‘Sarah. You all right?’
‘Not really. Is that my lovely agent?’
‘It certainly is. Sarah, what on earth’s the matter? You sound like you’re about to stick your head in an oven.’
Not the best aura to be cultivating to my acting agent. Come on, Sarah, act normal.
‘I’m fine,’ I said perkily. ‘I was thinking . . .’
‘Dangerous.’
‘I was thinking about a role I think I’d be perfect for.’
‘It wouldn’t be Kiefer Sutherland’s sex slave, would it?’
‘Well, that goes without saying. But I was thinking that my range and talent could also stretch to playing George Clooney’s masseuse.’ I was doing the routine solely for effect. My heart wasn’t in it. The George Clooney was an old one.
‘Sarah, that’s wonderful, I’ll let his people know straight away.’
‘Marvellous!’
‘Now then, in the meantime, another commercial audition.’
I thought I’d better play my usual commercial guessing game as well.
‘Oh, let me guess, the face of . . . Strepsils?’
‘No.’
‘Hmmm, but we’re in the flu season. Beechams?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, Gaviscon?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, I’m normally good at this. Oh God.’ It dawned on me what it was bound to be, based on my current luck. ‘Imodium?’
‘No.’
‘Blimey, give up.’
‘Crème de Menthe.’
‘No bloody way!’
‘Yes way.’
‘Cool.’
As soon as I hung up I called Julia.
‘Good afterno . . . oh, uh, sorry, good morning, IKI.’
‘Jules, are you OK?’
‘Uh, Sare,’ she whispered. ‘I am knackered.’
‘You sound fucked, baby girl.’
‘Stayed out till five. Carlos was playing.’
‘Was it fun?’
‘Was it fun?’ She sighed. ‘No. Not really. It was one of these Pacha parties and all the girls were young and gorgeous and dressed in bloody hot pants. I didn’t want to leave Carlos there alone.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I’ll have to sneak off to the loo for a power nap in a minute.’
‘Don’t forget to set the alarm on your phone.’
‘Shit, yeah, that was embarrassing. Anyway, sorry to go on. How you doing?’
‘Numb, really.’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘No,’ I sighed. ‘It’s been four days. How much space do I give him?’
‘Oh, babe, I wish I knew.’
‘Actually, Jules, I don’t really want to talk about it, do you mind?’
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow at the café.’
I suppressed a groan. Not only would I be back to my old waitressing job but also I would be talking about the fact that my boyfriend appeared to have left me for his pregnant ex-girlfriend. That’d be fun.
‘Listen, guess what I’ve got an audition for later.’
‘Oooh, cool.’ Julia loved this game. ‘Well, we’re in the flu season so I would say either a nasal decongestant, or we’ve got Easter coming up so, oh, say it’s Cadbury’s Mini Eggs!’
‘Good guesses. But totally wrong.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Crème de Menthe.’
‘No bloody way.’
‘I know! How mad is that?’
‘Cool.’
‘Anyway, it’s in Soho, shall I meet you after?’
‘Yeah, come to the office.’
‘OK, I’ll bring sandwiches, economy drive.’
‘Great,’ she said excitedly.
‘Great,’ the director said flatly. ‘Say your name to camera.’
‘Sarah Sargeant,’ I said professionally, and then because I just couldn’t help it I added, ‘MASSIVE FAN OF CRÈME DE MENTHE.’
‘Good, good,’ bleated the director uninterestedly.
‘Why is that, Sarah?’ asked a friendlier American voice. The voice belonged to a silver-haired, cuddly man in a suit. He looked like an elderly cowboy. He’d even got one of those ties that looks like it’s made from a shoelace. He was sitting behind the director and next to a plate of chocolate biscuits.
‘Hello. Oh, because my best friend and I completely became friends while drinking Crème de Menthe. Our mums drank it, so we carried on the tradition.’ It was probably best not to mention that we were fourteen at the time.
‘We have some great memories of times spent drinking Crème de Menthe.’
It was also probably best not to mention the main ones:
1 The time I tried to buy a bottle from Budgens and they called my mum
2 The time we made Crème de Menthe ice-lollies and Julia went to A and E
‘We were trying to buy some last Christmas to reminisce but we couldn’t find it anywhere.’
‘That’s why we’re relaunching it.’
‘Excellent. Well, I for one will definitely be buying a bottle!’
‘Much obliged.’
‘You’re American?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Oh, where are you from?’
‘Los Angeles.’
‘I thought so. I just got back from there.’
‘Really? Were you working over there?’
‘Well, yes, I was there to do the new Eamonn Nigels film. But the money got pulled at the last minute and I had to come back.’
‘Now then, Sarah, if you could just say the line. We have to be getting on,’ the director shouted over me.
‘Sorry.’
I turned to the camera. Instantly the urge was upon me.
‘Crème de Menthe. It’s the bollocks,’ my inner voice whispered.
Control it, Sarah, I thought, he’s American. They hate swearing.
‘Crème de Menthe. It’s the bollocks,’ my inner voice shouted.
‘Any time you’re ready, Sarah,’ sighed the director.
‘Crème de Menthe. It’s the b-b-b-b . . .’
Wank! It was really obvious that I wanted to say bollocks.
‘B-b-b . . .’
I wrestled. I wrangled. The director sniggered.
Finally, I wrenched the word ‘best’ out of my mouth and sighed with relief.
As I left the room the American man stood up.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes.’
‘For you,’ he said and he handed me a bottle.
‘No way! Really?’
‘For you and your friend.’
‘Oh, thank you so much,’ I said sincerely, but his kind gesture made me want to cry. I hurried away, hugging the bottle of Crème de Menthe to my chest. My tears were constantly at the ready, and it was taking a lot of bullying to keep them back.
forty-one
I didn’t hear from Simon. But I did hear from friends and family. I had to tell them what happened. Most responded with a slowly pronounced expletive: ‘sh-i-i-i-t’ or ‘f-u-u-uu-ck’. This was usually followed by a gem of psychological wisdom such as ‘You need to cheer up,’ or ‘You need to move on.’ When I told people that Julia had wangled my old waitressing job at the café back for me, the news was met with much excitement. The words ‘It’ll be good for you to get out of the house’ were often quoted. Amazing, really, the pap people preach when you’ve just been dumped. I lived in a flat for a start, and the café was about a quarter of a mile away and contained sexually deviant Polish chefs who had decided to wear Borat mankinis on the day I returned.
Within the first twenty minutes Julia had put a plate of food under my nose and was asking me to identify the foreign body it contained.
‘It’s a hair.’
‘Yes, I know it’s a hair, Sare. But does it look pubic?’
‘Oh,’ I said, peering into the plate of beans on toast that Julia was holding. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘I can’t take it to the table, can I?’
&nb
sp; We both looked at the man on table four who was waiting for his breakfast.
‘No, you’ll have to get the pube out first,’ I whispered.
‘I’m not touching it! You do it.’
‘I am in a very fragile emotional state.’
‘Let me call Ruth.’
‘And tell her about a pubic hair?’
‘Sare, you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do wanking well know what you mean and I wish you’d shut up about it.’ I snatched the plate from her. I stalked to the kitchen and lobbed the food in the bin. I told the kitchen staff to make another meal. Then I calmly walked over to table four and pulled a very apologetic face.
‘I am so sorry, sir. Julia over there dropped your breakfast in the kitchen but the chefs are preparing you another. Sorry for the wait.’ Then I leant closer to him and whispered, ‘She’s not very good. We’re looking for a replacement.’ He seemed very happy and got back to his paper.
I walked back to the counter and Julia.
‘Sarah,’ started Julia.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap but I really, really don’t want to talk about Ruth,’ I sang shrilly.
‘Fuck me. I wasn’t going to mention that.’ She was staring at me as though I was a stranger. ‘What’s with the nice waitress routine?’ And she gestured towards Mr Beans.
‘Oh,’ I replied, suddenly realizing I’d just been a good waitress.
‘Yeah,’ she said seriously. ‘Pack it in.’
‘You know what I think it is?’
‘No.’
‘Well, in America you should see the waitresses.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re all like, “How is your meal?” and “Can I get you anything else?” and “Would you like more coffee?” and “You have a nice day.” They even offer you ketchup.’
‘Sir!’ she said, taking the piss. Then she shook her head in disgusted disbelief.
‘They get good tips.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re supposed to leave them 20 per cent.’ Now she was interested.
‘Nah. They’re tight, the Americans. When they come here they never leave us anything.’
I raised my eyebrows at her.
‘You know what I think?’
‘No.’
‘I think you did that because you’re not yourself.’
‘Oh, Jules, please. I don’t want to talk about it. And if I did, I wouldn’t want to talk about it here.’
‘I can’t help it. You and Si are soulmates. He’s being a dick. There’s no way he’ll be happy with Big Nose even if she is up the duff. The whole thing is awful. We need to work out what you’re going to do.’
‘Please, Jules, I don’t want to talk about it!’ The tears sprang into my eyes. I got a paper serviette to wipe them. I couldn’t look at her. So I took some deep breaths instead. I really didn’t want to start crying because I feared it’d take me a fortnight to stop. It took me about two hours to recover from The X Factor as it was.
‘Go and take a few minutes’ break,’ she said, pushing me towards the kitchen.
The Polish chefs weren’t in there. They were outside smoking, so I did what I always did when the kitchen was empty: dived into the fridge to steal some cheese. But when I opened the fridge door I realized that I didn’t feel like it today. I didn’t feel like anything today. I never thought anything could put me off cheese. But Simon had. I went into the tiny staff room to check my phone instead.
‘Argh!’ I screamed as soon as I saw the screen.
‘Argh!’ I screamed again when a seventeen-stone Polish chef walked in there behind me, wearing nothing but a mankini.
‘How boot a blow job?’ he asked.
‘Argh!’ I screamed again and barged past him back into the restaurant. Tears had finally started to fall. But they were tears of relief and they were wonderful.
‘I’ve got a text from Si!’ I shrieked.
‘Oh my God, what’s it say?’ said Julia at the same volume.
The man who was waiting for his beans rubbed his ears.
‘I haven’t opened it yet,’ I screamed, laughing and crying and dabbing a serviette on my cheek. ‘Oh, thank you, God!’
‘Well, bloody well open it, Sare.’
‘OK.’
I took a few deep, nervous breaths. Then I pressed the ‘open’ button and started to read. Julia leant over my shoulder.
Sare. That carry-along case was Ruth’s. I’ll pop round at some point and pick it up.
‘Wanker,’ said Jules, and it shocked me.
‘He’s not a wanker, Jules, I’m the wanker.’
Julia made a ‘pah’ sound.
‘Not even one stinking kiss,’ I said sadly.
forty-two
Ruth could have left me the carry-along case. Taking a boyfriend would have been enough for most. Not Ruth. She wanted luggage too.
‘Anything else you fancy, Ruth?’ I muttered as I unzipped the main compartment to unpack it. ‘The fridge?’
Simon was going to ‘pop round at some point and pick it up’. At some point! The chaotic series of events otherwise known as my life had taught me that the ‘point’ at which Simon would choose to appear would be the ‘point’ at which I had fallen asleep in a pizza after two bottles of red wine. And I was not having it. I was going to get dressed and put make-up on and take the carry-along case there myself. (Ideally finding some fox pee to wheel it through en route.)
I unpacked the clothes from my LA trip. Then I started to unzip the gazillions of side pockets in case I had left belongings in there as well. Just as well I did, because I found an unusually soiled pair of pants in the first one. The small bottles of bubble bath and shampoo I stole from the hotel were in the second. I didn’t think I’d used any other side pockets but I checked just in case. There appeared to be something in one of them, so I tipped the contents onto the carpet. Out fell a small pile of papers and receipts and a partly used packet of pills. I picked up the pills. I’d never seen them before. A tiny trail of little yellow tablets snaked round the golden packet. The days of the week were printed in black next to each pill. It was a packet of contraceptive pills. It must have been Ruth’s. I put it down and picked up the papers. The first was a receipt for a hotel in Paris. Simon and Ruth went to Paris for Ruth’s birthday last year. It was her favourite city.
‘Not a particularly original favourite city, is it? What’s your second favourite, New York?’ I grumbled.
I flicked through the other receipts. An A4 sheet of paper was folded amongst them. I unfurled it. A photograph fell out. I nearly gagged. It was of Ruth. At least I assumed it was Ruth. The picture wasn’t of her face. It was of a naked body. There were nipples and pubic hair. Not much pubic hair, admittedly. She’d gone for the George Michael. I turned the photo over quickly and picked up the large sheet of paper. There was handwriting all over it. It wasn’t Simon’s handwriting. It must be Ruth’s. I read:
Follow these instructions carefully
1 Enter
2 Take off all your clothes
3 Pour yourself a glass of champagne
4 Lie on the bed
5 On the bedside table is a blindfold. Put it on
6 Wait . . .
It must be some little sex game she’d left for him. There was a piece of Blu-tack on the back of it. It would have been stuck to the door for him to find. At least I didn’t discover this lot when I was on my jealousy jig in LA. This would have sent me over the edge with a weighed-down backpack. Although I didn’t feel much better equipped at dealing with it then, I couldn’t compete with this. With my heavy metal head-giving I was the antithesis of Ruth’s exotic sex games. Perhaps that is what he wanted. Great sex and a baby.
I wondered whether to leave the stuff in the bag or throw it away. The pill was no good to her now she was pregnant.
I choked. Ruth was pregnant! Ruth was on the pill! Why was Ruth on the pill if she couldn’t have children? And if she was on the pill then
how did she get pregnant? I sat staring at the pill packet pulling my very unattractive thinking face. Why would Ruth have been on the pill? The more I thought, the more confused I got. She might have taken the pill to regulate her periods or stop her getting spots or something. However, if she got pregnant while on the pill it showed she was super fertile rather than infertile. It didn’t make any sense.
I picked up the pill packet. I had to tell Simon about this.
forty-three
‘Sarah!’ It was Simon’s mum, Bonnie, who answered the door. She was whispering.
‘Hello, Bonnie. I’m here to talk to Simon.’
‘Oh, love,’ she said sadly. ‘Give us a second, will you?’
I stood on the doorstep and nodded. She closed the door on me. She was fastidiously careful not to make any noise. Everything was wrong. Normally when I was there she would say, ‘Sarah, it’s so lovely to see you. Come in. Take your shoes off though, love, I’ve just done the carpets. Now, have you eaten?’ And even if I had I said no because she was really good at cooking. Suddenly I felt like the ex-wife.
A few moments later Simon came to the door. He looked tired.
‘Ruth’s in there, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here’s her case.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I won’t be long but I just wondered if I could speak to you.’
‘Er, all right then,’ he sighed.
‘Don’t go into orgasm about it.’
He gave me a look that indicated he wasn’t comfortable with me making comments about orgasms on his doorstep.
‘Come upstairs,’ he whispered. Then he did the finger-over-the-mouth ‘shhhh’ sign. I obviously wasn’t myself because it didn’t make me feel violent. I trailed behind him up the stairs. He opened the bathroom door. I hovered tentatively on the threshold. I didn’t want to enter the bathroom. I couldn’t possibly have a seminal conversation in Simon’s mum’s bathroom. My main problems with Simon’s mum’s bathroom were:
1 It was coral. Not a bad colour, admittedly. One or two items of coral could be an aesthetic treat in a blue room or white room. Being in a room decorated entirely in coral is like being suffocated in a giant pumpkin
2 I don’t know what the stipulated guidelines are for different-shaped fluffy mats on bathroom floors. Whatever they are, Simon’s mum’s exceeded them. There was one by the bath, one by the door, one round the bottom of the sink, but the one that really scared me was the one shaped to go round the bottom of the loo (in coral). Every time you stepped on these mats the tassels moved, so that when you left the bathroom and looked back, the room looked violated. I don’t like violating bathrooms so I spent a lot of my time on my hands and knees before I left her bathroom. It’s best not to get me started.
The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend Page 15