‘How’s the blog going, Sarah?’
‘Oh, I’m not going to do it any more. I’m trying to get fit. I think it’ll be healthier.’
‘Right. Have you, er, looked at that bloke’s blog, A Bachelor’s Quest?’
‘No, I’m really not bothered, to be honest. Good on him. I hope he meets someone. I’m just going to deal in the real world for now, you know, as opposed to the virtual world I was obsessed with.’
‘Right,’ he says slowly. ‘Oh well, nice to speak to you, Sarah. We’ll have to go for a drink.’
‘Yeah, cool,’ I mutter. But he’s already hung up.
I remember that yoga is good for clearing the mind. I stand in the lounge and try to do a downward dog. Simon was always doing a downward dog and some other weird side stretch. Simon makes a downward frigging dog look much easier than it is, I think, as the backs of my legs start to burn. I try the side stretch but topple over on to the sofa. I try the dog again. My legs feel like a Californian forest in a dry summer when someone forgot to stub their fag out. I don’t think I like yoga much. I head to the cross-trainer and set the timer to twenty-five minutes.
When I get to eighteen minutes I hear banging on the front door. I catch sight of my puce face in the mirror. I don’t think I’ve ever looked so ugly. It’s bound to be the man from Flat 3. I open the door an inch and peep out. It’s not the man from Flat 3. It’s Nikki and Bertrand.
‘Hello,’ I say, surprised. I open the door wide and let them in.
‘Saraaah, you are all sweaty,’ says Bertrand, deciding not to kiss me.
Nikki looks peaky and runs to the toilet.
‘Morning sickness?’
‘Hm hm. Eeeven at seeex o’clock she’s seeek.’ Bertrand walks into the lounge.
‘Sorry I didn’t make it last night. Did you come up with some names?’ I ask, putting the kettle on.
‘No, we all got distracted and just started chatteeng,’ he says.
Something is wrong with Bertrand today. He’s twitchy and distant.
‘You all right?’ I enquire.
‘Yeah, yeah, um, how eees ze blog?’
I must have been possessed by my blog. It’s all anyone talks to me about now.
‘Oh, I’ve given all that up. I think Si was right. It was a bit evil.’
‘Ah.’
Nikki returns from the bathroom.
‘I used your toothbrush, Sarah. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Lovely,’ I wince. ‘Tea?’
‘Great, so have you seen that Bachelor’s Quest blog?’ asks Nikki.
‘No, I’m off blogs,’ I say, looking at my last two teabags and wondering how to deal with the situation. There’s another knock at the door.
‘That’s probably the man from Flat 3,’ I say, walking to get it. But again it’s not. It’s Julia and Carlos.
‘Bloody hell, it’s a drop-in centre,’ I say, kissing them. They walk into my living room. They don’t seem very surprised to see Nikki and Bertrand, which is odd.
‘Listen, I’ve just got to run out and get some teabags,’ I say, going into my bedroom to find my coat. Julia runs after me.
‘Sare, don’t. We’re not here for tea.’
‘I’ve got wine,’ I offer.
‘We’re all worried about you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you haven’t been out.’
‘I’ve only been back a few days.’
‘And you’ve stopped your blog.’
‘I DON’T WANT TO BLOG ANY MORE!!’ I shout, exasperated. ‘The blog was stupid. I got all addicted to it and missed what was under my nose.’
Julia raises her eyebrows at me. I want to tell her all about Simon and how I feel. But if I do it’ll prolong the agony. It’s like the best audition of my life and I didn’t get it and I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll move on and wait until the next one.
‘Have you looked at that bachelor’s blog?’
‘No I cocking haven’t. I told you I’m not interested in blogs any more.’ I head back to the lounge with Julia trailing after me. She stands in the doorway, hands on hips, wobbling cleavage, breathing heavily.
‘She hasn’t read it, guys,’ she says seriously.
‘What’s the big deal about this bloody bloke’s blog?’
Eight eyes look at me.
‘Where’s your computer?’ She’s panting. It’s the Julia temper. I don’t care.
‘Not telling,’ I say calmly.
‘Sarah,’ she screeches, running into my room. She decimates my desk. I stand saying, ‘Cold, colder, a bit warmer’ in that way children do when you’re trying to find something they’ve hidden. This riles Julia. She throws all the clothes on my floor on to my bed. Then she stands in the middle of my room, muttering, ‘Where’s the sodding laptop, Sarah? Where’s the sodding laptop, Sarah?’
I stand there goading. ‘Not telling, not telling.’ I am enjoying myself. This is an exact replica of the conversations we used to have when I smoked and Julia would hide my cigarettes to make me stop. She gets warmer and warmer, until she’s on her knees peering under the bed.
‘Found it!’ she exclaims. She fishes it out and stalks into the living room. I follow behind, shaking my head.
‘You’ll need to charge it,’ I smile.
‘I saw the charger,’ she says, giving Carlos the laptop and running back to my room.
‘Why would I care what this bachelor says?’ I ask them.
‘There’s stuff in there you should read. It might help you to get back to your old self, Sare,’ says Nikki kindly.
‘That’s so sweet. But I don’t want to get back to my old blogging ways.’
Julia’s back now. The computer’s plugged in and she’s typing.
‘Sit here, stubborn annoying best friend.’
I don’t move.
‘Pick her up, Carlos,’ she tells him firmly. He rises from the sofa.
‘No, I weigh a ton and I’m all sweaty,’ I squeal, rushing to the chair that Julia’s proffering. ‘Look, I’ll read his blog if it makes you happy.’
I look at the screen. It’s filled with a photo of a bare-chested man holding a micro meal for one. You can’t see his head or below the waist. Just his very toned torso.
‘The bastard has already got a photo on there. I never worked out how to do that,’ I mumble.
No one says anything. He looks tasty, although toned chests will forever make me think of Simon. I’ll have to meet a man with a belly shaped like a Chinese dumpling. I start to read his words aloud in an over-the-top male voice.
I am a bachelor.
‘My blog started “I am a spinster.” So unoriginal.’
I am in love with a woman and I don’t know what to do.
‘There’s no such thing as love, matey. Get over it.’
I have loved her ever since I spotted her doing some inventive moves to ‘Love Shack’ when I was eighteen.
‘If it’s moves to “Love Shack” you’re after, I’m your lady,’ I say, warming to him.
She’s my inspiration.
‘Blimey, he’s got it bad.’
If I told her that she would tell me I’m stupid and punch me in the stomach.
‘She sounds like me.’
Her stomach punches hurt more than I let on.
‘Good woman.’
But she has never given up on her dream and that inspires me. She doesn’t have a ‘proper job’. She’s an actress. She’s brilliant and gorgeous. She’s about to do a film in LA. I’m so proud of her. Knowing her and seeing how she strives for what she wants has made me do the same. Now I’ve set up the charity I always dreamed of.
I stop reading aloud now.
In short, I love her. I love her family. I love her soft bottom. I love the way she does this loud growl when she’s cross with herself. I love the way she teases me and makes me laugh. I love the feel of her when we cuddle in bed at night.
I’m flying to Brazil in four days but I’ve bought her a seat on the flight next
to me. I want her to come for a holiday before she goes to LA.
She has been a bit obsessed by her blog of late. I thought I might get her attention if I started a blog too.
I look up at the eyes staring at me.
‘Well . . . ?’ says Julia.
‘I have to get to Simon’s mum’s house!’ I gasp.
‘I’ve got Big Daddy,’ shrieks Julia. ‘LET’S GO.’
‘I need clothes and pants! I’m going to Brazil!’ I am crying now.
‘We packed you a bag!’ squeals Nikki.
‘It’s in the car! Get your passport! Go, go, go!’ implores Julia, jangling her keys.
Big Daddy sounds like he is having an asthma attack. He’s carrying five people so we are unnervingly near to the ground. Carlos is in the front and I’m in the back with Nikki and Bertrand.
‘Please make it, please make it,’ is my mantra.
‘He’ll make it, won’t you, baby?’ coos Julia.
‘I can’t believe he started a blog for me. He even checked his spelling.’
‘I elped im, Sarah. With the site and eees spelling. It was fookin ouwwfool.’
‘Ah.’
‘That was why I ad zat stuff on my computer about you,’ Bertrand adds with a smile.
‘Man, it’s been the hardest secret in the world,’ chips in Julia. ‘He told me how he felt about you when I threw myself on him at the wedding. I was sworn to secrecy though. He said he’d been trying to split up with Ruth for ages but he didn’t know how you felt and didn’t want to get blown out. Then you went and called Paul bloody Poo-pants that night and he looked so gutted.’
‘And he was the number one fan, Sare. He wanted to meet up on a date and just tell you how he felt,’ sighs Nikki.
‘Yeah, you were such a stubborn cow,’ barks Julia, and then she starts doing an impression of me. ‘“It’s Jay! It’s some gaffer bloke!”’
‘I deed zat too, Saraaah. E would text me with ees bad spelling and I would poot it online for him. I am Brazilian and my Engleesh ees better than hees.’
‘But the gaffer told me he was my number one fan.’
‘Yes, Simon wasn’t too happy about that,’ Nikki says with a grin.
‘No way.’ I smile. Then I realize where we are. We’re coming level with Simon’s mum’s road.
‘It’s right here. Turn right, Jules!’ I shout.
‘Uh, huh, huh.’ Nikki starts to gag.
I turn towards her just as she opens her mouth and vomits. It lands on my cheek, lip and partly down my T-shirt. I fight the impulse to retch.
‘Eugh,’ I say with my mouth closed, while everyone starts fumbling around for some tissues. We pull up outside Simon’s mum’s house. I quickly wipe my mouth and flick the lumpy bits off me.
I walk halfway up the driveway. Then I freeze. I feel like I’m the heroine in a romantic comedy. It’s the critical last scene and I’ve forgotten my lines. I want to quit the project. I want to go back to my trailer and hide. I hear Julia beep the horn. I take a deep breath and carry on. Olivia Newton John lyrics are in my head. I ring on the doorbell. Simon’s mum, Bonnie, answers after exactly fourteen seconds. Simon’s mum is lovely. There’s no other word for her. She works in a library and at the weekend she helps disabled people on weekend retreats. She does book groups and ballroom dancing and is learning French. Hence I don’t see nearly enough of her.
‘Sarah?’ she says. She sounds more puzzled than pleased to see me.
‘Hi, Bonnie.’ I seem only to be able to squeak. I cough and try again. ‘Is Simon here?’
‘No, love, he left about ten minutes ago. The coach came with the boys in it and picked him up.’
I stand staring at her. My mouth is open and I can hear my breath. I am wearing gym gear covered in sick and I’m going to scream.
‘He’s already gone! Ten minutes ago,’ I wail, running back to the car.
‘Get back in, we’ll follow him to the airport,’ shouts Julia. Bonnie is still standing in the doorway.
‘I’ve got to go and find him,’ I shout to Bonnie.
‘OK. Good luck, love,’ she shouts back. She stands there watching me clamber into Big Daddy. Julia turns the key in the ignition. Nothing happens.
‘Come on, Daddy, don’t let us down now,’ she whispers into the steering wheel. She turns the key again. Still nothing.
‘Cock and balls!’ she screams. She looks at me helplessly.
Bonnie comes running down the driveway.
‘Take my car!’ She opens the garage. It’s the BMW with low mileage. I smile.
‘Ow, you leetlle beautie.’ Bertrand smacks his lips. ‘I drive.’
‘Oh God,’ says Nikki, looking green again.
Her worry is warranted. Bertrand believes that he is the only person in England who knows how to drive and everyone else is a ‘KNOBBEENG WANKEENG IMERCEEL OO SHOOOD ACCCELERATE NOW’. Bonnie hands him the car keys and we all vacate Big Daddy and climb into the BMW.
‘Right, get us on to the North Circular, head for Heathrow and keep your eyes open for a coach!’ shouts Julia. Bertrand accelerates while humming the theme to Starsky and Hutch.
I hear Nikki heave.
‘Shit,’ remarks Carlos as a little patch of Nikki’s sick lands in his lap. It’s funny when it happens to someone else.
‘Haven’t we got a bag for Nikki to be sick in?’ I giggle.
‘Take your T-shirt off so we can mop it up,’ orders Julia.
‘No.’
‘Sare, it’s already stinking anyway.’
‘I’m wearing a sports bra!’
‘Do it!’
‘You’re such a bossy cow.’
‘My boyfriend’s covered in sick!’ She’s starting to get mardy but I take off my T-shirt and give it to her. Julia has never used the word ‘boyfriend’ about the man she was seeing before. I smile at her. She sticks her tongue out at me.
‘EEEEes a coach!’ shrieks Bertrand, moving horizontally across two lanes to get behind a coach in the slow lane. Nikki swallows furiously.
‘You are a heeet, Saraaah.’
I look at the rear of the coach. I see four teenage boys mouthing ‘Nice tits’ and one bare bottom.
‘Someone give me a top now,’ I shriek. No one does.
‘It might be Simon’s coach,’ says Julia. ‘Stay behind them, Bertrand. Can we make a sign? Has anyone got a pen?’
No one has a pen but Julia creates a sign. She writes the word SIMON using Nikki’s lipstick on the T-shirt covered in vomit.
‘Hold it up, Sare!’ she shouts, throwing it to me. I do so. Anything to cover me up. The young men peer at it. The fifth boy puts his trousers on and faces us. He starts pointing at his own chest.
‘The flasher’s called Simon,’ I say, disappointed. I shake my head at the boys in the coach.
‘Fuck, I thought that was the one. A coach full of teenage boys. Right, let’s speed up and head to Heathrow,’ shouts Julia.
‘No,’ I shout back. I can see another figure on the coach. It looks like a man. He’s standing up and the boys on the back seat are talking to him. Slowly the boys move out of the way and the figure comes into view. It’s Simon. Bertrand beeps his horn.
I sit still. Simon and I stare at each other. Then I nod at him. In my head the nod is saying, ‘Yes, I feel the same way, yes, yes, yes.’ I watch him to see if he understands my meaning. But he quickly turns away.
‘Where’s he gone?’ I panic.
The coach starts to indicate left and slow down.
‘Ee’s going to pull over on to the ard shoulder,’ says Bertrand. I put the vomity T-shirt back on. We pull over behind the coach.
‘It’s like being in a Richard Curtis movie,’ whispers Julia. ‘Sod Notting Hill, we’ve got Gants Hill.’ She turns to me and smiles. There are tears in the corners of her eyes.
‘Here’s the bag,’ smiles Nikki, giving me some bulging luggage.
‘Thank you all so much,’ I say. I am already crying. I wish I wasn’t.
/> I get out of the car and I see Simon stepping off the coach. We walk towards each other. Neither of us speaks for at least ten seconds.
‘Hi,’ says Simon.
‘Hiya.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Oh, we were just passing in your mum’s car, you know.’
‘Right,’ he smiles.
‘I did eighteen minutes on the cross-trainer earlier.’
‘Great.’
‘Nikki was a bit sick on me.’
‘Morning sickness?’
‘Yep.’
‘Have you, um, read that bloke’s blog?’
I bite my lip and nod. There is a surplus of two things in this conversation:
1)
tears
2)
crap being spoken
Both are coming from me. I take a deep breath of North Circular fumes. I exhale and I realize something. I, Sarah Sargeant, am not scared.
I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder and then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his lips.
‘I love you,’ I say. And it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever said.
Acknowledgements
I had never written anything before I starting writing my blog. If so many people hadn’t encouraged me to carry on I feel sure it would have been a short-lived phase, like many a New Year gym membership.
The people I first put the idea of the book to were my parents. As ever they responded with words such as ‘That sounds like fun’ and ‘Great idea.’ If they had said, ‘Don’t be silly, isn’t it time you got a proper job?’ I know that the idea would have disappeared instantly, like profiteroles at a dinner party.
Like Sarah’s, it was my dad who suggested I start a blog, but neither of us knew anything about them. He gave me a day and took me to a man who did, William Shaw, to whom I owe huge thanks.
As I had never written before I enlisted the help of people cleverer than me: Glynne Steele, Tamsin Hewett, Dylan Jones, Chris Sansom, Roz Brody and Jan King. Thank you so much for your wit and wisdom.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 29