50 Ways to Find a Lover (30 page)

‘I am mortified.’

‘If it had just been one of us, one could have woken the other one up.’

‘I am so mortified.’ He shakes his head. Being woken up by the woman in the seat next to him for snoring has really alarmed Eamonn. I feel much better though. The power nap and the small port I had at the theatre brought me back to life.

‘Well, as my mum would say, we must have needed it.’

‘I bet you have a lovely mum.’

‘I do! You’ll have to meet her!’

‘Shall we have pudding?’

‘Oh, let’s.’ I use my naughty-food voice. This is the same voice my mum uses when the subject of another glass of wine, a side order of chips or a pudding arises. I am turning into my mother. Not that my mother would be in this situation. My mother would have executed the genius plan, instead of weakly avoiding any references to acting or gay sons.

‘My son, Marcus, loves the desserts here.’

‘Oh really,’ I say, swallowing and getting ready to dive into the opening. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a photographer,’ Eamonn says. ‘I’m very proud of him.’

‘Hang on, I have a friend called Marcus who’s a photographer,’ I say brilliantly. ‘Of course – I know your son, his name is Marcus Nigels, he’s great and so is his boyfriend Clive. They’re a lovely couple.’ I have executed part of the plan. I sigh and smile. It’s like the relief of a pee after three and a half pints of lager.

‘Oh no. That’s not him.’

‘Oh?’

‘No, Marcus isn’t gay.’

‘Oh.’

‘At least not that I know,’ says Eamonn, and then he does his Mexican-wave laugh. And I join him. I laugh. We laugh together and then order a sticky toffee pudding to share. He doesn’t know his son’s gay. He doesn’t know I’m an actress. I’m starting to feel as though I got a job by lying on my CV. Under ‘Skills’ I brazenly typed the words ‘Microsoft Excel’. Now I’m at the office looking at boxes on a screen and waiting to be uncovered for fraud. The problem with lies is that, unlike spots, they don’t get better the longer you leave them. They get worse. A lot worse. Come on, Sarah, you have to tell him that you’re an actress.

‘Eamonn, there’s something I need to . . .’ I start. But he looks at me. He grabs my hand as though for support and says the word ‘Maggie’ in the way you might say the words ‘traffic warden’.

‘You what?’ It’s not very articulate but sometimes it slips out.

‘Maggie!’ he repeats. This time he imbues the word with so much forced delight it sounds as though someone has firmly squeezed his scrotum. He jumps up and opens his arms and begins to kiss the air about a foot from the cheeks of a woman in a head-to-foot oatmeal ensemble. It is a brave move to match an oatmeal woollen two-piece with an oatmeal scarf and oatmeal shoes. Even the woman’s hair is oatmeal. She looks like porridge with lips. She squints at me.

‘And what’s this then, Eamonn?’ She sounds as though she’s asked for mustard in a non-gastro pub and it’s come in a sachet.

‘I’m Sarah,’ I say, endeavouring to demonstrate that I am human as opposed to Heinz.

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Now she’s cooing like I’m a brand-new Magimix. Maggie and people like her have a strong and strange effect on me. I want to make knob gags or butt-plug jokes.

‘Oh, I’m not lovely. I’m filthy,’ I say sweetly. My response isn’t as bad as it could have been, but Eamonn’s eyebrows move nearer and nearer his hairline.

‘So how are the children?’ carries on Maggie.

‘Fine, fine, you know,’ says Eamonn.

‘Marcus is doing well, isn’t he? Now tell me, though, has he got himself a lovely woman yet? Are you going to be a grandaddy?’

I start to intently brush some breadcrumbs off the tablecloth.

‘Well,’ starts Eamonn very slowly. It is the sort of ‘well’ commonly used to precede fine-quality gossip.

‘Oh, tell all!’ says Maggie, close to climaxing.

‘Well,’ says Eamonn again.

All the crumbs on the table are now in a neat little pile.

‘Oh, tell all. Is she lovely?’ pants Maggie.

‘I would think so. Marcus’s ladies normally are.’

‘What’s her name? Will there be a wedding?’ Maggie multiple-orgasms.

‘Well. He hasn’t told me, of course. But I saw it in the
Mirror
today. Don’t look at me like that, Maggie. I have to read it at the moment in case there’s any gossip about my film. Anyway, there was a picture of my son with a mystery woman rushing in here. I think she might be very high-profile and that’s why he’s keeping her quiet.’

Maggie clasps her hands together in reverential bliss. She releases a quivering sigh. She’ll probably flout the smoking ban and light a post-coital fag next.

‘So then, how do you two know each other?’

‘Oh, I’ve been serving Eamonn breakfast for years,’ I say cheerfully.

Maggie laughs until I fear she might prolapse. I study a bit of spit foaming in the corner of her mouth, hoping it won’t land on me. But Maggie is stalwart. She recomposes herself and takes a step towards Eamonn.

‘Are you up to speed with Jeremy’s back?’ she says earnestly. Maggie asks this question with such conviction that her spit bubble flies free from her mouth and makes a crash landing in the oatmeal scarf. ‘Did you
hear
what the specialist said?’

Watching Maggie talking is like watching an episode of
Monty Python
but not being able to laugh. I find not being able to laugh testing because:

The first three stages of laughter can be disguised. Stage four, which is loud, uncontrollable, dirty laughter, cannot. I avert my gaze from Maggie and look at Eamonn to stop myself laughing. But Eamonn looks even more earnest than Maggie. He has sucked in his cheeks and is nodding intently as Maggie drones on about the dangers of not getting gardening injuries seen to straight away. He is saying, ‘Oh, ghastly, oh, ghastly.’

I hit number four instantly. It occurs to me while I am laughing that Jeremy’s back probably isn’t a laughing issue. But I can’t stop. If Jeremy limped over to the table now wearing a neck brace I wouldn’t be able to stop laughing. I have never met Jeremy but I can see his collar and stick and his oatmeal jumper and he’s groaning, ‘Oh, my back.’ Now Jeremy is being carried around on a stretcher in my mind and I am laughing so much that my stomach feels as though it’s doing the abs section of a workout video. Maggie and Eamonn look at me as though I am a rapidly declining share price.

I make my excuses and go to the toilet. I don’t need the toilet. I need to recover from my paroxysm. I look in the mirror. Instantly I start to cry. Quickly switching from laughter to tears is something I would rather be able to do on stage than at The Ivy. I apologize to the elegant lady standing next to me aligning her nipples in the mirror. I make wet-toilet-roll patties and place them under my eyes to reduce puffiness and stop myself crying. The ladies in the Ivy toilets regard me like they might regard their home help masturbating in the nursery.

This is feeling like an interminable bad joke without a punchline. I shouldn’t be here with Eamonn. I like him but even if he knew I was an actress and he knew his son was gay he is still from a different generation. What if all his friends are like Maggie? I would have nothing in common with them. I don’t have children or a gardening injury and I would want to throw darts at all their heads. Oh God, why do I feel so sad? God doesn’t answer so I wash my face, slap on a smile and return to the table.

Maggie is still doing stealth medical talking. This time it’s someone called Celia’s biopsy. Eamonn is holding the credit-card machine. Standing behind Eamonn is Sebastian, who served Marcus and me last night. His face lights up when he sees me. His mouth opens. He’s going to say something to me about last night. The word ‘bollocks’ repeats in my head. Sarah Sargeant, say something now. And try not to laugh or cry. I open my mouth. Maggie beats me to it.

‘Now then, young man,’ she turns to the waiter, ‘Eamonn’s son was here last night, he’s a young photographer, very handsome, Marcus Nigels is his name, and we have reason to believe he was here with a famous young lady!’ Maggie can’t even mention this subject without climaxing. Sebastian looks terrified. Eamonn looks exhausted. I look at my shoes.

‘Oh er,’ starts Sebastian. He must be waiting for me to say something. I can’t. I keep up the pretence that my shoes are fascinating.

‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, madame, I wasn’t working last night. But I’ll see what I can find out about her.’

I am so impressed that I look up from my shoes. As I do he delivers the smallest of winks in my direction. What a brilliant restaurant to be duplicitous in. Sebastian is so good I want to tell Eamonn to put him in a film.

Maggie disappears with more air kissing and some parting words that make me shiver. ‘Jeremy and I must have you both over for dinner.’

Eamonn turns to me and gives me another of those warm, firm man-hugs. He’s not wearing the cashmere but it’s still comforting, like being inside a Cornish pasty.

‘Sorry about that, Sarah,’ he starts.

‘Don’t be silly, she’s your friend. She was nice.’ Without doubt this is the worst bit of acting anyone has ever done. It even outclasses the time I saw an amateur production of
Hamlet
in High Wycombe and the actor said, ‘To be or . . .’, completely forgot the rest and started crying.

I look up at Eamonn. He’s smiling at me with a dreamy look in his eyes. Oh my God, he’s going to kiss me in The Ivy! I think, and it’s the last thought I have before he kisses me in The Ivy! With his tongue! Blimey!

forty

‘Do you think we should ask Si if we look like men in drag?’ I ask. ‘I can never tell.’

Julia and I might have got carried away applying glittery Mac products to the tunes of Eighties disco and bottles of Magners.

‘Nah. We’re all right,’ replies Julia, the eye-make-up umpire.

We continue to apply mascara.

‘Cockalada?’ I ask.

‘Don’t mind if I do. Your flat’s my spiritual home with all these cocks in it.’

‘I’ll get one out of the fridge.’ I clamber over boxes to get out of the room. In the hallway I meet a walking bunch of flowers, cellophane and purple ribbon.

‘Fuck me! Si! That’s a bunch of flowers and a half! Ruth’ll be ecstatic.’

Simon cocks the bouquet to the side so we can see each other. ‘I don’t do flowers, Sare. I would rather spend thirty quid on a gift that didn’t die. I would for example spend thirty quid on a moonlit picnic, or a . . .’

‘Hmm,’ I mumble. It’s generally best not to encourage Simon’s flowers rant. It can go on.

‘You off to sing “I Will Survive” again?’ he asks. I knew we should have sought cosmetic advice earlier.

‘It’s Nikki’s hen night,’ I say defensively.

‘Are you going to take these?’ he proffers.

‘Are they for me?’ I shriek. I take them as though I am a prima ballerina at the end of a devastating performance of
Swan Lake
.