Simon started to hum along loudly with Julia. Then he began to add sporadic words like ‘der’, ‘la’, and ‘conga’. It made my panto Princess squawk sound like Katherine Jenkins.
‘Right, what rhymes with conga?’ asked Simon.
‘Longer,’ I said flatly.
‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ He started panting. ‘You beauty!
‘Der, de der, something something longer, der, de der . . . it’s not getting any longer! . . . That’s great . . . Ah, bloody phone,’ he said, pulling his mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans. Simon looked at the phone. His face dropped for a moment and his jaw tightened. Then he silenced it and put it back in his jeans. It was the briefest of disturbances and within seconds he had resumed his efforts of reworking the lyrics to the Black Lace wedding classic ‘Do the Conga’, while we sat watching him and sucking on our plastic willies.
‘Der, de der, it’s not getting any longer. Der, de der, have you tried the conga . . . Der, de der . . . his fella’s getting longer . . . Oh! Oh! Oh! That’s it! Der, de der, his fella’s getting longer! It’s Cockaconga night.’
‘He’s off on one,’ I told the other two. ‘Si. That’s the landline phone.’ I lurched towards it. ‘Hello, the Sex Factor?’ I sang into the receiver, because there’s nothing I like more than answering the phone with a sweetly sung Sarah’s Fisting Fun Palace, or Blow Job Friday Two for the Price of One, or whatever other sexually orientated nonsense springs into my head. I waited for broken English to ask me if I needed home insurance or wanted to come back to BT. Nothing. The other person didn’t respond. ‘Hello? Hello? Hellooooooo. Who are you? Can I help you?’ I tried. The other person hung up.
‘Hung up.’
‘Do – whatsit? 1471.’
‘Oh yeah.’ I went back to the phone. ‘It’s a mobile number. I haven’t got a pen. Shall I call them back?’
‘No, leave it Sare,’ Simon said quickly. Too quickly. I remembered the mobile call he had just silenced. I felt uneasy.
‘Yeah, they’ll call back if it’s important,’ Jules said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, with a fake smile.
‘Listen, I’ve got it!’ yelled Si. ‘Listen.
‘Boo, hoo, hoo, it’s not getting any longer,
‘Ooo, ooo, ooo, but have you tried the conga?
‘Woo, hoo, hoo, his fella’s getting stronger.
‘Doo, doo, doo, it’s Cockaconga night!’
We all sat quietly and stared at him. He looked excited. I had a very bad feeling.
‘Time to get the video camera.’
‘Oh no. Oh no!’ I started.
‘Let’s make the viral ad.’
‘The wha . . .?’
‘He likes to make these dreadful video ads for his products, which go on the Internet,’ I whispered to Carlos.
‘Oh no.’
‘Quite.’
Four Cockaladas and an hour and half of rehearsals later, we were bobbing our heads to the rhythm, preparing for our seventh take.
‘Sare, Sare, Sare, are you sure that was the tune?’ asked Si.
I nodded. Julia laughed.
‘OK, babe, maybe just don’t sing as loud as everyone else.’
Julia laughed again.
‘Right, guys, I think we’re ready for another take.’
There was a small flurry of activity as Simon sat down and covered his lap with a Mexican poncho. Julia slid onto the floor and wiggled into position. She was out of shot on the floor. She positioned a cucumber underneath the poncho. For the purposes of our viral ad the cucumber was the willy, which would be dancing around under the poncho by the end.
‘Steady with that, Jules,’ squeaked Si.
Carlos focused the camera on me. I got ready for my ‘unhappy with my flaccid willy’ face close-up.
‘That’s great, Sare, you look really miserable,’ Si praised. This was unsurprising. Any actress will verify that there are some products you feel uncomfortable endorsing: stool softeners, heavy-flow sanitary towels, feminine deodorants for even the worst smells; you grasp the gist. I can confidently say that most actresses would have baulked at becoming the face of erectile dysfunction. However, because it was my boyfriend’s business, I was sat there emoting at a cucumber. I prayed my agent would never find out. Also I knew, I just knew, that the product was a dud and the only thing worse than being the face of Viagra would be being the face of a Viagra swindle. Men across the land would hold me personally responsible for their downward facing dogs.
I tried to block out my reservations. If I was going to act in a Viagra advert I might as well act well. Luckily it was a short commercial, so within about thirty seconds the cucumber was up and dancing and I was clutching the Cockaconga packet lovingly.
‘Bloody brilliant,’ shouted Si as he jumped up.
‘Simon!’ shouted Julia as he trod on her head.
Si planted an excited kiss on my head, and then snatched the packet from me.
‘After dinner mint, anyone?’ he offered.
‘I didn’t know we had chocolate,’ I said innocently. Then I looked at Simon and I realized that he wasn’t talking about chocolate at all. He was putting a Cockaconga tablet in his mouth and holding one out for Carlos.
‘It’s Cockaconga night!’ giggled Julia to the tune of the conga.
I didn’t giggle. I saw Julia and Carlos to the door and got ready for bed. Then I waited for Simon to go into the bathroom to brush his teeth. I extracted the iPhone from the back pocket of his jeans. I had always thought private detective work would be a glamorous second career. I changed my mind when my shaking hands let the smooth Apple surface slip from my fingers and onto my foot.
‘Ah!’
‘You all right, Sare?’ Simon called through a mouthful of toothpaste.
‘Yeah,’ I acted back. ‘Stubbed my toe.’
I picked up the phone. It was nothing like mine. My heart was thrashing around in my chest so forcefully, I’m surprised seismic hazard services weren’t alerted. I found his call history. The call he had silenced earlier in the evening was from Ruth. And it was her number the operator’s automated voice had told me when I did 1471.
thirty-one
I knew that Cockaconga wouldn’t work. It was obvious. There was an old saying: Paranoid Jay involved, disaster looming. Simon was starting to panic but I was so confused and terrified about the Ruth phone calls that I couldn’t comfort him. I went to bed and lay turned away from him pretending to sleep for most of the night. I felt him get up in the early hours and say, ‘Bloody hell, Jay, man,’ and take another tablet to see if increasing the dosage worked. Then an hour or so after that he took a third one. Eventually, I must have slept because I woke groggily at 11.13 a.m. Simon was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling next to me. We were instantly on to the a.m. leg of our argument.
‘Oh, tits, it’s late,’ I said sleepily.
‘Hmmm,’ he replied stonily.
‘Mum and Dad’ll be here just before twelve,’ I said, but then I remembered that I hadn’t mentioned the lunch with parents arrangement to Si.
‘WHAT?’ said Si, as though he was on a rocky boat on a stormy sea instead of lying a ruler’s length away from my ear.
‘Sorry,’ I winced. ‘I just forgot to tell you. We’ve been so busy rowing, there’s been no time to compare schedules.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve done it again.’
‘They’re my mum and dad!’
‘What about all this?’ Simon gestured to the Viagracrammed bedroom.
‘It’s not my fault you got yourself involved in the great Viagra swindle!’
I got out of bed. I was only wearing my pants. I stumbled about the room until I eventually found Simon’s red hoodie. I put it on.
‘Er, Sare.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said, turning around to look at him in the bed. He’d pulled the covers back. Something was certainly standing to attention.
‘Oh, bloody hell. When did that happen?’
‘About two hours
ago.’
‘Blimey.’
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
‘My mum and dad’ll be here in half an hour.’
‘We didn’t think this through.’
‘Do you think if we have sex it’ll go?’ I asked.
I won’t go into details. But dutifully I did my bit for the relief effort. When the quickie’s aim was achieved, we lay back. There was still a giant gherkin on the skyline.
‘Wow,’ I said. I leant forward to see if I could push it down.
‘Ow,’ Simon said.
‘Fuck.’
‘Call Jules.’
I did as I was told.
‘Jules.’
‘OH MY GOD!!!!’ she screamed.
‘How is, um, Carlos, doing? Did he get a, you know . . .?’
‘I can’t even push it down!’
‘When did it come on?’
‘Ages after he took it. But he couldn’t go to work. He had that meeting with the dance producer at 9.30! He had to cancel.’
‘My mum and dad are coming to take us out for lunch in twenty minutes. And Simon took three!’
My doorbell rang.
‘Bugger! They’re early. SI!’
Si had been trying on outfits. He was wearing jeans and his longest shirt. It wasn’t long enough.
‘Do you think jeans are better than trackie bums?’
‘Definitely not the trackie bums. Trust me, darling,’ I assured him. ‘It looks like a gerbil absconded down there even when you haven’t got a lob on.’
‘Sare, you’ve got to let them in. I can’t open the door to your mum with a stiffy.’
‘Maybe we should tell them the truth.’
‘Baby!’
‘What?’
‘Well, I don’t really want you to draw attention to it.’
‘Shit, Jules, what do we do?’ I shouted into the phone
‘What’s she saying?’ asked Simon keenly.
‘Nothing, she’s laughing. Bye, Jules.’
‘Have you got an apron anywhere?’
‘Only that one with the boobs on. And you don’t need any additional stimulus today.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Could we tape it down?’
‘What about my pubic hair?’
‘Oh yeah.’
The doorbell again.
‘Just put a long coat on.’
‘OK,’ he said, nodding. ‘Cool.’
Simon dived into the hallway cupboard. I ran downstairs to let them in.
‘How long has it been up?’ said my dad.
‘Wher . . .?’
‘This erection,’ he laughed.
My eyes widened until I realized he was talking about the scaffolding around my building.
‘Oh, just a few days,’ I answered, hoping it wasn’t a metaphor for Simon’s affliction.
‘I hope it comes down soon.’
‘Oh, me too, Dad, me too,’ I said with emphasis that surprised them.
‘Security risk. I’ll come up and check your window locks while I’m here.’
My father doing DIY was scary at the best of times because he wandered around with a gin and tonic in one hand, a power tool in the other, screaming at Simon and me to ‘hold things higher’. Adding Simon’s erection and a flat full of boxes into that mix was unthinkable.
He clocked my reluctant face.
‘For my peace of mind as well as yours, Sarah,’ he said, striding upstairs.
‘How are you, darling?’ asked my mum, lagging behind. ‘How’s your little problem?’ she whispered. My mum’s whispers can be heard in Kent. By deaf people.
‘Yes, Sarah, how are you and Simon?’ shouted my dad from the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, hello, Simon, coat on? You not stopping?’
I raced up the stairs to help Simon. The two men were embracing in our communal hallway. Simon was leaning forward at 45 degrees, not wanting to get too close.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ Simon beamed at my mum. ‘Right then, we’re starving, shall we make a move?’
‘I was going to check on your window locks, Simon,’ my dad said, inching forward towards the front door.
‘No need, Mike. Did it myself as soon as they put that bloody scaffolding up. We’re watertight in there,’ Simon said, brilliantly, before shutting the door with a click.
I stood smiling at my Si for effortlessly engineering us out of that nightmare. Until my dad’s next comment registered. It made me shiver.
‘Simon, we bumped into your old friend as we were parking. She looks like Selina Scott. What’s her name again, Val? Blonde, nice figure. Ruth, wasn’t it?’
‘Dad!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Simon had an erection and my father was talking about his ex-girlfriend. Far be it from me to point out this lapse in lunch etiquette.
‘Er, yes, sir, that’s right, Ruth,’ Simon answered uncomfortably. A bit too uncomfortably if you ask me.
What was Ruth doing lurking around Camden all the time? She worked in the City and she lived in Chelsea. She hated Camden. I remember her saying that it was full of undesirables. I’d been amazed that someone under fifty used the word ‘undesirables’.
‘Right, let’s be off,’ said my mother with forced jollity.
We all traipsed down the stairs. My mum leant in my direction and, for the first time, achieved a very good whisper. She said something lovely to me.
‘Ruth has put on weight.’
But then Simon stopped walking.
‘I’m going to catch you up. I need to make a call. I completely forgot.’
‘OK then, Simon, see you there,’ said my dad cheerfully. But I didn’t feel happy as I watched Si race back upstairs. It was very odd how he suddenly remembered that call when he heard that Ruth was in the vicinity.
He was having an affair.
thirty-two
‘We will order in a second, we’re just waiting for someone.’ I smiled at the nervous, skinny Eastern European waitress. It must have been her first day. I could tell this because:
1 she was actually working
2 a burly Italian man was watching her every move waiting for a mistake
Poor thing. She’d get no tips and everyone would give her crap jobs all day.
‘These are my long-distance glasses, Val. Where are my readers?’
‘Mike,’ my mother sighed. ‘I don’t know where your readers are. Maybe you left them in the car.’
‘No, I had them on to deal with that bloody pay and display machine. 20p for four minutes. Sarah! 20p for four minutes! That’s six pounds for two hours. I’d expect Selina Scott to be personally looking after it and giving it a wipe over in a bikini for that.’
‘I like Piers Morgan,’ my mother sighed as she was reaching into her bag. She produced a box of glasses.
‘Not those ones.’
‘Oh no, they’re your bifocals. Oh, Mike, you and your bloody glasses.’ She tutted.
Eventually she found the right pair and gave them to Dad. I stared at my mum and dad, amazed.
‘Can’t he look after his own glasses?’ I asked.
My mother raised her eyes and suggested a gin and tonic.
‘Oh yeah, shall we get garlic bread while we wait for Si?’ I started to beckon the waitress over but stopped when I watched her struggling across the floor with a bulging bin bag.
My dad looked at me like I had suggested sacrificing a family member.
‘What did I say?’
‘He’s on the Atkins,’ whispered my mother.
‘I thought you lost a pound on Paul McKenna.’
‘He lost that pound but then he put on three.’
‘You can’t be on the Atkins. This is a pizza restaurant.’
My father nodded sadly. We were sitting by the kitchen and he had full view of the pizzas as they came bubbling out of the oven.
‘How’s it going?’
‘He’s been very grumpy. He can’t drink, you see.’
‘I can have a light
beer.’
‘No, Mike, you can’t.’
‘Val.’
‘No, Mike.’ It was Mum’s firm voice. She used it when I wanted a pair of high-heeled shoes at the age of seven, a tattoo at thirteen; the list goes on. ‘You told me not to let you.’
‘You’d only be cheating yourself,’ I told the children wisely.
‘What’s Simon doing? Chasing after Ruth?’
‘Probably.’
He’d been twenty minutes. He must have bumped into her. Or arranged to meet her. With an erection! There was no way he could have been on the phone all this time. I had an image of them having a quickie behind KFC, which might have seemed a ridiculous thought if Simon hadn’t then bounced through the door flushed as a teenager caught masturbating by his mother.
The waitress was instantly upon him, trying to take his coat. He shook his head and teetered over to us. His long, done-up parka was shortening his stride. He eyed the wood-burning oven. A look of anguish crossed his face. My mother started stroking the front of his coat. The look changed to alarm.
‘Oh, what a nice coat, Simon. But you’ll need to take it off, it’s ever so warm in here.’
‘Er, no, Val. I’m a bit chilly,’ he said, sitting next to her.
‘Oh, darling, you don’t look it. You’re starting to sweat. I hope you’re not coming down with something.’
She pressed her hand against his forehead. Then his cheek.
‘Oh, you poor poppet,’ she said as though she was nursing a toddler.
My mother clasped his hands (which were on his lap and therefore very close to a certain member) in hers. Then she pressed her lips together and scrunched up her face.
‘Are you feeling a little dickie?’
My hand went to my mouth. My stomach had started doing crunches of its own volition. Simon looked like his eyebrows might meet his hairline in a second.
‘Oh yes, a little dickie,’ I whispered.
And it felt good. I’d never done innuendo. But they’re like alcoholic drinks. You can’t just have one.
‘Hmmm. Oh, Mum. He was up all night.’
And I knew it wasn’t funny. But I couldn’t stop.
‘All his muscles are stiff. And, and, and . . .’
Bugger, I couldn’t think of any more.
I looked around me for inspiration. But all I could see was the Italian man pointing towards Simon and telling the girl off for not taking his coat.
The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend Page 12