50 Ways to Find a Lover (9 page)

I am standing in Soho Square with my hands on my hips. Yet again I am trying to dry two enormous sweat rings under my arms. These have been created by my fear of Quest No. 2: Pulling at a Big-Screen Showing of a Football Match. I reasoned that a big screening of a big game would mean a lot of predominantly straight men in one place. I confided in my blog my meticulous three-part strategy:

I felt like an invincible pioneer for women when I lay in bed in my pyjamas and posted this strategy on my blog. I now feel like a terrified five-year-old who’s just wet herself on her first day of school. I blame Paul for this entirely. It is a week since I met him. Not a call, not a text, not a bunch of flowers, not a proposal. Rejected again.

I hear my mobile ringing. I try to extricate it from my bag while still airing my armpits. ‘Please, please, please be Paul,’ I whisper at it. It isn’t Paul. It’s my agent.

‘Hello, lovely agent. Has Kiefer Sutherland asked me to play his sex slave in the next season of
24
?’

‘Not today, Sarah, but you do have a casting tomorrow for
Casualty
.’

‘Oh my God! I LOVE
Casualty
! What’s the part? Please say it’s a midwife, please,’ I plead, crossing my fingers.

‘No, you’re a woman whose son is ill. It’s only three lines. I’ll email all the details.’

‘Great! I’m actually just about to watch the football,’ I say, feeling like one of the boys.

‘I didn’t know you were a football fan. Who’s playing?’ I can’t believe I omitted to find out that information. I decide against saying, ‘Fuck knows! I’m only going there to pull.’ Instead I say what I often say when someone asks me an uncomfortable question on the mobile phone: ‘Oh, I’m losing you, Geoff. Geoff! Geoff ?’ and hang up.

I enter the bar. It is an ocean of men and lager. I feel my knees start to shake.

‘I have one anonymous blog reader whom I inspire, I must do it for her,’ I tell myself.

‘Excuse me, sorry,’ I repeatedly say as I try to negotiate my way to the bar. Men part and smile at me; they say, ‘Sorry, love’ and ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ I suddenly feel like a lady.

I buy a classy Hoegaarden. It proves not to be the best choice as I had some of Simon’s healthy mackerel pasta for dinner and the gas has made me belchy. I sip it and try to stifle my burps.

I start my ascent to Booby Heaven. It is a dicey pilgrimage as I am trying not to spill my beer or bang my handbag into anyone else’s beer while also scanning the room. I am hoping I’ll see Paul amidst the faces and he can tell me that he was mugged on the way home from speed dating and lost my number. Suddenly I feel something cold and wet and abundant spill on to my fuck-me shoes. I look down and there are my beautiful suede shoes covered in white foam.

‘Oh wank!’ I groan. I look up to locate the face of the demonic man who has ruined my shoes. But instead I find myself gazing into the blue eyes of a cherub. The man before me has blond hair framing his face. He is slightly chubby and looks very concerned for my shoes.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, giving me a sheepish, lopsided smile. ‘They’re really nice shoes as well.’

‘Oh, not to worry. They’re really old!’ I lie. ‘Sorry you lost most of your pint. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m looking for my friend.’

I take the executive decision to stay near Cherub Man. I am standing about a foot from him, pretending to be engrossed in the big screen and also looking slightly timid and concerned for my friend’s whereabouts when I feel sweaty, hairy, naked skin press against my own bare arm. The naked skin belongs to the arm of a big fat bloke in an England vest. He has one tooth at the front where most people have two. I think he says, ‘You’re too pretty to be on your own.’ They’re my bloody tactics! I smile because the convent taught me to be nice to everyone. Then I think he says something about Wayne Rooney.

‘I’ve got legs like Wayne Rooney,’ I say. I’m not really sure why. It was just the first thing that came into my head. It’s also sadly true. A little bit of his spit lands on me as he laughs.

‘So has my ex-wife,’ he says.

Bollocks, I think.

The match starts. It’s quite good. How can they run so much? It dawns on me that one day in heaven the angels were playing in God’s garage, where He had been working on his Perfect Man creation. The naughty angels dropped the Perfect Man creation and down he fell to Earth, where he became known as Freddie Ljungberg. In my mind we are childhood sweethearts, parted at the moment so I can concentrate on my acting, waitressing and blogging careers and he on his football. We will be in Tuscany together soon.

Suddenly my head is in Big Fat Bloke’s armpit. Someone has scored. I must concentrate. I get quite good at the ‘upward punch in the air’ when a player does something well. My favourite is the ‘Polish waitress without a boyfriend’ sulk, when someone misses a pass. This is fun.

At half-time the big fat bloke goes to the loo. I try not to picture it. Cherub Man smiles at me. I check behind. I doubt he is smiling at the Cash ’n’ Curry fruit machine. He must be smiling at me. I grin back.

‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘Um, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my minder. I call him the Beast II.’

He laughs!

‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend and I’ve only just met him.’

‘I can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Well, I’m phenomenally funny and clever so I tend to intimidate most men.’ He laughs again! I beg myself not to speak again because I know I will cock it up. I’m trying desperately hard not to belch. I look at the screen and the half-time commentators. I must not look too keen.

‘Would you like a drink?’

She shoots, she scores.

‘Yes please, oh thank you. I think a white wine though, this beer makes me burp.’

I’m quickly introduced to his best friend’s brother, standing next to him. I mentally log him as a possible suitor for Julia, who needs cheering up after passing out in the taxi with the head-butt guy. Beast II returns. The match starts again. We become a little dysfunctional family, sulking, punching and groaning. The boys score again. This time I land in Cherub Man’s armpit. I love football.

The match ends and Cherub Man turns to me and smiles. I beam back.

‘Right, I’ve got to go back to work. I’m an editor. I work mad hours sometimes.’

I have two thoughts:

‘But I’ll be free in an hour or two if you fancy going for a late drink somewhere.’

‘Oh, I’ve got an audition tomorrow,’ I reply. ‘I really should have an early night.’

‘Um, I hope you don’t think I’m a pillock for saying this, but I really like you. The thing is, I’m moving to Australia next week.’

I feel as though someone has just suddenly flicked the power switch off. I realize that this was just a nice pointless moment without a future.

‘Oh wow! That’s great! How exciting, Australia’s an amazing place,’ I gush. Bloody Australia, everyone’s bloody well moving there.

‘I’m quite busy, but I’d really like to see you for a night before I go.’

I look at him. He winks at me. I realize that he just wants a quick shag. Simple naked wrestling as opposed to lazy mornings on a Tuscan beach trying to do a crossword before jumping naked into the sea and kissing. Sex would be good, I admit. But I know that one-night stands don’t make me happy. No. It has to be no. I’ve got rules and morals. I am a pioneer for women after all.

‘Cheeky fucker!’ I shout and give him my phone number. ‘No’ is sometimes a very hard word to say. I am as much of a pioneer for women as Linda McCartney was for lamb shank, I think as I watch him leave.

Beast II gives me a bestial hug goodbye. The pressure causes me to release a long, satisfying, hour-long held-in burp in his ear. Bliss. I think I feel the cavern floor shake slightly.

‘Good girl!’ he says with pride. ‘You even sound like my ex-wife now.’

Back in the flat I tiptoe into my room. I can hear moans of carnal pleasure coming from Simon’s room. I quite like hearing people enjoying each other. Not in an erotic way, just in a comforting way, although tonight it sounds from Ruth’s howls as though Simon has impaled her and she’s stuck. I creep into my room, trying not to disturb them. Suddenly I feel something hard bash me on the forehead. I sway for a moment. And then I pass out.

nine