meet someone on your quest and I hope you get the acting work you deserve.’
‘Actually I have met someone,’ I say.
‘Good. I think I have too,’ he says. ‘She’s a very nice young lady. I’m quite smitten.’
‘Oh,’ I say. He wasn’t supposed to get over me so quickly. The swine. Then I remember to smile. ‘That’s great, Eamonn.’
‘Yes, Sarah, it is. I’m expecting her any minute now so you should probably go and celebrate your new acting job.’
‘Eamonn, thank you for suggesting me to Dominic.’
‘It was absolutely my pleasure.’ He smiles warmly.
I start to feel self-conscious as I walk home. I’m still in my slutty audition clothes: short skirt with boots and an off-the-shoulder top. A really slim woman is rushing up the road towards me, looking great in a pale pink jumper and skinny jeans.
‘When will I be able to wear skinny jeans, God?’ I whisper.
‘First sign of madness, talking to yourself,’ says the woman in the pink jumper. It’s Rachel Bird. It has become evident that if I am ever embarrassed about my attire I shall bump into Rachel bloody Bird or the man from Flat 3.
‘Hiya, Rachel.’ She looks great. She’s lost that dirty party edge she had. ‘Have you dyed your hair?’
‘Yeah, back to my natural colour, I think I’m over the dyed blonde thing.’
‘It looks nice.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s happened to your blog? You haven’t written for ages.’
‘Well, I’m seeing someone and he’s not a huge fan of blogs.’
My mouth drops.
‘You’re not seeing Eamonn Nigels!’ I say, praying it is just a sick thought on my part.
‘Yes,’ she says with a weird ecstatic giggle. ‘I think I’m falling in love.’
I look at her. She has all the symptoms of a woman in love. She’s wearing pink and she’s hysterical. Now I think about it, he had the symptoms of a man in love. He smelt good and he was being nice. Oh God, why?
‘But Rachel, he won’t go out with a blogger or an actress. I told you that at the Whack night.’
‘I know. He doesn’t know about the blog, Sarah, so please don’t mention it. I don’t want to do it any more. I’m toying with deleting it. It makes me look so slutty. And I’m going to give up acting. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I’m going to become a yoga teacher.’
I don’t know what to say.
‘I’m so confused,’ I tell her, shaking my head.
‘I’m so in love,’ she giggles back.
fifty-two
There is a covert operation going on in the flat. Simon’s planning me a surprise thirtieth-birthday party. Where Simon’s covert operation fails is that he does all his planning on the phone to Julia early in the morning. He forgets that he has a voice like an old tractor and that when I am lying in bed with eyes closed I am asleep, not dead. So far I know where it is and who’s coming, but they seem to be stuck about what to tell me.
‘We’ve got to tell her she’s going out somewhere so she puts some clothes on or she’ll just be wearing those crusty pink pyjamas with red-wine lips.’ It’s a good job I am not a sensitive type.
I can even hear Julia on the end of the phone. Laughing.
‘Listen, we’ve got to get in touch with Paul the Plonker, Jules. He can pretend he’s taking her to dinner, but in actual fact take her to the venue. Genius. Then she’ll dress up. Have you got his number?’
‘Fuck, no!’ screams Julia.
‘I’ll go in her room and get her phone now,’ says Simon, opening my bedroom door and tripping over a pair of my shoes. I hear him mutter, ‘Dirty goat’ as he stumbles around in my dark room, hoping to locate my phone. He’s never going to find it. My phone is currently situated inside my coat pocket, which is in the living room draped over the sofa.
‘It’s not in here, Jules,’ whispers Simon. ‘I’ll have to hang up and call it.’ Simon leaves the room and closes the door. Two seconds later I hear my phone ring.
I spring out of bed and run into the lounge. This could be fun.
‘Morning! Who’s calling me at this time, I wonder?’ I say innocently to Simon.
‘Oh, um, me!’ he says as I take my phone from my coat.
‘Why?’ I say with wide-eyed innocence.
‘Wake-up call!’ he chants. ‘I thought we could go for a run.’
‘Oh, that would have been lovely, Si, but I think I’ve hurt my foot; oh yes, it’s very bad!’ I say, pretending to limp.
‘I’m only trying to help, Sare. You have to take a lot of clothes off in that play, remember.’
‘Hmmm,’ I say, frowning. The play involves me getting down to my underwear. The sight of me in my underwear is pleasant only for blubber specialists. ‘Maybe later . . . I was thinking about my birthday, Si.’
‘Oh yeah, when is it again, Sare?’ he says casually. He’s a better actor than me. Bastard.
‘Oh, it’s Saturday, but I think I might just go down to stay with my mum and dad for the weekend.’
Simon pulls a face as though he’s stepped on a drawing pin. I go back to my room, clutching my phone. It’s not that I don’t want a party. On the contrary, my two best friends organizing one for me is so touching I’m sure I’ll cry. I just want to tease them a bit.
‘Sare, your mum’s on the phone!’ yells Simon, banging on my door.
‘I didn’t hear the phone ring,’ I say.
‘Oh, didn’t you?’ Simon’s innocence is incredibly believable. I start to distrust everything he’s ever said to me.
I pick up the phone.
‘Er, darling, you can’t come down this weekend, we’re, um, going away,’ she says. Now my mother can’t act at all. I start to fear I might have her to blame for my failing career.
‘Where?’ I say.
I can hear the cogs in my mother’s brain turning while she tries to think of a destination.
‘Oh, um,’ she hesitates. ‘France.’ A triumphant sigh.
‘Can I come?’
A silence. This is painful for my mother. She hasn’t worked out her back-story at all. I start to feel bad. While I am feeling bad I can hear Simon tripping around my room, obviously getting Paul’s number from my mobile phone.
‘Let me talk to your dad. I’ll call you back.’ She hangs up. I run to my room, hoping to catch Simon with my phone. But he’s already finished. I meet him coming out.
‘That was quick,’ he says.
‘What were you doing in there?’
‘Oh, I was going to make your bed. But then I changed my mind.’
We both glance at my unmade bed with the mobile phone sitting proudly on the mattress. It starts to vibrate.
‘I’ve got a text,’ I say, picking it up. ‘From Jules.’
I look at it and grin. I read it aloud to Si. ‘“REMINDER!! PARTY!! Saturday. Surprise for Sarah’s big thirty (the old trout)! Eight p.m. sharp. Fifty-one Greek Street. If any of you fools tell her I shall personally pee in your bath.”’
Bless her, she sent it to everyone in her address book. Including me. I look at Simon. He’s shaking his head.
‘I guess I’ll have to pee in her bath,’ he tells me.
‘I knew already, Si, I heard you on the phone this morning.’
‘Ah. I thought I was doing well.’
‘You were. Your acting was really good! You could have a new career. You could be the next James Bond.’ I hug him and kiss him on the forehead.
‘Thank you.’
fifty-three
No. 1 Fan
Congratulations on your theatre job!!! The Spinster is going to become famous!!
Loveless
I would like to correct you, No. 1 Fan, the Spinster is not actually a spinster any more as she currently has a boyfriend. Where does this leave
the blog I wonder . . .
Anonymous
Yes, tell us about P the Poet. Is he as perfect as you thought?
Crazy Canadian
Are you in lurve? Have you done the deed?
Spinster
Hello! He is very lovely but he’s been away working. So yes, I do have the handsomest, nicest boyfriend in the world but sadly we aren’t in the same part of the world. So it’s not quite as good as it could be. It’s like being at a really good party but being on antibiotics and not being able to drink, or being in a passionate clinch with the man of your dreams but having your period.
Wife to Be
Hello. Remember me? I was the first person to leave a comment on your great blog! I’ve been going out with the Ian Beale lookalike (his name is Dave) for a few months. We’ve just got back from Paris where he proposed and I said yes!!! We just wanted to let you know.
Spinster
I’m so overcome with the love around me I’m going to do something crazy! It’s my 30th birthday party on Saturday in London. Would you like to come? It’s happening at 51 Greek Street from 8 p.m. I hope Wife and Husband to Be can make it!! And it would be great to share my birthday with all my online friends, particularly because A Spinster’s Quest will probably stop soon, now that I have a boyfriend, P the Poet. He’ll be there too!
Carlos
Did someone say party? Do you need a DJ? I’ll do it for no charge as a thank you for entertaining me.
Spinster
Bugger me! Thank you, Carlos, that would be great.
fifty-four
‘Nice to see that turning thirty has matured you, darling,’ says my sister, holding back my hair.
‘Sodding sambuca.’
‘How many did you have?’ she asks.
‘Eight.’ I retch again. I must learn that drinking sambuca doesn’t make me happy. It makes me vomit.
‘Nice toilets, aren’t they?’ she murmurs, pulling the old-fashioned chain.
‘He missed my birthday,’ I say sadly.
Paul sent me a text two hours ago:
So sorry baby. Something’s come 1up at work and I don’t think I can get away. I will make it up to you I promise x
Something has come up at work! Something has come up at bloody work! It’s my thirtieth. I so wanted him to be here. Everyone was looking forward to meeting him. Simon bought me a double bed for my birthday. I was trying not to get too drunk so we could christen it later. Julia bought me the world’s quietest vibrator. It’s more likely I’ll be christening that. All I can think is that the thing that came up at work must be his penis in the vicinity of a pretty work-experience girl. My dad’s out there dancing with my blog readers, Ian Beale’s snogging his fiancé, who looks a lot like Charlie Dimmock from those gardening shows. Marcus and Clive are there with Eamonn Nigels and Rachel Bird. Nikki announced she’s pregnant. It is a terrific party but my boyfriend, my gorgeous, successful boyfriend, did not come and now I am crying and vomiting in a toilet with my sister. As if this isn’t bad enough, lots of strangers keep coming up to me asking where P the Poet is. I feel like such a fool.
‘Come on, darling, get up and let’s redo your make-up and get you back out there again.’
I stand limply as she washes my face. I love my sister.
‘Don’t let a man ruin your big night, darling. The DJ’s very good-looking.’
‘Julia loves him.’
‘I thought she loved Simon.’
‘She told me earlier that there was no chemistry when they kissed.’
‘Ah, that’s good.’
A girl enters the toilets. She is wearing a strapless pink dress and dainty kitten-heel shoes. She is miniature. She is even smaller than my sister, who is five foot and the smallest person I know. She is like a perfectly sculpted little china doll. She should live in a cabinet. I bet whenever she goes anywhere men fling coats down in puddles and try to impregnate her. And she looks about twenty-two. I fight the urge to cry again. I wish I was petite and twenty-two instead of thunderous and thirty.
‘Oh hi, Sarah.’ She smiles at me.
‘Hi,’ I slur, due to the combination of sambuca and the sustained attack of bronzer being thrust in my face.
‘I really enjoy your blog.’
I nod. Gail’s on to lip liner now.
‘Is Perfect P the Poet here?’
I shake my head. My sister licks a tissue to wipe the lip liner off my nose.
‘No, he got held up at work.’
‘Oh you poor thing! On your thirtieth birthday as well.’ She could have just said ‘birthday’. She didn’t have to rub in the ‘thirtieth’ bit. ‘That’s awful. You must feel terrible.’ I wonder whether Little Miss Small But Angelically Formed would like a trowel to lay it on any more.
‘Hmmmm,’ I respond.
‘I know exactly how you feel. I used to go out with a guy who worked all hours. I used to think it was another woman. You get so paranoid.’
‘Was it another woman?’
‘No.’
‘So why did you split up?’ I ask.
‘I thought I was too young to be in a relationship.’
My sister and I give her a lingering, loathing look. But her little face looks so sad. We both make that sympathetic ‘ah’ sound that women do when other women are upset about men or when they see a baby with a rash on its face. Then her bottom lip starts quivering. So we make the ‘ah’ sound again.
‘I miss him,’ she whispers.
‘Ah, you poor poppet,’ coos my sister.
‘Why don’t you call him?’ I ask.
‘He won’t answer my calls!’ she wails.
‘Bastard,’ I say as I watch her cry.
‘No, he’s not a bastard. He’s lovely.’
‘Well, why don’t you go to his house? Have you seen yourself ? You’re so beautiful. I’m sure if he actually saw you again he wouldn’t be able to say no.’
‘But what if he tells me to fuck off ?’ She sniffs.
Gail and l look at her blankly for a moment.
‘Well, you only ever regret the things that you don’t do. You might be miserable for a bit. But you’re miserable now.’
‘Yes, maybe you’re right. Thank you,’ she says. And she walks over and hugs me.
‘Ah, that was nice what you said to her,’ my sister tells me after she’s left.
‘Hmmmm. Maybe I could be a matchmaker like Cilla Black. I could call myself Super Cilla.’
‘Your dad’s exhausted me!’ It’s Julia, hair stuck to her head with sweat, panting. She leans forward clutching her knees in that post-heavy-exercise recovery position that I recognize from having seen other people do it. ‘I tried to keep up with that Mick Jagger thing he does. I feel sick.’
‘How’s it going with the DJ?’
‘Carlos,’ she sighs. ‘I need advice. He’s gorgeous, plays brilliant music and he’s got big hands. What do I do?’
‘Well, it just so happens that I have an alter ego. I am Super Cilla, matchmaker extraordinaire.’
‘Yer wha?’
‘Let’s go back in.’ Then I start barking like that scary bloke from Celebrity Fit Club, ‘You go out there and do your “Hit Me Baby One More Time”.’
fifty-five
I love rehearsing. I love arriving in the rehearsal room and drinking tea, eating biscuits and gossiping with other actors before we settle down to work out what the bloody hell the play’s about. I love practising my scenes and trying out different ways to play them. But most of all I love the moment when it all clicks into place. When you know your character so well you could be them in the pub or the corner shop. When I was a child I used to dress up and pretend I was another person. Now I still do that and someone pays me. It makes the interminable periods of out-of-work poverty and all the rejection worth it.
I especially love rehearsing this play. My character has lots of anecdotes that she tells the audience directly. When I’m not rehearsing scenes with Dominic and the company I go off with Trista
n the assistant director and practise them. I adore working with Tristan. He is a marvellous director. He is a natural at the ‘stroke then poke’ method of giving you notes. The stroke-then-poke method of direction means you are flattered before you are criticized. Some directors just poke. For example, a poke director would say something like, ‘No, no, no, that was the definition of bollocks, I had my hands over my ears for most of it, do it like this.’ A stroke-and-poke director would say, ‘That was wonderful. What makes you such a remarkable actress is your emotional honesty. I’d love to see you do it again – without the Welsh accent and the limp though, if you wouldn’t mind, darling.’
I am developing a little crush on Tristan. He is gloriously tall and dishevelled. He wears shoes that are falling apart and which belonged to his grandad. He is always looking around him on the floor for a tenner he’s lost. Whenever he needs something from his pockets there is a flutter of old receipts and tissues. He carries a dog-eared E. M. Forster because the way he writes of love is extraordinary. You feel his soul is a mesmerizing, beautiful ramshackle castle on the Cornish coast where poets live and children play. He’s only twenty-three and his wisdom teeth are coming through. He’s so young he’s teething.
‘Can I ask you something, Sarah?’
‘Course, Tristan.’
‘Have you ever been a dominatrix?’
‘Er, no. Why?’
‘It’s just you’ve really got a handle on the character. What you’re doing is extraordinary.’
‘Thanks.’
I hear my Bros ringtone and see my bag vibrating in the corner of the rehearsal room.
‘Tristan, I am so sorry. I thought I’d turned it off,’ I say, running to my bag to turn it off.
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