50 Ways to Find a Lover (26 page)

‘Yep,’ I say, picking up the piece of cheesecake and smelling it. ‘Quest No. Five: Pulling a Straight Man Who Works in Telly.’

Julia raises her eyebrows at me. ‘You’re unbelievable,’ she says, and I don’t think she means it in a good way.

‘Jules, I have to keep doing stuff. My hits are falling. I averaged only sixty-three per day last week. That’s terrible.’

Julia replies by taking a huge forkful of the wobbly cheesecake which is under my nose.

‘Oh, you cow,’ I say through all the saliva in my mouth.

thirty-three

It’s a well-known fact that people meet their other halves in the workplace. People who work in offices are always banging their naked loins against Viking Direct boxes. Hence, Sarah Sargeant is going to try to meet someone in a working environment. Pulling on a TV job is my most ambitious quest yet. Time is of the essence. The key is to meet as many men as possible. To do this I need to introduce myself to everyone and try to make them like me and find me attractive.

Simon lent me a book called
Skill With People
last October. I didn’t read it. I just looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What are you trying to say?’

Anyway, last night I ransacked my room searching for it. I eventually found it inside an old theatre programme under my pile of unopened official-looking letters. I started reading. It was radical. It stated:

‘Huh, people are so shallow,’ I scoffed.

But then I considered my own life. I realized that most people bore me unless they are telling me how brilliant I am, and I have a blog about myself. I decided that the book was on to something.

So today I shall be a fundamentalist. My antics will be based on a careful reading of this extremist literature. For three hours on my television shoot I will:

I hope I meet someone. I can feel the Eamonn Nigels rejection sucking me back into the old world of fear. I need a good day today to put it behind me and get my blog readers back.

The only problem is it’s 7 a.m. and I stayed up late reading the bloody book. I know I should introduce myself to some of the bulky-framed men in anoraks who are bustling around me but I’m so tired. There’s only one loud thought in my sleepy head: I need coffee, instantly.

A tall handsome blond man holding a walkie-talkie appears before me.

‘Way aye. Sarah Sargeant is it, man? I’m Gus, the second AD.’

He’s really handsome. He holds a walkie-talkie and therefore a position of power. And curry with chips on the side, he’s Northern! I have been an avid supporter of the regional accent ever since getting aroused for the first time while watching Sean Bean in
Lady Chatterley’s
Lover
.

I stand there opening and closing my mouth and eyes for a moment, imagining his slightly grubby hands ripping my shirt open before bending me over my dad’s Black & Decker Workmate. He realizes that I am unable to form sentences at such an early hour. He looks at me in a bemused manner and says, ‘You need a coffee, man!’

He leads me to coffee. It’s instant. Not his passion for me, sadly, the coffee is instant. I inform God that I asked for coffee instantly, not instant coffee, there is a big difference down here. Second AD is funny. He takes four sugars in his tea and obviously plays the guitar as he has one disturbingly long fingernail.

‘So how long have you worked on the show?’ I say, playing with my hair.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he says, turning away from me when his walkie-talkie starts to crackle.

Bugger, I think as he rushes off. Caffeinated CPR has brought me back to life and I want to talk to the Gorgeous Geordie.

I stand clutching my second cup of coffee, looking around for another man to talk to. I see a lot of huge men milling about. I find the smallest of them. I stand near him and smile. This man is small but perfectly formed. He has amazing eyes, like big brown moons with long delicate eyelashes, a tiny nose and small kind mouth. If I were a sculptor I would want to sculpt him.

‘Looking for the toilet, love?’ he says kindly.

‘Um . . . er . . . ha . . . um,’ I mumble. I can’t think of any questions.

‘Bit sleepy, are you?’

I can hear some big men behind me laughing. It’s like the time I got my skirt tucked into my knickers at youth club when I was thirteen.

‘Seven a.m.! Best hour of the day, that’s my motto,’ I say brightly while thinking, Shut up now, Sarah. You’re not funny and people think you’re weird. I ignore my own brilliant advice. ‘Been up for hours! Do you like getting up?’

I see him register the stupidity of the question. I see him search for a witty retort. Then the gorgeous Geordie appears and slaps him on the back.

‘Oi, you, get to make-up.’

Bollocks and wank. He’s an actor. I thought he was someone with a proper job.

‘And I need to take you to your trailer.’

‘Yippee. Trailer. Sex and drugs!’ I holler. This makes Geordie man laugh. He’s got nice teeth despite the sugar, and a dirty cackle.

‘I’m not sure you’ll be doing much sex or drugs. You’re sharing with Maureen, she’s eighty-two.’ His bloody walkie-talkie whinges again. He points me to my trailer and rushes away.

I open the trailer door and sitting in front of me is an elderly lady with grey hair and a cosy, cuddly physique. She’s knitting something in a ghastly purple colour. I smile warmly at her.

‘You must be Maureen.’

‘Yes, nice to meet you, Sarah.’ She smiles. ‘I won’t shake your hand as I’m coming to the end of a row, but help yourself to a Polo mint.’ She gestures her head towards a pack of Polos nestled in between her balls of wool on the seat beside her.

I take a Polo and get into my costume. I practise my two and a half lines ten times, looking in the mirror. Maureen looks up from her knitting.

‘You’re very hard-working, aren’t you, Sarah?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Do you have a stutter, love?’ she asks, concerned.

‘Only when I’m playing small parts. More time on camera.’

‘Very clever.’ She nods approvingly.

‘What are you knitting?’

‘A nice jumper for my grandson.’

‘Oh, how lovely!’ I exclaim. Poor boy, I think.

There is a knock on my trailer door and someone shouts one of my favourite words, ‘Breakfast!’

‘I love breakfast!’ I howl. Maureen chuckles. ‘Shall I bring you some breakfast, Maureen?’

‘Oh no, thank you, love. I had my porridge earlier.’ She smiles. ‘But it was kind of you to ask.’

I race like a whippet to the breakfast trailer. Breakfast trailers are greasy spoons that move. Cool. I join the queue in the drizzly rain. Other actors I know get jobs on beaches in South Africa or the Maldives. I get somewhere off the M1.

I’m getting slightly panicky about what to have. I’m not very good at making food decisions. I’m terrified of missing out on something better. I could order the scrambled egg; it might be cold and hard, and someone in front of me might choose a classic sausage and ketchup sandwich, which might look amazing. The result is food disappointment. And lunch is hours away.

I turn to the massive bald man who is standing in front of me.

‘What are you going to have?’

‘Kippers.’

‘Kippers!’ I respond as though I am five and he’s said, ‘Poo.’

‘He has ’em every day,’ says his friend.

‘My grandad used to eat them,’ volunteers the giant kipper man.

‘Oh, that’s nice, so did my Uncle Peter. But I might be burping fish in my scene,’ I say.

‘He’s not so considerate.’

‘What do you have?’ I say, remembering I need to ask lots of questions to be loved.

‘Bacon sandwich.’

‘Mmm. It’s a classic.’ I applaud him. Small Man Who Thought I Needed the Loo appears behind me in the queue, looking unbelievably sexy in a dark suit.

‘Have you woken up yet?’ he asks me.

‘You look gorgeous in your suit,’ I say excitedly. I realize instantly that it was an inappropriate thing to say to an actor.

‘Thank you kindly. It’s a nice one, isn’t it?’ He smiles at me. Blimey, this book is brilliant. He loves me now that I’ve flattered him.

‘What will you be having for breakfast?’ I ask.

‘Oooh, it has to be a bacon sandwich.’

‘Bacon sandwich, never lets you down. We were just saying.’

What ensues is a full-blown passionate dialogue about food. I order the scrambled-egg-and-bacon roll. People are rightly impressed. The egg is not as runny as I’d like. I am euphoric nevertheless. I have made a vital discovery: the art of conversation is talking about food. I suspect we shall all spend Christmas together, we get on so well.

I return to my trailer flushed, breathless and excited. I wish I had my laptop with me. I’d like to start blogging about my discovery straight away. I could even write a book,
Bacon Sandwiches and the Art of Love
. Maureen has obviously been dozing. She wakes with a start when I open the door.

‘Marcus?’ she jumps.

‘Who? No, it’s Sarah. Sorry to wake you, Maureen.’

‘Don’t you worry, love.’ She leans forward and starts to wave her arms around in the direction of the floor. I surmise she is probably trying to pick her knitting up from where it fell, but owing to her rather large bosom and girth she’s having some difficulty. I hand her the knitting.

‘Thank you, love. I should really start doing yoga.’