50 Ways to Find a Lover (7 page)

Suddenly the pink-shirted curly-haired, dimpled future father of my children stands before me, carrying an ice bucket.

‘White wine?’ he says. His voice is gorgeous. It’s rich and gravelly like Green & Blacks with ginger pieces in it.

‘Yes, please. I need a trough of it.’

‘Oh dear. Not having fun?’

‘I’ve just been hit on by a psychotic gnome, I’ve caused Ian Beale to commit suicide and I am stuck to a sweaty fanny pole.’

He laughs and fills my glass up. I look at him. He’s almost too gorgeous. I suddenly start to blush. Please stop it, Sarah. Please. Oh God, imagine he’s ugly. Quick. But I can’t. Maybe it’s the dimple, maybe it’s the hair or the voice or just the whole combo. But this man has taken gorgeousness to the penthouse level. God, please, I will start doing some volunteer work if you just stop me from being a pillock for three minutes.

‘Has your friend had a bit to drink?’ he says, looking at Julia, who’s got one eye closed and is trying to focus on the psychotic gnome.

‘Yeah, she’s cunted.’ The words land like bird poo on a new hairdo. Julia and I use the term ‘cunted’ to mean drunk. Yet when I say the word now to this handsome man it sounds crass and horrible. I cringe and will myself not to use it again. ‘She’s been getting on well with your friend though,’ I add quickly.

‘Oh yeah, Dan. I just met him here tonight, actually. But I think he’s a player, if you know what I mean. I think he comes to these things to see what he can get. You might want to tell your friend.’

‘Oh, OK. I’ll warn her,’ I say, feeling disappointed for Julia.

‘Most of the other women here are pretty dull, I have to admit. I just had a three-minute conversation about child-care.’

‘Well, it’s important to get those issues straight at the beginning,’ I say seriously.

He laughs and then says, ‘Do you know we’ve met before?’

Oh God, please, please don’t say I’ve tried to snog him in a late-night drinking club or that he’s slept with Julia or that I was accidentally sick on him once and I don’t remember.

‘Have we?’ I say, dreading what he’s going to say next.

‘Yes, you probably wouldn’t remember though. You did an ad a few years ago for Pizza Hut. I worked on the ad. I remember you because I saw the tape about a hundred times. We were introduced, but only briefly. I liked what you did. It was funny. I didn’t want them to cut any of it. I didn’t have much say though because that was my first job with the company.’

‘Fuck me! How mad is that? They did cut me though, didn’t they? The cunts.’ I’ve said ‘cunt’ again. Twice in less than a minute. This is terrible. ‘That was my first job out of drama school. The face of Pizza Hut in the North. I was a bit gutted it wasn’t Pizza Express, to be honest.’

‘So how’s it going?’

‘Oh, I’m out of work.’

‘God, that’s wrong. You’re good. Something’ll happen soon. I feel it.’

‘What about you?’ I ask, thinking, I wish I had somehow videoed those sensitive words coming out of that kissable mouth.

‘Good, actually. I’ve started my own company. Yeah, I’ve been lucky.’

‘No, you only get lucky by working hard,’ I say, reminding myself to kill Simon later. I suddenly spy Julia about to fall off her stool. I rush to catch her and just about manage to reseat her.

‘Are you all right, lovely?’ I say.

‘Mmm, I think I just dozed off there. Feel a bit better for it.’ Psychotic Gnome licks his lips at me.

‘Get back to your man, you fool,’ she whispers.

‘I’m just going to get you some water and then I will.’

I nearly lose my fuck-me shoes as I race to the bar. I am just administering water when the whistle goes. It felt like forty-five minutes with the bloody gnome and not even forty seconds with Wonderful Man. I walk back to him. He stands up and smiles.

‘It’s Sarah, isn’t it? I’m Paul.’

He leaves and I am hovering somewhere above Jupiter. Paul. Paul. Perfect Paul. I get out my comments sheet, which I haven’t written anything on, and write,
Yes, yes, yes, yes
as many times as I can next to his number.

I smile and chat to the remaining eight but all I can think about is me and Paul on an Italian beach, me and Paul cuddled up by a fire, me and Paul having Sunday roast, Paul beaming at me proudly as I win my BAFTA.

The dating entrepreneurs blow the final whistle and now the loveless can drink and mingle. The relief is indescribable. I look for Perfect Paul. He is at the bar talking to a pretty blonde with a small bottom. The pretty girl is wearing stylish shorts over patterned tights, a look I could never attempt with my own huge arse. I want to run up to her and give her a wedgie. Instead I make my way to the toilets with Julia to reapply make-up.

‘The head-butt guy’s definitely the fittest,’ she tells me as she draws a very uneven black line around her eyes.

‘I like his friend,’ I sigh, taking the eye pencil off her and trying to smudge her eyes so that they don’t look as though they’ve been painted by a man with final-stages Parkinson’s.

‘Listen, Jules, I think your head-butt guy just comes here to pull. Paul said that he’s a player,’ I warn her.

‘Sare, I’m not stupid, he was looking down my top as soon as I said hello. Player or not he’s still bloody gorgeous,’ she says, bumping into the sink.

‘I just don’t want you to get hurt,’ I say seriously.

‘Let’s go get them!’ She hiccups.

We head back into the bar. She walks up to her headbutted possibility and flicks her hair. I hold back because Paul’s still with the gorgeous blonde. Suddenly I feel a cold hand on my arm. It’s the psychotic gnome.

‘Hello, gorgeous, I’m having a barbecue next weekend. Will you come?’

‘No,’ I say in unintentional disgust.

‘God, you’re great. You’re such a challenge.’ He grips my arm tighter. Suddenly Julia comes up to me, coat in hand. ‘I’m going. I’m getting a cab with the head-butt guy!’ she says in ecstasy. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

The psychotic gnome quickly produces a napkin and a pen. ‘I’d like to call you tomorrow. I want your number. Give me your number.’

‘Um, no, don’t be silly.’

‘I want your number. Give me your number.’ The veins on his neck are looking angry.

‘No.’

‘I want your number.’ He is shouting now.

‘I don’t want to give you my number,’ I say slowly in the low, stable voice I use when I’m auditioning to play nannies and policewomen.

‘Give me your number!’ he shouts again. People are starting to look. I am going red.

‘No.’ I try to speak firmly but I’m sure he can sense my fear.

Then I feel a nice non-clammy hand in the small of my back and the sexiest voice in the modern world saying, ‘Sarah, are you ready to go?’ I look into Paul’s concerned blue eyes and I am so grateful that I am unable to form a coherent sentence.

‘Huh, hmm, yeass,’ I mutter, nodding and realizing that the Tellytubbies are currently more articulate than me. He is so close to me I might actually melt into a heap of desire on the floor. His hand on my back guides me out of the bar and into the crisp Soho night. The cool air is lovely on my sweaty armpits.

‘Thank you for getting me away from the psychotic gnome.’ I’m sure I’ll blush if I look into those eyes again so I look down at my fuck-me shoes instead.

‘Your shoes are really sexy,’ he says.

‘Oh, do you like them? They’re things of beauty, aren’t they?’

‘I tell you what, if you tell me all about shoes I’ll buy us a bottle of wine in Soho House.’

The combination of the words ‘shoes’ and ‘bottle of wine’ and the mention of Soho House, an exclusive members’ club, said by that voice with those eyes causes me to make this little squealing whinny of pleasure. He puts his hand in the small of my back. I feel a stirring in my tummy.

six

I am already regretting rule number 1. Paul and I are sitting on a battered brown leather sofa in a dark corner of Soho House. On the table in front of us is an ice bucket holding a bottle of Pouilly Fumé, two nearly empty wineglasses and a candle. This is unfamiliar territory for me. I have only been here once and that was when Julia was sleeping with a barman. We drank the house wine and she stole the elegant candleholder. It appears that Tuesday night is the new Thursday because the place is full. Paul has been gushing about my acting capabilities for the last ten minutes. He has to lean very close to me when he speaks so that I can hear him above the boisterous din. I suspect that I might be in heaven.

‘Do you know what I loved in that ad? The bit where you had cheese down your chin and you tried to wipe it off with your hand and then you got it on your sleeve, and I pissed myself when you took your shirt off and it was covered in grease and you just tossed it over your shoulder.’

‘Thank you.’ I blush.

‘Shame we couldn’t keep that bit in. It was very sexy,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ I say, embarrassed and unsure of how you should respond when a handsome man tells you that you are sexy.

‘Bit risqué for Pizza Hut.’

‘Hmm. I got carried away. So tell me about you. Where do you live?’

‘Mortlake.’

‘Where the bloody hell’s that?’ I exclaim.

‘Near Barnes.’ He laughs.

‘Oh.’ I nod but I’ve never heard of Barnes either.

‘So, are you really single?’ he asks me. ‘It’s just I never would have expected to meet you at a speed-dating event. I thought I might meet you again on a shoot at some point.’

‘Er, yeah, I’m very single. I’ve been a spinster for years. I’d sort of given up on the whole love thing,’ I stutter. I wish I hadn’t mentioned the word ‘love’. I hope I haven’t scared him.

‘Hmmm.’ He nods. ‘I know what you mean. You don’t see a lot of happy relationships, do you?’

‘Exactly! My parents are the only happy couple I know.’

‘Same here, but that’s a rarity. Most people I know are miserable in relationships.’

‘I’d got to the point where I was mouthing the words “It’ll end in tears” when I saw happy couples kissing.’

‘Did you? I wouldn’t want to take you to a wedding!’ he taunts.

‘I’m great at weddings, I sing “This Is the Road to Hell” as the couple walk down the aisle and then drink a lot and talk about divorce statistics before dancing terribly and then vomiting.’