50 Ways to Find a Lover (35 page)

‘Dunno, but it’s got to be sexy and bitchy.’

‘Write, “I looked like a model from an Ann Summers catalogue in my PVC nurse’s uniform,”’ says Julia.

‘I didn’t! I looked like the “before” picture of a Weight Watchers advert.’

‘Write it!’ says Julia.

‘OK,’ I relent and start to type.

‘Write, “My skirt was so short you could see my shaven pussy,”’ she squeals.

‘No!’

‘I dare you.’

‘All right.’ I tap away to placate Julia. I write ‘My best friend’s skirt was so short you could see her badly shaven pussy.’

‘Then put “The club was dark and dangerous. Things I’d only seen in my fantasies were taking place in front of my face.”’

‘That’s quite good, Jules.’ I write what she said and then I list some examples.

‘Right, we need to pretend that you had a bit of a sexy time with someone but it was just fun and you won’t be seeing them again.’

‘But I didn’t have a sexy time with anyone,’ I moan.

‘What about the bloke who wanted to lick your feet?’

‘He was about seventy!’

‘I thought that was your target age.’

‘Bitch.’

‘We need to make out he was in his thirties and sexy and it was exciting and you let him lick your toes and it was sensual.’

‘Jules, I’ve got athlete’s foot!’

‘They don’t know that!’

‘Then you can say you were so aroused you went to the toilet to masturbate and met three bisexual women in nuns’ habits and you all had an orgy.’

‘Julia, I’m not Rachel sodding Bird!’

‘OK, but say he licked your toes and you spanked him and found it oddly arousing. If you put a bit of Catholic guilt in as well it’ll be brilliant.’

‘OK.’ I fabricate a speedy story. It’s not my best because it’s three in the morning. But I have to do it now because I’ll be at the wedding tomorrow. I show it to Julia. She nods her approval. I post it online.

‘Shall we have a look at Rachel Bird’s blog? See if the master has said anything about tonight?’

I watch Julia as she excitedly gets the correct page on the computer. Then I go to the bathroom.

When I return Julia is sitting on her mattress on the floor. She’s kneeling like she’s the short person at the front of a group photograph. She’s thinking.

‘What’s with the thinking face?’ I ask, getting into bed.

‘You need to read this, Sare. And I don’t want you to be upset.’

‘Why?’ I start.

‘Rachel Bird’s finishing her blog.’

‘Why would I be upset? That’s great for me! I’ll get her readers. I’ll win my little Bloggie. Here, let’s have a read.’

‘OK,’ she says slowly. She gives me the laptop. I look at the screen.

‘Blimey, she posted an article at two-forty-two this morning. I thought
we
were quick!’ I say to Julia.

‘She’s so bloody full of herself.’

‘I can’t believe she said that about Jonathan Ross,’ I mutter.

‘Is that all I do on my blog? Moan?’ I ask. ‘No, Sare. It’s much better now you’re putting sex and bitchiness in,’ Julia says, lying down on the mattress.

‘Do you think I’m too obsessed with my blog to even notice when I meet the right man, Jules?’

‘Um,’ Julia hesitates. ‘I don’t know, Sare.’

Neither of us says another word before we go to sleep.

forty-six

Nikki would look beautiful in a cagoule with mumps. Today in her cream satin wedding dress she looks like she could do an Estée Lauder advert. I can’t take my eyes off her. I have never seen someone this happy without Class A drugs. She has a magical energy. Everyone around her is smiling too. If Nikki could stay like this she could become a UN peace ambassador and travel to wartorn countries. Rapers and pillagers would put down their virgins or their Sony home entertainment systems as she passed by. Her smile would spread to their lips. And they would plant flowers and do make-friends-make-friends and learn to play the harmonica instead.

I am not smiling though, because intense happiness, along with 117 other things, makes me cry.

‘Sarah, darling, you’ve got to pull yourself together,’ coos Nikki. ‘I need to walk down the aisle.’

‘Sweetie, there’s another wedding booked straight after this,’ tries Flora.

‘For fuck’s sake, Sare. We do this bit then we get champagne,’ barks Julia.

I hold my breath and nod.

‘Let’s do it,’ I whisper, composing myself.

Nikki’s mum and dad take her hands and Flora, Julia and I arrange ourselves behind them.

‘We like it up the rear, don’t we, Sare?’ shouts Julia to me as the doors to the hall open.

Over a hundred people turn like a tide and smile at Nikki. The music starts and I smile. It’s a recording of Olivia Newton John singing a song called ‘If Not For You’. Nikki wouldn’t tell me what she was walking down the aisle to. She wanted it to be a surprise. We loved this song when we were at the convent. We saw
Grease
when we were twelve and became obsessed with Olivia Newton John. It was a big treat when our mums let us walk into town one Saturday to buy her LP. When we went home, we played it again and again until we knew all the words. We promised we’d play this song at our wedding. We were going to have a joint wedding to the two Bros brothers. The only problem with hearing this song now is that Simon and I changed the lyrics one night. It was one of the two evenings that I was on the Carol Vorderman detox diet. I was making a stew and as I cooked I sang ‘if not for stew’. The stew turned out to be the colour of an unpleasant bowel movement which interestingly was what happened after we ate the stew. At which point Simon changed the lyrics to ‘if not for poo’.

I try to find where Simon’s sitting. I recognize the back of his head, three rows from the front on Bertrand’s side. He turns around. We look at each other. He winks at me and mouths the words, ‘Our version’s better.’ He looks gorgeous today. It must be the suit. He looks James Bond sexy. Whoa! What am I thinking? Stop drooling right there, Sarah. This is Simon. He’s your friend, he’s got a girlfriend, and your best friend is planning on jumping him post-speeches.

The obligatory standing-around-drinking-champagne-on-an-empty-stomach is next. As bridesmaids Julia and I are involved in a lot of photos. This is unfortunate. As a rule, we only like having our photos taken by mobile phones in dark places that serve alcohol. We pull scary faces until the photographer says, ‘Settle down, ladies.’ At which point we smile and he says, ‘Ladies, please, no more silly faces.’

My neck aches from holding my chins in so much. My mouth feels as though it’s never been on my face before. I can’t remember how to smile normally. We’re finally released when the photographer wants to do some contemporary reportage with the bride’s family. Julia and I pounce on a tray of champagne as though we have just participated in a biscuit-eating contest in the Atacama Desert. We find Simon. I deliberately stand away from him so Julia can lay some groundwork. I look for a Brazilian usher to marry. I try to stifle a yawn.

‘We keeping you up?’ Simon asks.

‘Out at a fetish club last night, you know,’ I say, being cool.

Julia looks at me and starts moving her neck like she’s got water stuck in her ear.

‘What the wank are you doing?’ I enquire.

‘Look over there,’ she insists. Her spasming ear sends my gaze to the corner of the lawn.

Bertrand has his arm around a very glamorous Brazilian woman in an amazing purple satin dress with a matching hat. She looks voluptuous and exotic. I pray that I’m not sitting next to her at dinner.

‘Bitch,’ I say.

‘There’s something not right about the two of them, is there?’ Julia frowns.

I study the two of them for a few moments. ‘Oh,’ I say.

Bertrand is nuzzling her ear and she is smiling knowingly. I have never been sure what a knowing smile is. But she is smiling in a way that says, ‘The way you stuck your finger up my bottom last night as I climaxed was amazing.’ I take it that is what is known as a knowing smile.

Nikki is having her photo taken with her mum and dad and Flora. She hasn’t noticed Bertrand.