50 Ways to Find a Lover (33 page)

‘Sare. What is wrong with you today?’

‘Si, Flora found this love letter on Bertrand’s computer about how much he loves a girl called Sarah.’

‘What?’ asks Si.

I watch Simon’s reactions closely. I became an expert in the behavioural traits of deceivers when I played Goneril all those years ago. If he knows something and is trying to cover it up, he might

Simon doesn’t do either. But he does take a step backwards, which I think indicates surprise.

‘A proper love letter, all “I know I’m with someone else blah blah but I’m yours if you want me”.’

Simon winces. I don’t know what a wince means.

‘So has he said anything else about me?’

‘Er, no. Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll call Bertrand later and see what I can find out. It’s probably something work-related.’

He clearly said, ‘Er,’ which might mean he’s uncomfortable.

‘Si, it didn’t look like graphic design. It was a Word document.’

‘Sare, calm down. I’ll talk to him in a bit. Please let me have another half-hour in bed. Get back to your blogging.’

I retreat to my room. But I know that Simon’s concerned about Bertrand and Nikki’s forthcoming wedding because:

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‘It’s so big,’ I say sadly, looking over my right shoulder into the mirror behind.

‘Calm down, Sare, you look great,’ soothes Si.

‘We could be Mexicans as well! You can’t use nurses and a Mexican to sell a product. Where’s the branding in that? You’ve got to think about branding, Si! Can’t I have a nice floor-length poncho? Please, Si, please.’ I’m nearly crying. I do not want to wear this outfit to Club Whack next week. PVC is crap. I look like a giant condom. I smell like an antiseptic wipe.

The doorbell goes.

‘That’ll be Julia,’ I say. I need to get Julia on my side. We need to lay down our terms. Form a union. Ponchos, not PVC. I open the door.

‘Oh good gracious me,’ blushes the man from Flat 3. ‘Hello, Sarah.’

‘Ah!’

‘Now then, we’ve had some work done on the leak and I just wanted to check your damp patch,’ he says, composing himself. ‘Shall I go through?’

The man from Flat 3 and I are facing each other. If I turn around normally he will see my bum trying to escape from a small, overstretched piece of plastic. I start to walk slowly backwards. Every time I take a step he follows. It looks like we’re playing What’s the Time Mr Wolf: The Sex Game.

‘Woah!’ cries the man from Flat 3. ‘Stop there, Sarah. You’ll have that lamp over. I’ll just pop in the lounge there. I’ll show myself out.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. I like him. He’s always polite despite probably thinking that I am a low-class prostitute who operates only metres above his head. The doorbell again. Julia. I rush to get it.

‘Julia,’ I say, relieved not to see the man from Flat 1 concerned about grouting.

‘Brilliant costume,’ she gushes, charging past me to the bedroom.

‘Are you taking the piss?’ I say, trailing her.

Julia has her costume on in no time. I haven’t seen her like this over clothes since she hosted a hookers-and-pimps party for her twenty-first. She starts giggling and flirting with Simon. I pick up my laptop to check whether I have any new comments. Simon sees me.

‘Sarah! What are you doing?’

‘I’m just checking my blog.’

‘Jesus, Sare. Hello! We’re real people and we’re in the room. Why don’t you interact with us instead of going on-bloody-line?’

‘Calm down, stroppy. I’m just going to see if I’ve got some new comments,’ I humph. I do have a new comment. Another poetic plea from Perfect P.

When I read one of these dreadful poems I get weaker and weaker. Today I think, Oh he can’t really have a girlfriend if he’s able to write a love eulogy on another woman’s blog. Yet my logical mind knows his girlfriend could be out having coffee or at a yoga class. She’s bound to be at yoga. She’s bound to be bendy. God, I hate her. Sorry, God.

I’m distracted by the semi-naked nurse and the mad Mexican. They’re both laughing. Julia just squirted Cocka-lada at Simon. Simon is saying, ‘Easy, tiger.’

I don’t want them to get together. It feels wrong. Really wrong. Like Julia-kissing-my-dad wrong.

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I am the only person in the whole of Club Whack with cellulite. There can only be two reasons for this:

Julia looks so good someone is bound to ask her to do a photo shoot with a penis pump and some extreme restraints. She’ll probably become the face of Club Whack. She has also been hiding creative talents under her bushels. She is a master of role play, improvisation and acting. I wonder whether she could get Arts Council funding for her Cockalada routine. It’s very inventive.

She nestles a Cockalada in between her breasts. Not so much ‘nestles’ as ‘wedges with force’ – there isn’t much space down there. Once in place, the phenomenally realistic bell end peeps out of her cleavage like a lost ferret. She approaches a fetishist with purpose and pride. She touches her hand to his or her forehead and says, ‘Oooh, you’re feeling hot.’ For the purpose of this role play Julia speaks as though she’s introducing shows on a late-night porn channel. ‘I’ve got some medicine to make you feel better. Open your mouth for me, handsome/sexy/gorgeous.’ Then she leans forward, squeezing her breasts together. The Cockalada ejaculates its liquid into the mouth/eye/dog collar of the man or woman. At that point they generally have their £4.50 out to buy one and Julia exits.

I haven’t got the hang of being in a fetish club, let alone selling Cockaladas. The biggest problem is eyeline. In a fetish club you have to look up. If your gaze falls beneath neck level you’re fucked. It is especially important that I don’t look down because when I look down and see private hairy places and pale butchers’ sausages I pull a strange face. It’s my bone marrow/Brussels sprout face. People don’t take kindly to this face when it’s in response to their genitals. This is why I’m hiding in the corner behind a big wooden thing, drinking a double vodka and tonic. I am watching the action. Simon looks very stressed. He’s darting around the room as though he’s lost something. Oh bugger! I think he was looking for me. His hands are raised in a gesture of despair and he’s coming this way.

‘What are you doing in the dark dungeon corner?’

‘The what?’

‘This wooden thing’s the rack. I’d get away from it, Sare, or someone’ll have you on it.’

‘Oh. I don’t like it here, Si, please can I go home?’

‘Sare, you said you’d help me out.’ He’s having trouble with his cheap stick-on moustache. It keeps sliding off and into his open mouth.

‘Go and help Jules.’

‘Evil boss man,’ I humph. I stand still and look for Julia. I spot her on the other side of the room, tapping a man’s bare bottom with a riding crop. The man is chained to a wall. The man’s bottom looks pink and painful. The man’s face looks sweaty and ecstatic. Julia hands the riding crop to a lady in her fifties in head-to-toe PVC. The older lady gives the riding crop some welly.

‘Ouch,’ I grimace.

‘Aaaww,’ winces Simon.

‘Do I have to go out there?’ I whine.

‘Yes!’ he says, slapping me on the bum. I tumble forwards. I relent.

‘Would you like to see my cocks?’ I eventually chirp in an Eliza Doolittle Cockney voice.

To my amazement people start walking towards me. Hands go down PVC to produce notes. People giggle and suck on the cocks. Everybody is very polite.

A naked man in a dog collar says in the Queen’s English, ‘I’m so terribly sorry, darling, my mistress is just putting her coat in the cloakroom. She carries the money; if I’m a good boy she might buy me one.’