The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘RAAAACCCCHHH!’

  It looked like she’d just dozed off behind the wheel. I heard that yoga was supposed to relax you. But this was extreme. I felt the car sharply swerve. We started to plough into the oncoming traffic. Horns tooted. I dived over to the wheel and steered us too sharply the other way. I heard the screeching brakes of a car behind. Rachel came to with a shudder, made a noise like she was having a Brazilian then yanked the wheel from me. I wish I could say that my life flashed in front of my eyes, but it didn’t. I just thought, ‘I don’t want to die! I haven’t sorted things out with Simon! If there’s a post-mortem my blood will be 94 per cent champagne! It’s all Brian’s fault!’

  The odd thing was, we got back on track and continued the journey to the stripping class, and neither of us mentioned the incident. It almost seemed as though we had imagined nearly dying. We were both silent. I can’t speak for Rachel, but my heart was hammering like an Ikea showroom employee. A car slowed down to drive level with us and the driver shouted in our direction.

  ‘What’s the time?’ He was very aggressive.

  ‘Oh, um,’ I looked at my phone. No new message from Simon. ‘Eleven thirty,’ I screamed back at him. The rude man put his finger up at me.

  ‘It’s not my fault he’s late,’ I said to Rachel when he’d driven away.

  ‘He wasn’t asking, “What’s the time?”, Sarah,’ she smirked. ‘He was saying, “Learn to drive.” Because of that, you know, blip back there.’

  That blip!? Rachel Bird had just crashed out behind the wheel of a vehicle that was dramatically exceeding the speed limit. And:

  1 she didn’t smell of booze

  2 she didn’t smoke dope/take heroin/believe in Paul McKenna hypnosis CDs

  3 it was only 11.30 in the morning

  Something wasn’t right. But I was bloody glad that I was in the car with her and not making small talk in the back of a yellow cab.

  forty-seven

  I became aware of my lack of rhythm when I was fourteen. I bought a drum kit and formed a band with some of the girls from the convent. The band was called The Revenge of the Stoned Flower Children. We specialized in The Cure covers. We practised in my bedroom. I didn’t understand my role as drummer. I would drum along to the tune. The rest of the band would scream, ‘No, Sarah, you set the tempo. We do the tune bit. Let’s try “Boys Don’t Cry” AGAIN, shall we?’

  Like all things I’m rubbish at, what I lacked in flair, skill and competence, I made up in rampant enthusiasm. I would bash away at the drums until I got bored. Then I would say, ‘Can we smoke out of the window now?’

  I’d had years to get used to the fact that I look like I’m being electrocuted when I dance. However, Sunflower Oil, my stripping teacher, had only had an hour. And I think she found it stressful.

  ‘Now take your top off.’

  ‘No!’ I shrieked.

  ‘Don’t stop moving though,’ yelled Sunflower Oil. ‘You were nearly in time then,’ she added sadly.

  I think Sunflower Oil was her stage name. Although, she was a big girl; she might have considered Lard or Lurpak as alternatives. She was really into stripping. You know how when little girls love ballet, they do ballet steps even when they’re in a petrol station or in the kitchen? Well, Sunflower was like that. Even when she was talking to you she’d be playing with the boa round her neck and jiggling her breasts while looking at herself in the mirror. She gave me a stripping demonstration when I arrived. It was terrifying. I’d never seen such gigantic breasts, let alone seen them spin in different directions. It was impressive and technically flawless but I’d only just met her and I had just nearly died in a car crash and I’d eaten far too much on the flight.

  Rachel Bird snorted as I attempted to straddle a chair.

  ‘You get up and do this then. It’s not that easy,’ I hissed.

  ‘I will in a second.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Let’s both get up there and join her.’

  Oh please, God, I thought, not those breasts again.

  ‘Right, have a little rest, Sarah. We’ll put the song on again in a moment and we’ll both join you. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘I think we might need to redefine the word “fun”,’ I muttered as I flopped onto the chair. Sunflower did a hipwiggling stomp over to me.

  ‘Are you feeling empowered yet?’

  ‘Um. I’m starting to,’ I squeaked.

  ‘It’ll be wonderful. We’ve got a lot of sessions booked.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘We’ll work out a sizzling routine.’ She smiled. Then she dramatically turned around and bent forward so that her bottom was in my face.

  I pulled Rachel a face to indicate that I thought Sunflower was nice and everything but she was also clearly a mentalist. Rachel just kicked off her shoes and joined us in the middle of the room. Sunflower moved her pose down onto the floor and started vampily crawling to the stereo.

  ‘Let’s do it again. This time, Sarah, I want you to think of a special man.’

  Poor Sunflower Oil. After she’d pressed Play on the CD and turned round she was faced with me sitting on a chair with my bottom lip quivering.

  ‘Er, Sarah’s not really doing men at the moment, Sunflower,’ volunteered Rachel.

  ‘Oh, Baby Oil, what’s the matter?’ cried Sunflower, running over to me and pressing my head into her pillowy breasts. I tried to explain the Simon situation and the fact that if your boyfriend leaves you, you feel like:

  1 eating toast/mashed potato/pizza

  2 drinking Pinot Grigio/Sauvignon/Chenin Blanc

  3 lying in bed listening to a purposely made playlist entitled ‘Pain’

  You didn’t get an urge to fly halfway across the world and take your clothes off for a worldwide distribution film. The only person who would contemplate that was Jordan. A fact that in itself indicated danger.

  ‘But at least Jordan can dance and looks good naked,’ I wailed.

  Sunflower looked pained. I don’t think she’d ever heard of Jordan.

  ‘Baby Oil. You are a beautiful young woman.’

  ‘I’m thirty!’

  ‘Darling, I’m forty-six and I’m a beautiful young woman.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I smiled.

  ‘And we’re going to do this routine and it will be brilliant. Do you know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because if you give up, if you don’t give it your all, you will feel worse. You will be really depressed then. You will feel so shit you’ll never get out of bed again. Do you hear me? Never! So you go back to your hotel and call him or SMS him or get a contract killer on to him or whatever you need to do. Then you come back tomorrow and I don’t want any of this “I can’t dance, I’m overweight,” because we are going to work that cute little toosh of yours off. And you will do this routine in this film and it will be the best routine that anyone has ever seen in any film. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ I squeaked.

  ‘Good,’ she said, and then she smiled and hugged me again. ‘And it’s OK. We’ve all been there.’

  forty-eight

  Having decided to do a Cheryl, I was faced with a conundrum. How do you fight for a man’s love? It’s not easy, especially when you’re an eleven-hour flight away, there’s an eight-hour time difference and he has a pregnant ex-girlfriend and wants space. Still, I tried to look on the positive side. I had a mobile phone.

  Rachel came to my hotel that evening and introduced me to the most lethal cocktail of them all. The vodka martini. There is nothing in it that isn’t hard liquor. Not even a squeeze of lime or dash of cranberry. Just an olive that she calls dinner. It was after the first of these liver-busters that I typed

  Hey, thinking of you . . . x

  and showed the phone to Rachel.

  ‘Should I text it?’

  ‘Sarah! Don’t be a freak!’

  ‘What? Will I be a psycho stalker if I send a text?’

  ‘No! It’s just a stupid text. You have to
ask a question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, this is playschool. You have to ask a question. That way, he will respond. He’s a man. Men respond to questions. They don’t respond to statements. They’re not like us. We’d respond to a fart in a bath.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, recalling all the texts I’d previously sent. ‘So what question do I ask?’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, that’s tricky.’

  ‘This is very important, Rachel, I need you to think very hard. And don’t fall asleep.’

  ‘I’m not going to . . . Right. Let’s think what we want from this text. It needs to be –’ and she counted each point off on her fingers – ‘One: short – no more than two sentences. Never ever go into two page texts! Two: a question – as covered – so he responds. Three: spontaneous – it has to look like you’ve dashed it off, not spent two hours writing it with your mate. A typo would help here. Four: witty – but not too witty. You don’t want him to think you’re funnier than him. Men are the funny sex, remember! Five: sweet and sexy – you somehow have to straddle the line between virgin and Madonna in “Like a Virgin”. As I said, it’s tricky. Six: not desperate – you need him to think that you are having lots of fun without him! But not too much. He must feel that you would be having more fun if he were there . . .’

  ‘Blimey. Right. How about . . . how’s it going? Thinking of you . . . x’

  ‘Nah. “Thinking of you” is needy. “Wondering how you are . . .” is not. And you need to make him think you’re busy and fulfilled without him, remember!’

  ‘LA madder than ever. Wondering how you are . . .’

  ‘It’s not funny though.’

  ‘Hmmm. What about LA is mental mental chicken oriental. Wondering how you are.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

  ‘No, but it rhymes.’

  ‘Where on the list does it say it must rhyme?’

  ‘How about LA, madder than . . . Hmmm, what’s mad?’

  ‘Frogs?’

  ‘LA madder than frogs!’ I scoffed.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Meercats are quite mad and cute.’

  ‘Meercats! LA is madder than meercats!’

  ‘We’re losing it.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘LA is madder than a meercat on acid.’

  ‘Frog on acid.’

  ‘LA is madder than a box of frogs on acid.’

  ‘Looks like you’re trying too hard.’

  ‘I think we should move away from cute animals on drugs. I’m trying to cultivate an aura of a responsible and fun stepmother.’

  ‘True. Maybe we should give a reason why LA is mad.’

  ‘Dolph Bloody Wax is in the film! Wondering how you are . . .’

  ‘Hmmm. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘It’s not bad though.’

  ‘Yeah. It grows on you. It’s definitely a possibility.’

  ‘Write it down.’

  ‘How about Pick me! Pick me! She’s a freak! I love you . . . x’

  ‘Are you going to take this seriously?’

  ‘Sorry. What about Wondering how you are, you’ll be pleased to know I’m giving the sunbathing a miss this time.’

  ‘Dreadful.’

  ‘The more I think about it, the Dolph Wax thing is good. It’s juicy info. Dolph Wax is a blokey action-type actor. So it makes sense that I send it to Si.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘But is it too impersonal?’

  ‘No, you want it to be quite impersonal so you don’t look too desperate.’

  ‘OK.’

  I typed it and showed it to Rachel for approval.

  ‘Do you want to put a typo in to make it look spontaneous?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Well, you could just make one little mistake, like you could miss the “e” out of “wondering”. But what I think is good is when you make it look like you didn’t check your predictive words. So one word will be completely wrong but it’s obvious you were using predictive and were so not desperate that you didn’t check.’

  ‘Oooh, genius!’

  I set about finding out what other words my predictive suggests. Eventually I found that the ‘you’ could also be ‘wot’ or ‘wou’.

  ‘OK. What’s better? Dolph Bloody Wax is in the film! Wondering how wot are . . . or Dolph Bloody Wax is in the film! Wondering how wou are . . .’

  ‘How wou are, definitely.’

  ‘Right, here goes.’

  I sent the text and then left the phone in the centre of the table. Rachel ordered two martinis. I went to the loo. When I got back my phone was flashing.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I grabbed the phone. One new message.

  ‘Oh, wank,’ I said sadly when I saw it was a number I didn’t recognize. I opened it and read.

  Hey Sarah. Welcome back to sunny California. Do you want to practise our scene? Leo.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I muttered.

  ‘Nice text,’ said Rachel, with one eyebrow raised.

  forty-nine

  I didn’t respond to Leo’s text and Simon didn’t respond to mine. To be honest I didn’t give Leo’s a thought. I was too busy imagining Simon opening a text from me, reading it and then either:

  1 shaking his head and saying, ‘I wish she’d fuck off.’

  2 thinking, she’ll get over me eventually and then deleting it

  3 saying, ‘Ruth, baby, look at this, Sarah sent a text from LA. Oh, darling, you’ve got something round your mouth, let me get it off with my tongue.’ And Ruth leaning over as she stroked his thigh and saying, ‘Humph, she can’t even spell.’

  And I’d asked a question too. I would have preferred a

  fine thank you, bog off now

  to nothing. I’d been demoted from someone he slept with to someone he didn’t even think was worth typing a couple of letters into an iPhone for.

  After twenty-four hours of waiting I sent another.

  Shoot my first scene in two days. FUUUUCK! How you doing?

  Suffice to say, I didn’t run that one by Rachel. I didn’t get a reply to that either. I sat in my class with Miles Mavers the next day with the phone clasped in my hands for the whole lesson.

  ‘Sarah, Sarah!’

  ‘Yes, Miles?’

  I had to raise my voice slightly. Tinkerbell was outside practising her tap.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  He was sitting behind his big dark wood desk shaking his head at me. It felt like that time I was refused a bank loan to pay off my student loan and the man in the Halifax laughed at me.

  ‘Is it not getting any better?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sarah, I’m worried.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We need to go back to basics, as I said before.’

  I sighed and looked out of the window. A sprinkler danced across his lawn.

  ‘I don’t understand your reluctance to do that, Sarah.’

  ‘Well, I just don’t think there’s enough time. I shoot my first scene tomorrow.’

  ‘Uh, huh.’

  ‘If you take apart my accent now, I think it’ll throw me.’

  ‘You’re an English girl playing an American. I think you should do whatever it takes,’ he said. And then he sat there nodding at me with his eyebrows raised.

  I didn’t know what to say. My instinct said it would mess up my performance. My instinct told me that I only had seventeen lines to say in this film and he should teach me how to say them. I wouldn’t be improvising in American, MI6 weren’t sending me undercover to infiltrate a drugs gang, all I needed to do was sound like an American when I said those lines, three of which were two ‘yes’s and a ‘hmmm’.

  ‘I have been doing this a long time,’ he added.

  ‘Oh God, sorry Miles, of course you have.’

  We looked at each other and listened to the sound of tap shoes on the wooden floor. They stopped outside the door.


  ‘Daddy,’ she screeched, knocking twice.

  ‘Come in, Chelsea,’ boomed Miles Mavers.

  Chelsea opened the door a few inches.

  ‘Leo Clement is here to see you.’

  ‘Thanks, Chelsea, we won’t be much longer,’ he said, putting his hands together and stretching so that his fingers cracked. I hate that sound so I scrunched my face up.

  Chelsea closed the door and Miles Mavers looked at me again.

  ‘Look, Miles, as I’m shooting the Ned scene tomorrow can we just go over that in the morning? Then the next day we can discuss going back to basics. Is that OK?’

  ‘Your call,’ he said, with his eyebrows raised.

  I stood up and started to collect my bits of script from Miles’s desk.

  ‘Oh, leave those here, save you bringing them in every time.’

  I nodded. I had another copy at the hotel.

  ‘Thanks, Miles. See you tomorrow.’

  I didn’t actually want to walk out of Miles’s office. I would have put make-up on if I’d known Leo had the session after me. I looked rough as a badger’s bottom. I was wearing pyjama bottoms, a vest top, and a blanket I’d stolen from the aeroplane as a shawl. And I had bed hair, in a ponytail that I’d done without a mirror. I wondered whether Miles Mavers would mind if I escaped through his garden. I didn’t like to ask. So all I could do was plaster on a smile. It felt very uncomfortable on my face.

  I walked into the hallway but it was deserted. I darted to the front door and had just opened it when . . .

  ‘Sarah!’

  I spun round and there was Leo wandering from the direction of the kitchen. He was holding a sandwich and Tinkerbell was tapping along behind him. He got offered sandwiches there. I had to fetch the water.

  Leo was wearing shorts, a sweatshirt and a black woolly hat. Obviously you’d never need a woolly hat in California, what with it being a tropical climate. But he wore it well. It was sexy, too sexy to look at, so I looked at the ground. I’d met a man who was too sexy for his hat.

  ‘Hi, Leo. How are you?’

  ‘Good. How was England?’

  Ghastly. Probably the most miserable time of my life.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘Sarah, I was wondering if you wanted to hook up.’