50 Ways to Find a Lover (38 page)

‘Why did you do it?’ It’s Paul, he sounds like a cross dad.

‘Look, mate, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ It’s Simon. He sounds hungover and pissed off.

‘Sarah said you threatened to do something if she got in touch with me! Well, she got in touch with me and now there’s no blog!’ Why did I tell Paul that? He’s supposed to be reminding me what foreplay is, not waging war on my flatmate.

‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ I hear Simon sigh.

‘Why?’ The cross dad again.

‘Mate, I said that to Sarah on the spur of the moment, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to delete a bloody blog. If you want to know why I said that, I’ll tell you. I think Sarah’s far too good for you. I think you’re stringing her along. She’s my friend. She’s an angel. I’m looking out for her. OK? Now I’d like to go back to bed.’

‘Who are you to fucking talk? I heard about you kissing Julia at the wedding. Aren’t you going out with Ruth? And listen, I’m not seeing anyone else. I too think Sarah’s an angel so you and I had better start to get along.’

I smile to myself as I get up. I had better fetch Paul away from Simon and get him back into my bed quickly. We have nakedness to be doing. I open my bedroom door and look into the hallway at the same time as Ruth opens Simon’s bedroom door and looks into the hallway.

‘You kissed Julia?’ Ruth says quietly. She looks as though someone has just smacked her in the face. We all look at her and then all look at the floor.

‘YOU KISSED JULIA?’ she repeats. Loudly. With that voice and projection she could be on the stage.

‘I knew something was going on. You’ve even got a fucking picture of her in a bikini on your noticeboard. LOOK!’ she says, pointing at the big-boobed photo of Julia that I Blu-tacked on there. It doesn’t look good because next to Julia’s semi-naked body is the self-help quote
Set you’re eyes on the prize!

‘Ruth.’ Simon walks towards her, arms open. ‘Come on, let’s have a chat in my room.’

‘GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU SHITHEAD!’ she screeches. I want to laugh. I bite my lip. It’s a combination of a tense situation and the grossly underused term ‘shithead’. It’s such a good expletive. I look down and bite my lip harder. Within ten seconds Ruth has left the flat. The floor shakes slightly from the slammed door.

‘Shit, mate, I didn’t know she was here!’ says Paul.

Simon remains still and mute. This is rarely seen and alarming.

‘I’d better go,’ says Paul, and he walks past me and into my room to get his shoes.

I stand looking helplessly at Simon.

‘That fucking blog is evil!’ he says, shaking his head at me.

I fail to see how he can blame my blog for his drunkenly snogging Julia, but I sense that now isn’t the time to tell him that.

fifty

It’s a funny time. Jonathan Cainer says so. It has something to do with Saturn.

I hear a soft knock on my door. I don’t say anything because Simon normally bounds in before I get the chance. He doesn’t today though.

‘Come in!’

Simon pops his head around the door and looks at me. He looks different somehow. I can’t put my finger on why. Perhaps it’s because he’s still.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask quietly. He nods. ‘Yeah.’ He sighs as he walks into the room and sits on the end of the bed.

‘Do you want to get in?’ I ask, holding a bit of duvet up invitingly.

‘What, get into that smelly pit? You must be joking!’ He cracks a smile, which is a relief.

I put my head under the duvet and sniff. ‘Smells of roses in here, you arse,’ I inform him.

He picks up my Febreze from the bedside table and douses me and the duvet with it and then he climbs fully dressed into bed with me.

‘Tell me things,’ I say to him.

He sighs.

‘Well, Cockalada is going well. Who’d have thought alcohol served in willies would take the world by storm, eh? I just signed a contract this morning to supply a massive chain of sex shops. I think I’m going to be able to afford to do a pilot trip to Brazil with some kids from that massive school up the road. We’re going to try and get it off the ground in about six weeks. It’s huge, Sare. And for once in my life I could actually afford to take Ruth out for dinner, or on holiday even . . .’

‘Why don’t you go round there with flowers and tears and serenade her? She’d have you back if you begged.’

‘Sare, the thing is, she didn’t believe in me, and I can’t forgive her for that.’

‘My God, it’s like a Greek tragedy. I hope she doesn’t pine and go mad or set fire to her hair now your business is successful.’

Simon looks at me for a second.

‘Your imagination is wild sometimes, Sare; talking of which, I didn’t bloody touch your blog thing, all right?’

‘Yeah, I know, but who else would have done it?’

‘No bloody idea,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Anyway, what’s this?’ he asks, picking up my audition script from the floor.

‘Oh,’ I sigh. ‘I’ve got an audition tomorrow to play the role of a blow-job-giving, heroin-taking psychic prostitute, but all I really want to do is find out who took down my blog, kill them and get back to blogging.’

Simon gurns for a second and then springs out of bed.

‘You see! That’s it! That’s it! This is why I’m starting to hate your sodding blog! SARAH!!’ he shouts. I can tell he’s cross because

I don’t like shouting or arguing, but I’ve got to say something back.

‘NO NEED TO FUCKIN’ SHOUT!’ I holler at him with the same volume.

‘Jesus! All you ever used to want was auditions for gritty roles like this, Sare! Now you’ve got one all you can speak of is your blog. Get up! GET UP!’ he shouts, hauling me out of bed. ‘Right, get dressed in something slutty, audition practice in the lounge in ten minutes.’

I open my mouth to protest. He silences me. ‘JUST DO IT!’

I walk into the living room wearing a short black dress. Simon takes one look at me.

‘Sarah! You’re supposed to work in the sex industry. You look like you organize funerals! Put on the PVC nurse’s thing!’

‘Si!’ I wail.

‘I’m not Si today, I’m your director. I want to be called Denzel.’

‘Denzel?’

‘Put the nurse’s thing on and get back here!’

When I return he’s sitting on a box of Cockaladas wearing his stick-on moustache, a pink scarf that I wear when I want to look French, and a grey flat cap.

‘What the fuck?’ I giggle.

‘Sit down there,’ he says sternly, pointing to the sofa. I see that in front of the sofa he’s created a table out of a box of Cockaladas on which is a pile of brown sugar on a piece of newspaper and a Cockalada. I peer at it.

‘That’s your drugs and your sex toy! You’ve got to get in the world of the character!’ he says, waving his hands about. ‘Now sit down and tell me about the character. Where is she from?’

‘America,’ I say.

‘Weeeal theean, you muoast tawlk lieke thieasss theean.’

‘What, you want me to talk like Stephen Hawking?’

‘No, you knob, talk in an American accent!’

‘Si,’ I sigh.

‘Err hum,’ he coughs and raises his eyebrows, ‘I think you’ll find it’s Denzel. Denzel Cruise. And you’ll have to say it American stylie.’

‘You’ve picked Denzel after Denzel Washington . . .’

‘AMERICAN!!’ he hollers.

‘OK, I’ll do it,’ I say, expecting to impress him by my effortless American twang.

‘Hmmm. That’ll need some work,’ he says as though I’m a bottom muscle that needs firming. ‘Let’s have some American movies playing in the background. You can weave that into your characterization. Part of your back story is she’s a movie junkie.’

Back story! Characterization! This is my fault. I’ve been leaving too many copies of actors’ biographies and how-to-act books in the bathroom. In fact he removed my Johnny Depp book from the bathroom completely and read it from cover to cover. I had been enjoying looking at the pictures. But he has a very good point. My character is obsessed with horror stories. Perhaps she loves watching horror movies.

‘Have you got any horror?’ I drawl.