‘I know, Soph, and I’m really sorry.’
‘Yeah, but you understand. I mean, Jess and Sarah have been great, but they don’t need men like we do. I hate being on my own. I love having a boyfriend. That’s not wrong, is it?’
‘Well, I don’t think so, but if it means we always get hurt and meet the wrong type of men then I guess it is. I don’t know, I think the way to be is not to need men but just to like them and enjoy having them around. Do you think we can do that?’
‘It may take a bit of work, but we could try,’ Sophie suggested. We laughed.
‘OK, deal,’ I said. ‘We’re a funny mix. Jess and Sarah put careers above all else, I put finding a man above all else and you put equal importance on both of them. You’ve probably got it right.’
‘I hope so, but then maybe I’ll just keep falling into bad relationships. I don’t think my confidence could cope with another James.’
‘No.’ I wasn’t going to push it.
‘Ru, I know he was bad, selfish, arrogant and mean. I know now why you guys hated him so much. I mean, I don’t hate him yet but I’m on my way. I wish I hadn’t let him do that to me. Next time I’m going to get a man who dotes on me and is always nice.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s not just as bad as dating a bastard.’
‘Maybe, but at least I won’t get hurt.’
‘No, Soph, you won’t.’
I had become an official clock watcher at work. Can you believe that? All these years I’d heard of this group of people called ‘clock watchers’ and I’d thought they were like trainspotters, but no. Because I was one now, I understood. Clockwatching is an occupation, not a hobby. Arriving at nine every morning, the clock starts to tick. You watch the minutes as they pass, you watch the hours as they pass, you will the clock to move more quickly. As with any occupation you get a break. At lunchtime you stop watching the clock and you have a rest. But you resume an hour later then watch, watch, watch until half past five. Then you have watched the clock enough and you are allowed to leave. Clockwatching isn’t the most interesting profession, but it’s the only one I’d got.
I was feeling barren. After Julian my social life had gone back to nothing. I didn’t go out. My friends were always busy – even Sophie filled her evenings at acting classes now that she didn’t have the Porsche. I had no life, which meant that I was unlikely to meet a man and I would probably get old and die never falling in love again. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d never meet anyone and I’d end up alone. I had panics about being alone, panics that gripped me in the stomach and made me feel nauseous. One step forward and five hundred back. That was Ruth Butler.
One good thing about no social life was that I was getting good at television. I had become a walking, talking TV guide, and my new knowledge gave me a certain popularity at work.
‘So, Ruth, what’s on TV tonight?’ they would ask.
‘Emmerdale at seven, EastEnders at seven thirty,’ and so on until about eleven. I had value now. Of course, the fact that none of these work people ever asked me out for a drink had added to the start of my TV knowledge, and now they never asked me out because they thought I liked staying in and watching TV. It was a vicious circle. I was now a soap queen, au fait with the goings-on in Albert Square, Coronation Street, Brookside Close and Emmerdale. I was a little upset that I missed Home and Away and Neighbours; then I would have had a full house. I had no life so I lived my life through the soaps. I cried with Peggy Mitchell, I laughed with Jack Duckworth, I sulked with Jackie Dixon and I drank pints with Seth. Actually, Seth drank pints and I drank wine.
I was lonely. I told Jess what was happening to me. She looked thoughtful.
‘Ruth you’re twenty-one years old, nearly twenty-two. You’re young. You’ve just come out of a two-and-a-half-year relationship, and you’re worried about being left on the shelf. Is that right?’ I nodded. ‘God, I didn’t realise things were so bad. Julian and everything, the messes you keep getting into, it’s all because you’re scared of being alone?’ I nodded again. ‘Ruth, why didn’t you say something?’ I burst into tears. I had been saying things, I had. Jess looked worried. ‘The main problem is that you think a man will solve all your problems and, well, he won’t. Maybe you should see someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A counsellor, someone who can help you.’
‘No, not another counsellor, I don’t want to see one.’
‘OK, but you have to learn to control your panics. I don’t want to see you make yourself unhappy and you have to try to stop being so obsessed with finding a man. It’s ridiculous. Oh, it’s my fault, isn’t it? I should never have pushed you towards Julian. I’m to blame. God, I’m a rotten friend. I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me? No, of course you can’t. I need to lie down.’ Off went Jess. Perhaps it was her fault about Julian but, no, it was my fault.
Later that evening Jess recovered and told Sarah about our conversation.
‘Your only problem is that you think a man will solve everything, and he won’t. You need to make yourself happy.’ Sarah was quoting from the same book as Jess.
***
I had come to a life decision, dramatic but true. I was going to stop crying and moaning to my friends, I was going to stop being a pain, I was going to solve my problems on my own. Of course, I knew I needed a man to make me happy, but I just had to choose more carefully in the future. I would find one, social life or no social life.
We ordered pizza. Pizza solved everything. I ordered pepperoni, Jess vegetarian, Sarah and Sophie ham and pineapple. Jess put in the order, Sarah and Sophie supplied the wine, so I had to open the door to the deliveryman. That was the worst job. I hated it: I never knew if I should tip and the men always kept their helmets on, which was scary. I tried to swap jobs but no one would.
The bell went. I opened the door to a tall, skinny man in a helmet. He handed me the pizzas, and I checked them. Sarah had told me I must always do that.
‘Oh, my God,’ I screamed.
‘Ummmph,’ came the reply.
‘These pizzas are wrong.’ I had pepperoni and pineapple, and the ham had come alone. Only Jess’s was right.
The pizza man removed his helmet and his dark hair cascaded down his back. It was long and glossy. He had dark brown eyes, a chin decorated with recent stubble and kissable lips. God, he was really quite cute. ‘Urm, sorry. What if I don’t charge you?’
I smiled and fluttered my eyelashes at him. ‘But I hate pineapple and Sarah will kill me.’
‘Yeah, but you could, um, take the pineapple off and put it on the other one,’ he suggested.
I clapped my hands. ‘You’re so clever, Yes, I can do that, but I expect a discount.’ I pouted at him.
‘Yeah. Only pay for one – six pounds forty.’
I smiled again. ‘What do you do when you’re not delivering pizza?’
‘Huh?’ He had a deep, sexy voice.
‘In your spare time. You must do something?’
‘I play pool.’ He looked confused.
‘Oh, I love pool, I used to play all the time.’ Actually I’ve never played, but I spent a lot of time watching Ben.
‘Oh,’ he said, putting out his hand for the money.
‘Why don’t we go out sometime to play pool?’ I said suggestively.
‘OK,’ he said, still holding out his hand.
‘Tomorrow. Are you working?’
‘No.’ Now he looked terrified.
‘Well, why don’t you pick me up at half past seven, then we’ll go hustle?’ I laughed.
He looked stunned. ‘OK.’
‘Great,’ I said, giving him the money. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’ I waved him off. Who said you need to go out to meet men?
It wasn’t until I got back to the living room that it dawned on me. What the hell had I done? I lad just picked up the pizza guy after having spoken to him for two minutes. God, you don’t go around asking out every man who comes to your front door, do you? What wa
s I thinking? Why wasn’t I thinking?
‘What took you so long?’ Sarah asked.
‘They got the order wrong. Only Jess’s was right.’
Sarah groaned. ‘I hate it when they do that. Ruth, these are cold.’ I looked guilty.
‘You were out there for a long time, it doesn’t take that long to sort out a wrong order. What were you doing?’ Jess asked.
‘Nothing.’ I went red.
‘What’s going on?’ Sarah asked.
There was no easy way to say this. ‘Well, um, I kind of arranged a date,’ I mumbled.
‘WHAT!’ they all said in unison.
‘You arranged a date with the pizza-deliveryman?’ Jess asked. I nodded.
‘You’re going out with the guy who delivered our pizza on a scooter?’ Sarah asked. I nodded. My three best friends proceeded to wet themselves laughing.
I went even redder. ‘He was really cute,’ I defended myself.
‘Ruth, he delivers pizza, how could you?’ Jess said.
‘Jess, you’re a horrible snob.’
‘What’s his name? How old is he? This could be his after-school job,’ Sarah said, and they all started laughing again.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What don’t you know?’ Sarah looked at me.
‘His name and I don’t know his age. I only know he plays pool.’
‘Oh, my God, you’re going out with a pool-playing pizza-deliveryman whose name you don’t know.’ Jess was horrified.
‘I can’t believe you accepted a date from him without knowing his name,’ Sarah added.
‘I asked him.’
They all looked shocked.
‘Where are you going?’ Sophie spoke for the first time.
‘To play pool.’ I cringed. This was worse than I first thought. They were right, all of them. ‘I’m not going,’ I announced.
‘You’re going to stand him up?’ Jess was laughing again.
‘Yes, I bloody well am,’ I replied.
‘So, where are you meeting him?’ Sarah asked.
Oh, shit. ‘Here.’
My friends all carried on laughing until they could laugh no more. I could see why they found it funny: I had picked up a stranger, I’d asked him out, I’d told him I could play pool, and then I’d eaten the pizza he’d delivered. I’d said I was going to find a man, but hadn’t I also said I’d be more discerning in the future? Whoops, blown that resolution already.
***
The next day at work I thought about what I’d done. Really thought. Although I could see the amusing side, I also knew it hadn’t been the most sensible thing in the world. I had a one-way ticket to self-destruction. I was so embarrassed, I was bright red. Nick asked if I was ill and wanted to go home early, but I declined his kind offer. For once I never wanted to go home. I had visions of turning into a middle-aged woman in a pink negligee and pink fluffy slippers spending my time seducing the postman, the milkman, the gasman, the plumber, the electrician, Jehovah’s Witnesses, everyone. God, I was turning into a tart, or maybe I already was one. This was not the future I had pictured for myself.
It was Thursday, and all my friends went out on Thursdays. Not this Thursday. They were so amused by my date, they had decided to stay in. They were so cruel. I tried to be uninterested. I wore jeans and a shirt, no make-up. Jess said she’d never seen me look so casual in my life. The desired effect. ‘Look, I know I have to go, but I’ll be home early and I’ll never see him again,’ I told them.
They laughed.
‘If you say so, but I think you’ll get drunk and screw him.’ Jess was such a bitch.
‘We’ll see.’ The bell rang. Everyone ran to the door, but I got there first. I grabbed his arm and dragged him out as quickly as possible. I could hear my friends still shrieking with laughter as I walked down the road. I took a look at him. His dark hair was tied back, he was wearing jeans, a blue shirt and a beige cowboy jacket with tassels. I gathered he didn’t go on many dates.
‘By the way, I’m Ruth.’
‘Wayne.’ Oh, God. Just as things couldn’t get worse, they did.
‘Wayne. How long have you been delivering pizza?’
‘Oh, about three months. I’m saving up to travel the world.’
There, I knew he was going to be interesting. ‘Great. Where are we going?’
‘Um, the Five Bells. It’s a sort of pool place.’ I’d forgotten momentarily about the pool.
We reached the pub and walked in. Everyone was male, and they stopped and stared at me. I turned red. Everyone was dressed like Wayne, and I realised that if I had been wearing tassels I would probably have been OK. I wasn’t, so everyone kept staring silently. I felt as if I was in American Werewolf in London.
Wayne put up our names for pool and he bought the drinks. I thought it strange that he didn’t ask me what I wanted, just gave me a pint of bitter. I’d never drunk bitter before. It was foul. The next round I went to the bar and asked for lager. The barman laughed, then informed me they only served bitter, five kinds, mind, but only bitter. I had bitter, funnily enough.
People had stopped staring now so I was able to regain my normal colour. It was my turn to play pool. Have you ever thought you’d get to live out your worst nightmare? Well, I was in mine. I’d watched the game, so I knew the theory, white ball pots the other balls. It couldn’t be that hard. Actually, it’s much harder than it looks. At first I couldn’t even hit the white. Then when I managed to hit the white it didn’t hit anything else. Every time I used the cue it veered skywards as I had so little control. Wayne was appalled and I tried to say my cue was too long. I don’t think that excuse held up. Wayne could play – he potted everything. I potted the white. I whooped with joy until I realised that potting the white was a bad thing. I could feel everyone staring again. When he’d won by potting all his balls while mine stayed firmly on the table, he mumbled something about winner stays on. My ordeal was over and I went to the bar. I’d had two pints and I was getting drunk. I asked Wayne, who was still the winner staying on, if we could get something to eat. His brow furrowed and he got me another pint of bitter and a packet of peanuts. Then he went back to the game.
After four pints, I couldn’t drink any more. I asked Wayne to take me home. He looked peeved, but I apologised and he got his jacket. We walked home. Well, Wayne walked and I leaned. He made me feel quite secure. We got to the front door and, as I felt guilty about making him leave the pub, I asked him in. He smiled and followed me. I ignored the stares of my friends as I led Wayne to the bedroom. Once again, I was too drunk to care.
I didn’t really fancy Wayne and I hadn’t enjoyed the evening. But I felt secure with him. I probably had an over-inflated opinion of myself and thought that I could dominate him or something. I hadn’t even spoken to him all evening. I still didn’t know the first thing about him; all I’d done was sit at the bar being stared at, drinking bitter while Wayne played pool. It had hardly been a romantic date. There was a certain appeal in this. Not only did I feel I could dominate him, I also felt I could seduce him properly, like a femme fatale. I had an opportunity to be someone I wanted to be. I was getting quite turned on by the idea. I got undressed. So did Wayne. We hadn’t even kissed yet. I was torn by the need to feel intimate and wanted, and knowing that I was making yet another mistake.
I got carried away with him. I felt beautiful, I felt in charge, I felt like I could turn this guy on as much as I wanted, he was putty in my hands. I felt powerful, I felt wonderful, I gave him a blow-job. Wayne was enjoying himself. I liked the feeling of reducing him to jelly. He kept saying, ‘Ruth, Ruth,’ over and over. I was in control.
It was so sexy, like a scene from a film. I was the sexy woman, the wild woman. Wayne was my pawn. I could make him feel wonderful. I had that power. But then it happened. I started to feel sort of sea-sick. Then, all of a sudden, my mouth filled with vomit. God, what should I do? I had a mouthful of vomit and a penis. God, what should I do? Let go (yuk) or swallow it (yuk)?
Why did this have to happen? Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was about to choke when I pulled my mouth away from Wayne and threw up all over his manhood.
Wayne screamed, really screamed. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ he yelled.
‘Straight through the lounge, up the stairs,’ I said quietly. He ran out. After a couple of seconds I composed myself. I had failed at seduction like I failed at everything. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I was so disgusting. When Wayne returned from the bathroom, he put on his clothes and left without looking at me. He didn’t see the tears that were rolling down my cheeks. The next day, I called in sick to work and I was sick. I kept having visions of what I’d done, Wayne’s face, my friends’ faces, oh, the humiliation of it all. Now, if I’d never been there before, I really was at rock bottom. I made two decisions that day. I would never tell anyone what had happened, and I would never pick up a deliveryman again.
Chapter Nine
A wise man once said that money can’t buy you happiness but it can buy you food. Food can make you happy. He said the same about shoes.
***
I went to bed early on the Friday after my disastrous date with Wayne. Luckily my friends were out, although I’d had calls during the day from all of them asking me why Wayne had run naked to the bathroom last night. I had forgotten that they must have seen him. I said he was mad and I didn’t want to talk about it. They laughed.
I woke on Saturday feeling horrible. You know that feeling when you keep thinking about what you’ve done, cringe and can’t forget it? ‘That’s me. I decided I needed to go out. I went shopping. I hadn’t been shopping for ages so I decided that it might cheer me up. It worked for Jess. The trouble with going shopping when you’re depressed is, as with men, you should stay away when you’re vulnerable: people are out to get you – they see you coming and, like vultures, they pounce on you.
I walked into the department store and went to the beauty counter. An orange-looking lady asked me if she could help. That was it. I told her I knew nothing about all these products and asked her to explain them to me. She told me that the most important thing for me to do was get rid of cellulite, protect my skin from the damaging environment and keep myself young-looking. ‘Don’t you think I’m too young to buy an anti-ageing cream?’ I asked.
Rubber Gloves or Jimmy Choos? Page 17