50 Ways to Find a Lover (43 page)

‘Rachel Bird?’ enquires Eamonn.

‘Oh, just some scrawny blonde actress with a boob job and a kiss-and-tell blog.’ Selina turns her nose up as if the mention of Rachel Bird smells slightly of rectal waste. I glance at Eamonn. He looks thoughtful. I need to stop crying now and change the subject. I do a big snotty sniff.

‘So tell me all about the film,’ I manage to say.

Selina looks at her watch and then at Eamonn.

‘We really need to go. Eamonn’s dropping me at Charing Cross so I can get a train home. We’ll call you tomorrow and courier a script over to you.’ She gathers up her bag and coat.

‘Yes, we must speak,’ says Eamonn to me. Then he raises his eyebrows.

I know he’s clocked the fact that this Rachel Bird could be his Rachel Bird. A quick glance in my crystal ball tells me that I have an imminent interrogation with Eamonn Nigels coming on and I’m not looking forward to it at all.

fifty-seven

‘God, that’s good,’ he enthuses.

‘God, that stinks,’ I mutter, brushing away the small piece of unidentifiable kebab meat that just journeyed out of his mouth and landed on my skirt.

Paul and I are in a black cab heading back to Mortlake.

‘Do you want a bit?’ he says, moving the soggy stuffed pitta towards me.

‘No, I’m fine. I’m drunk but not that drunk.’ I smile. He shrugs.

‘Don’t you wonder what you’re actually eating? It could be horse willy and pig toenail,’ I pontificate.

‘Sare,’ he chokes. ‘I’m trying to eat.’

‘I just hope you live to see the morning,’ I say wisely.

I lean back in the taxi and watch London careering past. I can’t believe that I’m going to do a film in LA. My dad had a tear in his eye when I told him. My mobile phone is ringing.

‘You’ll be famous soon, LA actress.’ Paul smiles and starts singing along.

I giggle as I take my phone out of my bag. It’s Rachel Bird. Bugger.

‘Hi, Rachel,’ I say quietly.

‘I’ve fucked it up, Sarah. I’ve fucked it all up. I’ve fucked it up the arse with a strap-on!’

‘Steady on, Rachel, I’m getting a picture there.’

‘I’m so stupid! I’m so stupid!’ On a hysteria scale from one to ten she’s already at eight and a half.

‘Breathe, Rachel, breathe.’ I hear her trying to take some deep shaky breaths. ‘OK, now tell me what happened,’ I say gently when I think she’s down to six.

‘Ahhhhh, oh my God I’m so stupid!’ she stammers then starts to hyperventilate again.

‘That’s it, Rachel, have a good cry,’ I instruct her.

She starts to mewl.

‘That’s pathetic, Rachel. Come on now, I want tears and noise.’

She starts to giggle.

‘No, it’s not funny, Rachel, I want pained wailing,’ I tell her, acting cross.

She giggles some more.

‘Right, what’s happened?’ I say when I think she’s plateaued at four.

‘Selina knobbing Gutteridge told him I was a dirty actress blogging whore.’

‘Hmmm,’ I say, admiring Rachel’s succinct eloquence under the circumstances. ‘So what did he say?’

‘He asked me if I was an actress and I said that I used to be but I wanted to give it up.’

‘Well that doesn’t sound too bad,’ I say.

‘Then he asked me if I had a blog and I said yes and, Sarah, he sounded so hurt. Then he asked what it was called and I said
Confessions of a Convent Girl
and he sounded quite scared but I told him I hadn’t written anything since I’d met him and I was going to delete it but I just hadn’t got round to it yet.’

‘Well, to be honest, Rachel, it doesn’t sound that bad.’

‘But he’s reading it! He said he wanted to read it and call me back!’ she screams.

‘Hmmmmm. Just relax, Rachel. Tell him you’ll delete it all and that you love him and then give him some time to think it all over.’ I know it’s not great wisdom but it’s the best I can think of under the circumstances.

‘OK,’ she says weakly. ‘And, thank you, Sarah.’

‘Any time, Rachel.’

‘What was that about?’ asks Paul, scrunching up his kebab wrapper into a ball.

‘Complex,’ I tell him, shaking my head.

‘Come here, agony aunt actress sexy woman,’ he says, opening his arms.

‘OK, but I’m not coming too close, honky kebab man,’ I say, avoiding his puckered lips and settling in for a cuddle instead.

fifty-eight

Paul’s in the shower. I’m searching his room for porn. I’ve looked under the bed, under the mattress, in the top drawer of his bedside table and down the back of the radiator. So far all I have found is a skateboard. He’ll be out of the shower in a minute. I’m not sure how I should behave when he returns. My options are:

Playing with my mobile wins. I get my phone out of my bag. It starts ringing. It’s Eamonn Nigels. Oh God, what should I do? Answer it, Sarah, he’s just cast you in his film. But be quick. There’s serious nakedness to be getting on with.

‘Eamonn,’ I say, trying my best to sound surprised and delighted.

‘Sorry to call you so late, Sarah.’ Deadpan delivery.

‘Don’t be silly, it’s so lovely to hear from you.’ Stop sounding as though you’re a member of the WI, Sarah, he’s obviously calling to ask you if his girlfriend is a crazed sexual nihilist.

‘Did you know?’ Deadpan delivery again. I rub my hand hard over my forehead, and then rest my head heavily on my hand. What am I supposed to say?

‘Sarah, I’m asking you. Did you know?’ he says again in his calm slow manner. I can’t think of a lie so I tell the truth.

‘Yes. Rachel saw you at Club Whack that night you found out about Marcus. She thought you looked lovely and we had a good chat about the situation. She told me I was mad to let you go and you sounded like the nicest man on the planet. Then I didn’t see her again until I bumped into her on the day I came over and accused you of bringing down my blog. You were all in love and so was she, so I thought it best not to interfere.’

I hear Eamonn sigh as Paul enters the room. Wet. Small towel. Perfect. I clock his look of surprise that I’m on the phone. I make an apologetic face and mouth the words ‘Eamonn’ and ‘Nigels’ and ‘nightmare’. As Eamonn starts to speak I leave Paul alone in the room to get undressed or dressed or have a play on his skateboard or whatever he wants to do and take a seat outside on the dark stairs.

Another deep sigh from Eamonn.

‘So have you read this
Confessions of a Convent Girl
?’ He is speaking quietly now.

‘Hmmm.’

‘I bet everyone has. It’s racy stuff.’ He sighs.

‘Hmmm.’ That’s right, Sarah. Be monosyllabic. Let him talk this out. Then you can go back into the bedroom.

‘Oh Sarah,’ he says, but he holds on to the last syllable of my name for a long time and then when he lets go of it he is crying. Oh God, help me here, I’ve got a crying man on the phone and a naked one in the bedroom. I let him sniffle for a while.

‘That’s pathetic,’ I say seriously.

‘What?’ he gulps, alarmed.

‘That sniffling. I want some proper crying. Rachel did much better than that when she called me earlier. Come on, wail,’ I instruct.

Eamonn does as he’s told. I hear him sobbing down the phone to me. I let him do so for a while. ‘Is that the best you can do? I want snot and hiccups. Come on, hiccup!’ I bark.

He breaks then and starts to laugh. I hear him blow his nose down the phone. It’s not pleasant.

‘So she called you then? And she was upset?’ he says quietly.

‘Hmmm,’ I say. Back to monosyllabic.

‘Really?’

‘Well, more like devastated and inconsolable.’

‘Oh no, the poor girl!’ he says, sounding truly concerned.

‘Eamonn, I honestly believe she’d give anything up for you. You just have to decide whether you can handle the fact that she’s got a past.’

‘Thank you, Sarah, and you were really great tonight, by the way.’

‘Thank you, Mr Nigels.’

‘Now then, I do like your friend Simon.’

‘Yep, he’s special isn’t he?’

‘I’ve been thinking about his charity idea.’

‘Well, it’s more than an idea. He’s booked a trip to Brazil with twenty kids. They go in a couple of months.’

‘I’d like to help him, financially or otherwise. Would he be offended if I offered?’

‘Eamonn, he’d be bloody over the moon.’

‘Give him my number. I’ll leave it to him to make contact. Yes, he’s a terrific young man.’ It sounds worryingly like Eamonn’s settled in for a good chat.