50 Ways to Find a Lover (25 page)

Eamonn does look handsome tonight. He’s wearing a loose-fitting charcoal suit with a blue and grey stripy jumper underneath.

‘Shall we have some champagne to start with?’ he offers.

‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I reply politely. I think it’s safe to say Eamonn doesn’t read women’s blogs.

Eamonn smiles. ‘If I’m to be honest this is my second favourite place to eat. My first is a small café I have breakfast in every weekend.’

‘Oh, yes, the service is great there, I’ve heard. You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that there’s a Carluccio’s up the road. It does a really nice breakfast. I don’t know why you persevere with those awful eggs.’

‘Well, there’s an added attraction in that café,’ he says, looking into my eyes. I stare back at him. Eamonn Nigels has been eating crap eggs every week because he likes me. In the nick of time I stop myself saying, ‘Fuck me!’

The waitress serves us our champagne. She gives me a funny metal spike. Presumably to help me eat my bone marrow.

‘Cheers,’ Eamonn says. ‘It’s lovely to see you being waited upon rather than the other way around.’

‘Hmmm. So please, tell me all about your amazing film career,’ I say as I fiddle with the spiky implement.

‘Oh, I just make films,’ he says modestly.

‘You are a genius,’ I correct him. ‘
The Road Below
was the first film I ever watched at the cinema. My sister took me to see it five times. I’ve seen all your films. What are you doing at the moment?’

‘A new film. A love story actually.’ Eamonn talks passionately about his film and what he loves about the story until the friendly waitress puts a huge plate of plump oysters and shallot vinaigrette in front of him. She puts a plate of old bones in front of me.

‘Your bone marrow, madame,’ she informs me. She flirted with my date. She’s given me old bones. She’s called me ‘madame’. Madame! When did that happen? Surely I’m a mademoiselle. I fight a staggering urge to hurt her with this spiky implement.

‘Lovely,’ I say.

Fuck, I think.

I pick up my metal prong. I look at the old bones. What am I supposed to do? Play them? How can I eat a bone with a prong? My only option is to see if anyone else is eating bone marrow so I can copy them.

‘I’m so sorry, Eamonn, I just want to quickly wash my hands,’ is my brilliant subterfuge.

Once up, I start my predatory walk for bone-marrow eaters. My eyes dart from side to side like I’m umpiring a ping-pong game. I am looking up. I am not looking down so I don’t see the pink handbag at my feet. I say handbag but it could double as a holdall suitable for travelling for months across Asia. It belongs to the lady in the fuchsia blouse. I tumble over it.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she cries, putting her knife and fork down. And using her hands, her triceps, her biceps and making a Geoff Capes grunt, she drags her bag under her table.

The word ‘bollocks’ comes out of my mouth. I steady myself on another table where luckily a fat man sits eating bone marrow. He prods the middle of the bone and goo comes out. The goo looks like bogeys. He eats the bogey goo. I make the face a child does when forced to eat their one Christmas Brussels sprout.

Back at our table Eamonn is waiting for me before he starts eating. I push my prodder inside a big bit of bone. I fish out some globules of fat.

‘Hmmm,’ I coo. ‘This looks delicious.’

‘These oysters are divine. Would you like to try one?’

‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ve got all this lovely bone marrow to get through.’ I create as much saliva in my mouth as I can, take a bit of marrow and then quickly swallow. It’s starting to feel more like a Bushtucker Trial than a date.

Eamonn finishes his oysters and is intently watching me prodding my bone.

‘Gosh, I’m being so rude. Would you like to try some of this delicious bone marrow?’

‘No, I’m fine. You enjoy it,’ he says, smiling.

‘Oh I will, I will,’ I say emphatically.

Oh God, I can’t take any more, I think.

I load lots of goo on to a piece of bread and bite into the whole lot. I chew quickly and swallow.

‘Hmm. I think I’ll save myself for the beef now,’ I say, putting my knife and prodder down and draining my glass of champagne quickly. Please, God, let the beef be normal, not served with its head on.

‘Um, I have to ask, are you married?’ I say.

‘No. I wouldn’t be here with you if I was, Sarah,’ he says seriously.

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you; it’s just that recently I started seeing a man and it emerged that he had a girlfriend and I wouldn’t want that to happen again. Not that we’re seeing each other. But you know what I mean.’ I gulp my freshly topped-up champagne.

‘Of course you’re quite right to ask. I have been married. Four times in fact.’ Eamonn smiles at me and takes both my hands in is. It’s a lovely gesture, sexy and protective.

‘Do you like wedding cake?’ I blurt. I’m turning into my dad.

‘Not any more,’ he laughs.

‘So your marriages were small and perfectly formed?’

‘Not really. Three were to actresses who married me for the wrong reasons. It took me a long time to learn. I imposed an actress ban. To keep things simple. My fourth wife wasn’t an actress but she died in a plane crash.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say. A look of real grief flickers across his face. Now doesn’t seem like a great time to mention my largely dormant dramatic career.

‘Do you have children?’ I say instead.

‘Yes, two, a son from the first marriage and a daughter from the third.’ His face brightens as he thinks of them.

‘Oh, really. How old are they?’

‘Oh, my daughter is fifteen – she lives in Paris with her mother – and my son is thirty-one and in London.’

‘Oh lovely,’ I say, which is what I tend to say when things aren’t lovely at all. He’s got a son who’s older than me! I start to panic. I’ve stopped breathing. I must breathe. Breathing is important. I smile at Eamonn for a few moments and concentrate on not suffocating. He smiles back at me. Eamonn has a lovely smile. We are still holding hands. I decide that I can deal with his son. With one proviso: he doesn’t call me ‘Mummy’.

We look up at the waitress, who’s appeared with our beef. No head, no bone, no skin. Just beautiful, tender, juicy meat.

‘Oh, will you excuse me for a moment, Sarah?’

‘Are you going for a quick pee?’

Eamonn looks embarrassed. Then he scuttles to the loo.

There is a tap on my shoulder. It is a handsome man with reddish hair and freckles. He looks about my age but he’s not my type. He looks like he does something with bonds and trusts, but he’s smiling so I smile back.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Um, hi, I’m Graham. I, um, I never do this, sorry, and I know you’re out with your dad and I think that’s great. But, um, here’s my card. I’d love to take you out for dinner.’

I stop smiling swiftly. I start to feel sick and I don’t think it’s the bone marrow.

thirty-two

‘More money, more breaks,’ Julia yells like an emphatic picketer.

‘BUPA health insurance package,’ I plead next to her.

Julia and I are greeting the menopausal owner as she steps out of her sports car. We do this routine once a month on the only day when we are pleased to see the boss: pay day. Not that I’ll get much money from her today. I’m still paying back the lonely-hearts £50.

The menopausal owner was christened Glenda. However, she has been referred to by all staff as ‘the menopausal owner’ since I started the job seven years ago. She is the Alexis Carrington of catering. She is in an indiscernible place in middle age. But she has recently started to look less and less lined and more and more startled with each pay day. Today she wears shades, a burgundy cape and expensive shoes.

‘Julia, good-morning. It’s nice to see you still have a voice like a fishwife. And will someone finally be coming to pick up that turquoise heap parked in front of my café for salvage today?’

‘Hello, boss. How about some team-building workshops in Barbados?’

‘Sarah, still with us. Not famous yet?’ cuts Glenda, turning on me.

‘The catering industry’s not ready to lose me yet, Glenda.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, Sarah,’ she says, swooping past us and trying to get into her own café.

‘One other thing,’ I add. ‘Julia’s not averse to getting impregnated by a well-hung DJ tonight. I was thinking it might be a good idea to discuss the maternity package you offer now.’

‘And I have to tell you that a gentleman found one of Sarah’s pubic lice in his scrambled egg; I think he’ll sue,’ counters Julia. ‘And she’s started to date the customers so there’ll be an infestation.’

‘Dating the customers?’ asks Glenda, spinning around.

‘No, of course not,’ I scoff.

‘Good. I pay you ladies to work, not flirt with customers.’ She sashays through the café to the kitchen to bellow at the chefs.

‘Jules!’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want her knowing I went out with Eamonn Nigels!’

‘All right, Sare. Calm down. I wonder whether he’ll be in today?’

‘He’s probably in Carluccio’s,’ I say sadly.

It has been a whole week since the Bushtucker Trial date with Eamonn Nigels. I haven’t heard a word from him. It’s another blow-out for my comprehensive collection.

‘Simon says if you haven’t heard from a bloke in a week he thinks you’re a minger,’ I say.

‘Well, he thinks you’re a minger then.’

‘Bitch.’

‘Sare, after you went on the date you were going, “Oh no! He’s too old for me! He doesn’t like actresses! I can’t see him again.”’ She pulls a pained face and clutches her chest melodramatically. She looks like she’s doing quite a good audition for a Rennies commercial.

‘I did not talk like that.’

‘You’ve only decided you like Eamonn Nigels now because he doesn’t want you.’

‘Hmmm,’ I mumble miserably, looking at the cake cabinet. A piece of cheesecake is flirting outrageously with me. She sits there quivering with freshness. A small piece of fresh strawberry glistens on her creamy moistness. I lick my lips.

‘Are you not having anything to eat?’ says Julia.

‘No,
Casualty
tomorrow. I’m crash-dieting.’

‘Are you excited?’