50 Ways to Find a Lover (34 page)

‘You don’t look like a good boy to me. You look very naughty,’ I scold, finally getting into the spirit of things.

I hear Julia’s sultry voice next to me, saying, ‘You look very hot.’ But then she shrieks, ‘Oh my God! I didn’t recognize you. You’re out of context.’

‘Off you go, you bad boy,’ I sing to my well spoken submissive before turning around to see what Julia is screeching about.

When I see the man she’s talking to, I say the word ‘fuck’ very slowly.

It’s Eamonn Nigels. He’s clutching his eye and saying the word ‘ow’. A bit of Cockalada dribbles down his cheek. He is not dressed in fetish gear. He is wearing a pair of jeans and a creased checked shirt. His hair is unbrushed and there are dark hammocks under his eyes. Tonight, for the first time, he looks nearly sixty. I don’t know the protocol for bumping into a man you’re seeing in a fetish club.

‘I thought you were in LA,’ I say.

‘I was. I flew back early,’ he tells me. He could at least act embarrassed that I’ve just exposed him as a pervert.

‘You flew back early to come here?’ I ask incredulously.

He sighs deeply. I start to feel guilty. He’s come here for a night of frenzied and sustained spanking and who should he meet but the woman he’s seeing?

‘Sarah, I’m going to go to the bar and get a drink. Then can we find a dark corner to sit in and have a chat?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Although you have to be quite wary of dark corners in here.’ I am still speaking in the Cockney accent. He’ll never cast me in anything now.

Eamonn makes a deft move towards the bar.

‘Fuck me. Who’d have thought Eamonn Nigels was into this sort of thing?’ whispers Julia.

‘I know!’ I exclaim. I start to wonder if I have led a sheltered life.

‘Curious,’ she says half to herself. Then she plasters on her Cockalada grin and gets back to the nursing.

I watch Eamonn Nigels buy a drink at the bar. When he’s taken a few prolonged glugs I join him.

‘So, how was LA?’ I accidentally drop my gaze. I see the back view of an elderly man, wearing nothing but a tool-belt, bending down to tie his shoelaces. I look up quickly.

‘Fine,’ he says. He doesn’t look at me. He surveys the room and its occupants.

‘Look, I just want to say I don’t usually come here. I’m helping my flatmate with a new business venture,’ I stammer. I feel it’s important to get this straight in case he invites me to his house, puts a gimp mask on and unlocks his dungeon.

‘Sarah, what you do is your business. And the Internet’s, it seems.’

Eamonn is bitterer than a barrel of Best. I’m not sure whether my heart or the bass line is thumping more.

‘I knew you would be here tonight. I read it on your blog.’

‘Ah.’

‘Look, what I really want to know is—’ He stops suddenly and looks so tired I want to take him straight home and tuck him up in bed. ‘Is my son gay?’

It is an easy question. I know the answer. However, I can’t tell him.

‘Um. Why do you ask?’

‘Sarah, I was at my LA office today and my PA was giggling away over the computer. I asked her what she was reading and she said the blog of this actress/waitress woman in London. Well, I read some of it over her shoulder. It was all about me. Obviously about me and you. How you had two identical dates back to back with the father and son. All about the age difference. The bone marrow. Sorry you didn’t like it, by the way. And Maggie! My God, I hope she doesn’t read it.’

I cringe. I took Clive’s bitching advice to an extreme with Maggie.

‘But I’m a father and the fact that my son can’t even tell me he’s gay hurts.’ Another sigh. Then a steely look directed at me. ‘I want to know if it’s true.’

This is all happening so quickly. I can’t answer. I’m still getting over the fact that someone in LA was reading my blog!

‘Is it?’ he asks again, impatience in his voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Right,’ he says. He looks down. I want to warn him about that but I don’t.

‘I’m really sorry, Eamonn.’

‘I’ve had a whole flight to think things through. I’ll take Marcus out to lunch tomorrow and ask him outright. The other thing I’ve been thinking, and I’m probably an old fool to say this, but, I like you, Sarah. I think you’re fun and refreshing and down-to-earth and I’m addicted to your smile and your laugh. I’ve read the blog. I can understand your doubts about the age difference and not wanting to tell me you were an actress. I also understand why you didn’t mention Marcus to me. Sarah, I would like to carry on seeing you. Would you like that?’

‘Yes,’ I say, smiling, ‘I think you’re great.’

‘The only thing that I ask is that you stop the blog. I have a public profile and I really don’t want all your online musings to leak to the press or my work colleagues. I’d like you to remove it all from the public domain. Will you do that for me?’

I hesitate.

‘You don’t want to, do you?’

I shake my head.

‘But you started the blog in order to find a partner. Now I’m offering to be your partner.’

‘I know.’

My behaviour has always been rubbish in tense situations. And I don’t improve with age. I simply recycle the same old rubbish behaviour.

‘Can I think about it for a day?’ I ask.

He shakes his head sadly. ‘If you need time to decide between a blog and me then you don’t feel the same way about me as I do about you. Don’t worry. Carry on with your blog. I wish you well.’

I feel a painful slap upon my bottom.

‘Jules!’ I scream, spinning around.

It’s not Julia. It’s Rachel bloody Bird. Eamonn Nigels fixes his eyes on her. It’s not surprising really. She’s wearing more make-up than clothing. False eyelashes, hair piled up sexily on top of her head, two silver satin nipple tassels, a minuscule PVC black miniskirt and some incredibly high clear-plastic shoes. I read her blog: why am I surprised to see her?

‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!’ Rachel Bird says as if we were bumping into each other in Tesco. ‘I’ve never seen you here before. And who’s your friend?’ she asks, lifting up her cane and spanking Eamonn Nigels on the derrière. Eamonn flinches. A look of joy passes over Rachel Bird’s face.

‘You’re Eamonn Nigels!’ she gasps.

Eamonn shifts uncomfortably.

‘I actually need to be going.’ He nods goodbye to both of us and rushes out of the club.

‘He is so handsome!’ says Rachel Bird, watching him leave. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘Well, he was.’

‘Wow. Sarah, do you want a drink?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Rachel, I’d love one,’ I say sadly. ‘A vodka and tonic would be great.’

Rachel wiggles her way to the bar. I am not sure whether I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life. Eamonn Nigels is a wonderful man who for some reason, probably a psychiatric disorder, really likes me. So why do I want to keep my blog rather than go out with him? Or did I just not like being told what to do? Or is it because I think he’s too old for me and want to carry on looking? Or is it because I’ve really grown to love my online life and blog friends?

Stupidly, I look down at my feet. The man in the tool-belt is crawling towards me on his hands and knees.

‘Hello down there,’ I say.

‘Can I lick your beautiful shoes, mistress?’ he asks, looking up at me with pleading eyes.

‘I wouldn’t, I’ve got the smelliest feet in the world.’

‘Please, mistress, I beg you.’

Rachel Bird reappears and immediately puts her foot under the poor man’s face and barks:

‘Kiss my foot, you filthy piece of shit.’

‘Rachel,’ I protest. ‘He seems like a very nice man.’

‘Sarah, that’s what he wants. He wants to worship us.’

‘Oh God, I’m so confused.’

I sip my drink.

‘They want to be
punished
, Sarah!’ she tells me as though I’m stupid.

‘Oh, right.’

‘So, you and Eamonn Nigels, is this a romance?’

‘Well, it was. Until he read my blog. I went on a date with his son, who I tried to kiss, but he was gay and Eamonn didn’t know and now he’s found out.’

‘Your life sounds like mine.’

‘Ah, I ballsed it up big time. And I didn’t tell him I was an actress and he’s got an actress ban.’

‘So what happened, he came here to dump you?’

‘No, he came to ask me to stop the blog.’

‘And you wouldn’t do it?’

I shake my head.

‘Wow,’ says Rachel thoughtfully.

‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it, thanks for the drink. Have fun.’

‘Sarah,’ she adds keenly. ‘We should swap numbers. I’ll email you mine tomorrow. Us convent girls should stick together.’

‘OK. Bye, Rachel.’

I move away. I find Julia and Simon by the entrance. They are very close together. They’re kissing. I freeze and watch them for a moment. It doesn’t look very sexy. Simon’s rigid. Julia’s pawing him. I move to get a better look. I breathe again. They are not kissing. Julia is trying to fix his moustache back on.

‘Sare, where the bloody hell did you go?’ Simon yells.

‘Oh, Eamonn just dumped me and I bumped into Rachel Bird.’

‘Rachel Bird’s here! Where?’ screams Julia deliriously.

‘Oh, over there, punishing some bloke with a foot fetish,’ I say wearily. ‘Can we go now, Si? I’m knackered.’

‘Yeah, we were waiting for you. All the cocks are gone. Thanks, girls. Let’s get a cab.’ Simon puts his arm around me. ‘You all right, gorgeous?’ he asks kindly.

‘Hmm. Eamonn read my blog. I feel really bad, Si.’

‘Ah well, I did warn you that thing was evil,’ he says and

then races out into the middle of the road in his poncho

to flag down a cab. I watch him and smile. My phone

beeps; I have a text message from Marcus:

I’m meeting my dad for lunch tomorrow. Will you be there, Mummy? Clive says hi. xx

forty-five

‘Bugger, bugger, bugger, fuck,’ swears Julia, carrying two cups of tea and a plate of toast. ‘I’ll go and get some kitchen roll,’ she says, placing a half-empty cup next to me on my bedside table.

‘There’s still some there from the last time you brought me tea, Jules.’ I point towards a squashed roll of kitchen towel lying on my floor.

‘Cool.’

Julia is staying with me. She’s promised to help me make up a raunchy story about looking for love at a fetish club. The last time I made up a sexy story I was so mortified that I tried to stop my blog. Now I’m doing it again in the desperate hope that it will get me more readers. Any integrity I once had now rots in a landfill of fabricated filth. It is ridiculous to be doing this because what actually occurred tonight would make dynamic reading. The man I had been seeing, who happened to be the father of the gay man I tried to kiss, read my blog against huge odds. He flew halfway across the world only to find me dressed as a nurse in a fetish club, and dumped me. However I can’t write the truth because it would hurt Eamonn and Marcus. So I have to resort to smut instead.

‘So what are we going to write?’ Julia asks.