fifty-six
Ask the universe for what you want and the universe will give it to you! Piece of piss! I wished I’d thought of that and written a book about it.
‘Right then, Universe, world-type thing. If you’re not too busy, please could you make Simon love me again?’ I whispered.
Job done. I stared at my reflection. My reflection stared back. Neither of us looked impressed by the view. I didn’t know how you’re expected to feel having just tried to cadge stuff off the universe, and you can call me demanding, but I at least expected a tingle. As it was, I felt nothing. I could probably have mustered a more emotional response if I’d just asked the bloke at the Halifax when a cheque would be cleared. Although I wouldn’t need to be doing that after this commercial. Blimey. It hadn’t sunk in. I was still cowering in the corner at the sight of the big willy.
I decided it wasn’t dramatic enough to talk to the universe in the ladies’ loo under fluorescent light having just had a pee. So I washed my hands and then, rather than heading up to my room, I walked out of the hotel and onto the beach.
It was overcast and drizzly and there was such a nip in the air that I could see my breath. Not really. It was boiling. I wandered across the sand trying to find a suitably thespian position to entreat the cosmos. I decided that one of the raised wooden lifeguard lookouts would be perfect. Very Baywatch. I would stand looking out to sea like C. J. I made my way up the walkway and turned and faced the sea.
‘Helloooo! Great Universe! Wonderful as you are, I was wondering . . .’
I stopped there. I doubted the universe was moved by flattery. I don’t think it really has self-esteem issues. The book said I needed to be firm and clear. I prepared to go again. I definitely felt more dramatic up there, addressing Creation from my lifeguard lookout pulpit.
‘OK, Universe. Please, please. I don’t want Simon to be with Ruth, I want him to be with me. ARGGGHHH!’
A very tanned homeless man had just grabbed my ankle. He didn’t look happy. I’d woken him up. I felt bad. I hate people waking me up.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I muttered, running away.
I plonked myself on the sand and started to flick through the book. I stared at a chapter I hadn’t seen. The book said that you can’t say anything negative when you ask for stuff because the universe won’t hear the negative. It will think you want what you don’t want. For example, ‘I don’t want Simon to be with Ruth,’ will be heard as, ‘I want Simon to be with Ruth.’
‘Tittie wank,’ I sighed. ‘Right. That’ll be take three. Universe, please ignore all previous efforts.’
I closed my eyes. I relaxed. I focused. I sat listening to the breeze and my breath and I waited until it felt right to speak.
‘Universe,’ I said simply. ‘Simon and I are soulmates. Please bring him back to me.’
I imagined my words floating on the wind. I hoped they’d bump into fate and she would sort it all out. I sat for a while with my eyes closed, feeling the sun on my cheeks.
When I finally opened them again a surfer was walking up the beach in my direction. He was lit brilliantly from behind by the sun. His powerful legs were striding through the wash. His long hair was wet. Water sparkled on his wetsuit like diamante. He could have been a Greek god rising from the sea having slain creatures in the underworld, carrying his surfboard like a shield. He looked a lot like the male version of Catwoman.
‘That would be Catman, Sarah,’ I muttered.
He’d obviously just dropped into LA to show men how being a man should be done. Once out of the wash, he threw the surfboard down onto the wet sand, reached behind him and unzipped his wet suit. He leant forward and slowly unpeeled it from his torso and arms. As I was staring, I realized two things:
1 My mouth was stuck open like I was taking a bite of a hot dog
2 The man I was gawping at was Leo Clement
I responded as most hot-blooded women would. I said the words, ‘Fuck me,’ to myself and texted a friend. I picked up my mobile.
Talk about sight-seeing! Leo Clement is down on the beach in a half-pulled-up wetsuit! Drool! Blimey! Rippling wet muscles . . . think I need the kiss of life!
As I was scrolling through the numbers to get to Rachel’s I pondered on whether the universe sent me Leo then as temptation. I had asked for Simon and the cheeky bugger sent me a Leo sideshow to test my resolve.
‘Well, Mr Universe, pretty as this man is, he’s nothing compared to my Si.’
This got me thinking about my Si in a half-pulled-up wetsuit. I imagined Si doing that peeling-off-the-wetsuit routine with the sun behind him. I smiled. But then my face dropped suddenly. I grabbed my mobile. Oh please, God, please tell me I didn’t. But of course I did. I’d sent that text to Simon.
fifty-seven
My stripping lessons weren’t going very well. I couldn’t dance. My instinct wasn’t to wiggle bare bits; it was to cover them up with my hands. And I had been given a pair of shoes that were so high I suspected it was an attempt at murder.
‘Baby Oil. I know you’re trying, sweetie. But you need to try harder,’ Sunflower said, kissing me on the cheek as I left one afternoon.
‘Don’t worry, Sunny, I’ll put her through her paces later,’ sang Rachel.
I gave her a look that indicated that evenings are for drinking martinis and finding ways of making Simon love me again. But it wasn’t my most effective look because she answered with the words ‘I need a pee. Won’t be a sec,’ and ran off.
I followed her into the locker room and took the other cubicle. I made the common but disappointing error of not checking whether there was loo roll before the pee. I waved my fingers under the next cubicle where Rachel was.
‘Rach, have you got any bog roll in there? I don’t want to do the wiggle.’
No answer. But I hadn’t heard her leave the loos.
‘Rach? Are you in there?’
Rachel made a groan.
‘Are you all right?’
Another groan. Followed by a retch. Followed by the dulcet tune of vomit down a toilet bowl.
‘Rach? Listen, I know you’re having a little chunder, but can you whack me under some loo roll?’
I waited for a while. Then I heard ‘Urgh. Sare,’ and the biggest retch yet. I had a good wiggle.
‘Oh, bubba, you poor thing. I’ll get you some water.’
I left my cubicle and got my bottle of water out of my bag and slid it under Rachel’s door.
‘Thanks,’ she moaned. I heard her take a swig. Then ten seconds later she scored the retch hat trick.
‘Nasty. What did you eat?’
‘Nothing,’ she groaned.
‘Well, Rach, you really should do the eating thing . . .’ I quickly quietened my wittering. Tired all the time, not herself, voming in the daytime. What sort of nutter was I, thinking that she was anaemic?
‘Rachel, is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Urgh.’
‘Are you due a period or anything?’
Rachel opened the cubicle door. She was slumped on the floor and staring up at me.
‘Are you pregnant?’ I whispered.
She didn’t answer because she had to dry retch a bit down the loo. I held her hair back because that’s what girls do. When she’d finished she shook her head.
‘But we haven’t had sex for ages.’
‘Have you done a test?’
She shook her head sadly.
‘Shall we get one?’
She shrugged.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ she groaned.
‘You’re up the duff, love.’
She looked like she would attack me if she didn’t have to stick her head in the toilet one last time.
‘Come on, sweetie, let’s go to the chemist and get you a test.’
She started shaking her head.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m not peeing on a stick for twenty-five bucks. I’ll go to a doctor.’
�
��Fair enough.’
Then she looked at me. And Rachel Bird, strong, mad, always sorted Rachel Bird looked weak and tired and scared. I hugged her. We were there a while.
‘Will you come with me?’ she whispered.
‘Course.’
fifty-eight
The doctor’s waiting room was the absolute polar opposite to the multicultural mayhem of mine in Camden. It looked like an upmarket Chinese restaurant. It was subtly lit. There was a huge aquarium along one wall. Copies of magazines that you wanted to read were neatly stacked in subject-related piles on a wooden table. There was a children’s area that made the Early Learning Centre look Buddhist. And there was only the male receptionist, who looked like he was reading a script, us, a man whom Rachel suspected was a pervert and a mother with a little boy there. So it was very quiet. At my doctor’s, there would have been one old copy of Fabulous and a dog-eared Iceland catalogue to fight over, nothing for a child to play with except a free booklet on cystitis, and it would have been noisy. Screaming children, punctuated by ‘Pack it in!’ and slaps from mothers and an elderly Italian man trying to chat up the teenage receptionist. Eamonn Nigels must have had the Hilton of health insurance. Poor Rachel had to fill in a three-hour written exam on a clipboard and write an eye-watering cheque before we even sat down. I thought it was worth it though. They were very comfy seats.
A ridiculously attractive lady in a pressed white coat opened a door.
‘Mr Washington?’ she smiled. Her teeth were mozzarella-white.
‘Oh my God, even the doctors here look like models!’ I whispered excitedly to Rach.
We watched the middle-aged man race into the consulting room behind her.
‘Bet there’s nothing wrong with him. Probably just wants her to stick her finger up his arse.’
I was pleased to see that impending motherhood hadn’t softened Rachel. I smiled at the small boy playing on the floor with some primary-coloured bricks.
‘Hello,’ I cooed. ‘Aaah, is that a smile for me?’ I said just as I realized that, of course, it wasn’t. No. The small boy was in fact starting to cry. Even with my experience of making small children cry I didn’t know what to do. Should I carry on smiling or leave well alone? I decided to keep smiling. He’d warm to me eventually. I mustn’t be frightened of him. He was only two.
‘Sorry,’ I mouthed to his mother as she picked him up.
‘I won’t ask you to babysit,’ whispered Rachel.
‘How you feeling?’
‘Weird.’
‘Mummy.’
‘Fuck right off,’ she said beautifully. But then a tiny smile landed on her mouth and, although she tried, she couldn’t get rid of it. I smiled too.
‘So, let’s talk about Simon – what now?’
My smile swiftly disappeared.
‘I just don’t know,’ I sighed.
‘Can’t believe you sent that text.’
‘Yeah, all right. I’m only taking constructive criticism at the moment.’
‘OK. How do we get him back?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Let’s write him another text.’
‘No, the texts aren’t working. He never responds to them.’
‘Wanker.’
‘Wanker,’ I said, louder than I had meant to.
‘Wanker,’ said the little boy.
He does like me after all!
‘Wanker, wanker, wanker,’ I said in a voice like Yogi Bear.
‘Wan . . .’ started the little boy until his mummy turned his head away from me.
‘I didn’t think they knew what “wanker” meant here.’
‘It’s LA, Sarah, they love Hugh Grant.’
‘Rachel?’
Another lady, late thirties, great figure, expensive shoes. Nothing like Britain.
‘Leave that poor child alone while I’m gone,’ Rachel joked as she got up. I grinned and nodded. But I wished I found it funny. I was crap with kids. And everyone was having them. You get to thirty, and bam: babies. I needed to get over my baby phobia. If Simon and I were to have a future his baby had to like me. I would have played with the little boy again but his mother had moved him from my sight and was now reading him a story. I picked up the Hollywood Reporter instead, and found myself engrossed in an article about Dolph Wax’s spiritualist. Eventually Rachel opened the door and reappeared. I looked at her in anticipation.
‘No baby,’ she said sadly, coming over.
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, I feel quite disappointed.’
‘Oh, Rach, I’m sorry.’
‘Nah, don’t be. They think I might be anaemic.’
‘Oh.’
‘Let’s go and have a martini.’
‘Cool.’
‘The thought of a teetotal nine months was giving me the fear.’
fifty-nine
‘We can’t have a fifth.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s only eight o’clock and we’re wankered!’ I said, pulling her raised arm down so the waiter wouldn’t come over.
‘So?’
‘I’m a professional actress.’
‘Are you shooting a scene tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t ever shoot scenes, darling. Are you sure you’re in this film?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many scenes are you in?’
‘Four.’
‘Ah, bless.’
‘Oh, sod it. Let’s have another.’
‘Huh!’ Rachel gasped. ‘I’ve got it!’
‘What?’
‘We’ll practise your striptease.’
‘No, we bloody won’t.’
‘Sare, I love you, but . . . oh my God, I do quite love you.’ She did an involuntary shudder, then welled up! She lunged towards me. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘Me too, ya nutter. But I’m not practising my stripping.’
‘Oh yeah, what was I saying? Oh yeah, your stripping. Sarah, now listen to me, you have to practise.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not exactly Kylie up there.’
‘Bitch.’
‘Darling, you’re not even Madge.’
‘Oh.’
‘Sweetheart, you’re barely Bouncer.’
‘Who the wank is Bouncer?’
‘The dog.’
‘Oooh, my phone vibrated.’
‘OK. OK. Ruth, blah blah, gardener with a massive dick,’ she sang. ‘Now, what does it say?’
‘Oh, it’s from Leo.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Well, what’s he saying? ‘He wants to meet to practise our scene.’
‘What happens in this scene?’
‘We have sex and then he kills me.’
‘Sarah, you’re really not the brightest, are you? Why don’t you stop pining for Simon and take your mind off things by practising that scene. A lot! Text him now. Say yes.’
I did what I was told but my hands were shaky. I was even more terrified of practising my scene with Leo than I was of actually shooting the scene with Leo. In a practice environment was I supposed to use tongues? Did you allow breast touching? And if the answer to those questions was yes, was that being unfaithful to Si? And if the answer was yes then I didn’t want to do it. It was fine to do it with a crew and a director there because that was my job. But if we did it on our own, then it became extra-curricular. And what if, and this was the awful question, what if we did practise and I enjoyed it? What if I spent an afternoon snogging Leo Clement and I enjoyed it? Where did that leave me and Si? You see, I didn’t trust myself not to enjoy it. Leo was gorgeous. And there was something about his lips and his eyes and his broadness that told me it would be lovely to kiss him. And if I kissed him and enjoyed it I knew that I would be wracked with guilt and bad things would happen to me.
‘When are you going to meet him for shag practice?’
‘Don’t call it that.’
‘Shag practice.’
‘Tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What are you going to wear?’
‘It’s a rehearsal! What does it matter?’ I exclaimed, having already thought of that question and panicked.
‘Come on, get up, Bouncer, and practise your strip routine. There’s no one around.’
We were on the hotel bar terrace. I looked around. It was deserted.
‘No.’
‘Woof.’
‘All right. But I’m just doing the moves.’
I stood in front of Rachel Bird. That was tricky enough after four martinis. I started a very lacklustre routine.
‘Sarah! Look like you enjoy it, at least a little bit.’
‘My character doesn’t enjoy her job.’
‘Clearly. But if she did it like that she wouldn’t have a job!’
‘Am I that bad?’
‘Truthfully?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re worse.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Pretend I’m Si.’
‘No,’ I said sadly. ‘That’s cruel.’
‘Come on. I’m Si.’ She sat back in her chair like a bloke.
‘Rach, stop being a freak.’
‘Come on, Sare,’ she said gruffly, doing a terrible impression of my Si.
I blame the four neat vodka drinks I had drunk to wash down my four-olive dinner. But I stood in front of her trying to imagine what Simon looked like. His face didn’t appear for ages. I couldn’t have forgotten what he looked like.
Suddenly he was there in my mind. And it was lovely. He was smiling. Which was nice because I was sure in real life he wouldn’t be smiling at me. He’d probably be sticking pins in a doll of me while discussing school catchment areas with Ruth. But in my imagination he was smiling at me in a saucy way.
‘Getting a bit of a semi, babe,’ he said.
I smiled.
‘It’ll be a bloody maxi after you’ve seen my hot stripping routine.’
(I was speaking in my head – Rachel would never have let me live it down otherwise.)
Simon laughed and pretended to adjust his four-foot penis in his pants. I started my opening breast jiggle.
The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend Page 20