50 Ways to Find a Lover

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘I’d really, really like to though,’ he continues. But it’s too late. The damage is done. I stand up.

  ‘I think I’m going to go too. Please excuse me, Tristan.’

  I hurry out of the club, hoping that no one can see my tears.

  sixty-two

  I said I wanted to kiss him.

  He said, ‘My wisdom teeth are too painful.’

  I left.

  Now I am home and I have opened the port.

  And I am going to go and have some toast.

  It’s even an effort to blog at the moment. I used to write reams. Now all I do is leave a few sad sentences. A soft knock on my door.

  ‘Yep,’ I shout.

  It’s Simon. He looks very concerned.

  ‘Oh, babe,’ he says, hugging me, ‘I just read it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your blog.’

  ‘Oh it was awful, Si, and I just started crying after he said it and I left the club like a twat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I asked Tristan to kiss me.’

  ‘You asked Tristan to kiss you? What, that scruffy bloke I met at your press night?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought you said you’d read my blog.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t read that. I read the letter from Paul’s girlfriend.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Haven’t you read it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You probably should read it, Sare.’

  I turn my computer back on. I have two new comments from a previous post. I must have missed them. I start to read.

  I am so sorry, Sarah. What I am going to tell you will probably upset you.

  ‘Bring it on,’ I say to the screen, ‘I’m hardly chirpy at the moment.’

  ‘Here you go, Sare,’ says Simon, popping his head round the door and handing me a plate with two slices of peanut butter on toast.

  My name is Jasmine. You met me in the toilets at your 30th birthday party. I was the woman who started crying over her ex-boyfriend.

  What I didn’t tell you then was that the man I was crying over was your Perfect P. I split up with him seven months ago, after he proposed to me. I got scared and doubted my love for him. I moved out of the house we shared in Mortlake. I thought I was too young to get married – I’m only 23. I thought I should be young, free and single for a while. Except I missed him desperately. I realized I had let go of a great man and I was depressed.

  A friend sent me a link to your blog after she read about it in the paper. I loved it. Your adventures really cheered me up. But when you wrote about the amazing lamb lunch you had in Mortlake with Perfect P I knew that you were being wooed by the man I love. I went a bit mad then and became quite obsessed by your blog. I knew he was with you that day at the marathon and I called him repeatedly. He didn’t answer. So I left messages saying that I read your blog and I knew where he was and I was really upset. I suppose I didn’t want him to enjoy a day with you and not think about me. I’m really ashamed about all this, Sarah. Anyway, later that night he did answer one of my calls and that must have been the conversation that your flatmate overheard. What he actually said was, ‘Don’t do this, babe. You know I really loved you.’ He didn’t say ‘I really love you.’ I wish he had.

  So then I had to read all the poems he wrote to you. He used to write me silly poems when we got together. Then you called him after that wedding and I did something really immature. I rerouted your site to a Viagra website. I found out your passwords, ‘sarah’ and ‘spinster’. They weren’t hard. I just couldn’t bear reading about the glorious time you were having with the man I loved. It was stupid really because then I couldn’t find out what was going on. So one afternoon I rerouted it back. Then you invited everyone to your birthday and I had to come, I had to meet you. I texted Paul and told him I was there that evening. I knew he wouldn’t come after that.

  But what was really awful is that I really liked you. Your family and friends were so nice and you and your sister were so kind to me. And you said I should go to him. You said I was so beautiful that you felt sure he’d give me another chance. You said that we only ever regret the things we don’t do.

  I felt so bad. But I did go round to the house on the day that you were making him the aphrodisiac feast. I was sitting on the doorstep when he walked out of our house that night.

  We talked and talked. I told him that I was wrong and stupid and had been behaving like a complete cow. I also told him that I would love to marry him. And he said he would give me another chance. Then I told him to delete your number. I asked him to show me the speed-dating comments sheet with all your details on it. I put it through the shredder. I made him promise not to email you. I said I would find out through your blog if he did.

  I know all this sounds psychotic but I didn’t see how we could move on if you two were in contact. I know he feels awful about this and if I am honest with myself I don’t know if I have won him back completely. I guess I just have to work really hard to show him how much I love him.

  So that’s it.

  Sarah, I am so ashamed and so, so sorry.

  Jasmine

  The other comment is from my No. 1 Fan.

  Keep those chins up. It will be all right. I promise.

  I knock on Simon’s door. ‘Hey,’ I say quietly when he opens it. ‘Shitty, eh?’ he says kindly. ‘Hmmm,’ I nod.

  ‘Hey,’ he says to the water he can see welling up in my eyes.

  ‘Does she sound psychotic to you?’

  ‘Yep, complete fruit loop.’

  I walk towards him for a hug but he cups my teary face firmly in his hands instead. And he looks at me. Then he plants a tiny, tender kiss on my lips. We stare into each other’s faces without breathing. We have never kissed on the lips before. Yet it feels like the most familiar thing in the world.

  ‘Peanut butter and port. Interesting,’ Simon says finally.

  I smile.

  ‘Sare, there’s something I really need to say, but now is the wrong time. Tomorrow. How about we stay in and watch that box set of The Sopranos all day?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  He turns round to get back into bed. I stand watching him. I don’t want to leave. I can feel his kiss on my lips.

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Can I stay in your bed with you tonight?’

  ‘Course.’

  I put my pyjamas on and we silently get into a spooning position. I lie and listen to his breathing. I can still feel his kiss on my lips. It’s the kiss that won’t go away. And I realize that I don’t want it to go away. I’d like another fresh one and then another. In fact I’d say I was aching to feel his lips on mine again. Suddenly everything feels completely different but oddly the same.

  sixty-three

  ‘Sare, Sare.’ I can hear Simon.

  ‘Sare, Sare.’ His voice is like an echo.

  He touches me. His hands wiggle under my armpits like fingers into boxing gloves. They meet the sides of my breasts. He sits me up. I slump forward like a corpse.

  ‘Sare, darling, you’ve got to wake up.’

  ‘What time is it?’ I’m speaking like a stroke victim.

  ‘Sweetheart. It’s nearly five.’

  ‘I’ve slept all day. I must have needed it.’

  ‘No, darling, five in the morning. I’ve got to take you to Eastbourne.’

  ‘Sopranos.’ My mouth is drought dry.

  ‘Sare, your dad just called. Your mum’s had to go to hospital,’ he says slowly. I watch his face. I wait for more.

  ‘They think it might be a heart attack.’

  I nod. I feel as though I have a second face underneath my existing one. The second face is trying to break through, trying to rip my normal Sarah Sargeant face apart. I can’t control it. My mouth contorts. My nose spreads. My eyes disappear and become water.

  ‘I’m going to take you, Sare. But we’ve got to go on the scooter. There’s no other way at this time. You need to
get up and put some warm clothes on.’

  I look down and nod like a dozing drunk.

  The scooter’s maximum speed is 28 mph. Eastbourne is seventy-five miles away. It’s dark and drizzly. Since we left London we’ve hardly passed anyone else on the road. I cling on to Simon’s waist. Generally when I’m on the scooter with Simon I shout, ‘Slow down’ repeatedly, like a woman on a date with a randy man. This morning Simon is driving steadily. It is only my mind that is racing. Everything is Mum. When we travel along a windy stretch of road, I think of Mum in her car on a windy stretch of road, travelling at barely past stationary, Radio 2 playing. And I am there with her in the passenger seat. And then I am in the passenger seat of her old car when she used to take me to school every morning and I’m talking about Nature tests. And then Dad is driving and she is in the passenger seat map-reading. The conversation is running along the lines of

  ‘Just read the map, Val!’

  ‘Well, I think we go right here, Mike.’

  Sharp swerve as Dad casts his eyes on the page.

  ‘Val, we’re not even on that page.’

  ‘Shall we just stop somewhere for lunch?’

  And I am in the back, not getting involved, but always backing lunch. And then I think of the lunches, the dinners, the breakfasts, the cups of tea and the gin and tonics. And the tears are falling and I don’t think they’ll stop. And I don’t know if I could deal with it if . . . you know. I hate that if I had children they’d never know her or if I got married she wouldn’t be there. I can’t stop thinking about the things I never said to her or found out about her. Why didn’t we ever get round to that trip to her childhood home? Why did I never see her old school? I always tell her I love her but I never told her that if I could only be half as wonderful as her I would be happy. I never told her that I am blessed to be her daughter or that when Simon hears us talking on the phone he says you can actually feel the love between us.

  Simon pulls in to a petrol station. We get off the bike. He takes off his helmet. He looks tired but beautiful. I have never thought of Simon as beautiful. He’s a man, after all. Perhaps it’s the dawn. It’s beginning to get light and there’s a stillness. I want to kiss him like he kissed me last night. And I want to thank him. To tell him he’s an angel. But I can’t speak. All the words stay in my head and all that comes out are tears.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asks.

  I take my helmet off. I suppose I look as I feel. Simon opens his arms.

  ‘Come here.’

  And he squeezes me. It’s not a hug. A hug has a shorter life expectancy. A hug can be nervous, one party being a bit lacklustre, wanting to break before the other one. This squeeze feels like it could go on for ever. I don’t know how long we stand. But when we release I feel as though I’ve been on Charge. There’s some strength in me.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’

  ‘Three miles.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Sare, you’re beautiful,’ he says. ‘I think you’re especially beautiful when you’ve just woken up.’ He pauses. I look at him so he’ll finish what he wants to say. ‘However, I think you might want to go and put some water on your face and brush your hair before we get to the hospital. They might have you straight into Casualty looking like that.’

  sixty-four

  ‘I just came out to call you.’ My sister stands like a statue at the main entrance to Eastbourne General Hospital. She looks awful. George and Rosie are in the foyer behind her, their noses pressed against a vending machine.

  I get off the bike and take my helmet off.

  ‘You look awful,’ she tells me, quietly. Her voice is thin. She spoke like this when her marriage was breaking up.

  ‘Not so hot yourself.’

  ‘Hi, Gail,’ says Simon.

  ‘Thanks for getting her here safely, Si.’ She’s trying to smile.

  ‘Shouldn’t really let your children eat from vending machines, Gail,’ he jokes.

  ‘I know. I’ll get some vegetables in them later.’

  I almost make a weak gag about Jamie Oliver. I don’t. I have to break the Pinter moment.

  ‘Was it a heart attack?’

  ‘No,’ says Gail. ‘It’s something called a . . .’ She dries. She looks upwards. She’s looking for a script, or a method for not crying.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. I want to hug her. I don’t. Gail and I are criers. We go off like landmines at anything: EastEnders, a life-insurance commercial, a gravestone, an old couple kissing on a bench. The only thing I know about this situation today is that Gail and I have to keep it together for Dad, for the kids, for ourselves.

  ‘It’s worse, Sarah. They thought it was a heart attack, but they gave her a scan thing and it’s a dissected aorta. I’m not exactly sure if that’s the right name. But a surgeon from Brighton arrived. She’s got to have an operation.’

  ‘Oh.’ My mouth fills with scalding saliva.

  ‘It will take hours. And it may not . . .’

  I nod and look down. I don’t want her to finish the sentence. I stare at the fag butts on the concrete instead. I kick them into a pile between my trainers.

  ‘Did you see her before she went in?’ I whisper. I count the butts. There are twelve of them.

  ‘Yes.’

  I nod again. I don’t look up until I hear my name being called by children’s voices.

  ‘Sarah! Simon!’ George and Rosie shout. They both have packets of Walkers crisps. Salt and vinegar, 50 per cent extra.

  Rosie runs to me. She puts her arms tightly around my waist.

  ‘Sarah! Granny’s having an operation.’

  ‘Yes. To make her better. We’ll have to make her some get-well-soon cards later,’ I say, kissing the top of her blonde head.

  ‘Did you come on the scooter?’ asks George, looking at Simon on his bike.

  ‘We did, mate.’ He smiles. ‘Do you want to put the helmet on and sit up here with me, see what it’s like?’

  George gasps. So does Rosie.

  ‘Come on then, and you too, Rosie.’ Simon puts helmets on them and seats them on the bike. He holds it steady and makes loud motor-racing noises while they giggle and whoop. Gail and I watch. I can’t take my eyes off Simon and the kindness in his face. I feel last night’s kiss on my lips again. My sister turns slightly to me and takes my hand. She swallows and presses her lips together so hard they go white. She breathes deeply through her nose and then releases the breath through her mouth.

  ‘She said to tell you she loves you.’

  My mum being opened up. I wonder if she’s told the doctors that she watches Casualty every week but she always closes her eyes during the surgery scenes. I think of the pain she’ll feel and the pain she went through to give birth to me. And I don’t know what to do because if ever I have a dilemma I ask Mum what to do.

  I take my sister’s arm and lead her back into the hospital.

  ‘It’s not the best advert for marathon-running is it?’ I say to her.

  She smiles and I feel her grip on my arm tighten.

  Dad looks pale and drawn. He’s sitting in a room with a glass door. He’s looking into space. He gets up when he sees me.

  ‘Sarah, she’s gone in for an operation. They’re looking after her well. She has a very good surgeon.’ He speaks like a hostage whose captors are forcing him to say things he doesn’t mean.

  ‘How long will she be in theatre?’

  ‘At least five hours.’

  I look about the hospital waiting room. It holds five plastic chairs, a small table with yesterday’s Sun on it and a noticeboard with advertisements for the Samaritans and the Organ Donor Register and details of how to get to the hospital chapel. It looks like the room in Casualty where a doctor says, ‘We did all we could.’ Five hours in here and we’ll all be wishing for death. I ask myself what Mum would tell me to do now.

  ‘Now I know we want to be near Mum but realistically we can’t do anything. Why don’t we go home for a couple of hours
? The kids can sleep. We can have some breakfast and shower and then get all Mum’s favourite bits, her dressing gown and slippers and smellies, some books and a Walkman with some of her music. Try to make it a bit less awful for her when she comes round. We’re two seconds down the road if they need us.’

  ‘Yeah, and George and Rosie can make her those get-well cards,’ says Gail.

  ‘Make it nice for her when she comes round,’ my dad mumbles. Gail and I take one of Dad’s arms each and we leave the lifeless room.

  sixty-five

  My dad’s in the kitchen. He’s listening to Barry White. He doesn’t even like Barry White. It’s Mum who loves Barry White. It’s the last CD she played in the machine.

  I watch Dad from the doorway for a moment. He’s sitting at the table. His head is in his hands. Gail made him a cup of tea an hour ago. It’s next to him. Cold. And my sister makes a good cup of tea too. He’s lit candles in the room. My dad never lights candles. He hates subtle lighting. He likes good, bright lighting, none of this can’t-see-what-I’m-eating stuff. But Mum likes candles.

  ‘Hey,’ I say quietly.

  He tries to gather himself to say something. If only there was a gym you could go to for emotional strength.

  ‘Come here,’ I say, opening my arms. ‘You know what she’d tell us to do?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘She’d tell us to cry.’

  My dad’s face buries itself in my shoulder. I hold his shaking shoulders.

  ‘She’d tell us this was pathetic and she wanted some proper wailing.’ I am speaking into his head.

  He sobs. He twitches up and down. It’s like I am holding a giant beating heart.

  ‘She liked us to hiccup as well. Yep. She’s a big fan of hiccuping!’

  ‘Oh, Sarah,’ he says.