50 Ways to Find a Lover (11 page)

‘Where is it? Ah, here we go: “I like to masturbate any time, any place, anywhere,”’ she reads. Deliberately loudly.

Convent girls have a reputation for being rampant. Rachel Bird’s blog,
Confessions of a Convent Girl
, is doing absolutely nothing to dispel this. It is so juicy I used up the whole of my ink cartridge printing most of it to show Julia today. We have already read the bit where she discusses the soft lesbian porn film she made in Amsterdam, and the in-depth account of her breast-augmentation operation, paid for by a sixty-five-year-old Arab. I am not sure which of her many partners was Selina Gutteridge’s boyfriend, but for Selina’s sake I hope it wasn’t the man who was made to bark like a dog while Rachel spanked his bottom. Rachel gets an average of forty-five comments per posted article, although when she took a photograph of her post-operation bare breasts she got 112. No wonder she laughed when I told her about my two.

We read in silence. Rachel is an avid supporter of masturbation, especially on public transport, it appears.

‘I love her blog!’ exclaims Julia. I haven’t seen Julia so excited since she first used Touche Éclat.

‘Come on, it’s not that wonderful,’ I say. I’m trying to stop being jealous of Rachel Bird but I feel the same way I did after the school play when my dad went on and on about how brilliant she was. I have always been the Primark to Rachel Bird’s Prada. I know that Julia prefers Rachel’s blog to mine. I know that I am being childish but it hurts.

‘Can’t believe you both went to the same school. She’s so rude,’ mumbles Julia, eyes riveted to the page.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, offended.

‘Well, she’s obsessed with sex and you never have it.’

‘I’ve got a vibrator!’ I say indignantly.

‘Yeah, it’s still in its box!’

My phone starts ringing. I pull it out from the pocket of my waitressing apron. It is a mobile number that I don’t recognize. Please God, let it be Paul. ‘Please let it be Paul,’ I whisper to myself as I walk into the kitchen to take the call. I know I should have given up on him by now but there is a small chance that he had to go abroad for two weeks and left in such a rush that he forgot to take my contact details from under his pillow.

The Polish chefs are huddled around the dishwasher, sniggering at a dog-eared copy of
Big Bottomed Babes
.

‘Hello,’ I say into the phone.

‘Hi Sarah, it’s Louis.’

‘Who?’

‘Louis . . . We met at the football.’

‘Oh, hi,’ I say, hoping he can’t hear the disappointment in my voice. I’ve been asking God repeatedly for Paul to call me but what does God do? He gets the other one to call me.

‘How are you doing?’

‘Good, thanks, you?’

‘Great, yeah, nearly sorted for the move. I was wondering if you fancied meeting up for a drink later?’

The only plans that I had for this evening were red wine and
X Factor
. I could video
X Factor
and do that tomorrow. However, if I meet Louis it would be for sex. Do I want to meet a man for sex? Rachel Bird would. Rachel Bird would probably turn up in crotchless knickers with a strap-on willy in a knapsack.

‘OK. I did have something planned but I could move it,’ I say.

‘Great. Listen, why don’t you come to mine, my flatmate’s out. I’ll text you the address. About eight.’

‘Great.’

I am going to have sex tonight. From what I can remember of it I do like sex. However I feel scared. No one has visited my lady’s place for nearly a year. I had hoped that when it was to reopen to the public it would be in style. Perhaps at a Parisian hotel in the Latin Quarter after champagne and oysters on a big bed with a man I was falling in love with. I’m a bit disappointed he’s not offering me dinner first. It’s just a straight offer of a shag in his flat. Oh well, at least there’s no danger of me eating too much first and saying, ‘I’m so stuffed, bagsy you go on top.’

I emerge from the kitchen clutching my mobile. Julia is hunched over Rachel Bird’s blog, saying, ‘Oh my God’ repeatedly.

‘Sare, she’s just had a wank at The Ivy.’

‘I’m going to have sex tonight,’ I say nonchalantly, before wandering over to table 2 to take their order. Julia is salivating with anticipation when I return.

‘Oh my God! With who?’

‘You’ll have to read about it in my blog, Julia,’ I say cruelly.

‘Don’t be such a bitch. Tell me now!’

‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘You can read about it in my blog tomorrow.’

eleven

I’m wearing hold-ups. I don’t like wearing hold-ups. My thighs splurge out where the hold-ups stop. They look like blueberry muffin tops. There’s an
FHM
calendar on the wall of Louis’ dirty bathroom. The girl in the
FHM
April picture is mocking me. She’s wearing hold-ups, but her thighs look as though they’ve been sanded into the stocking. She has no sign of any muffin top. There is also no sign of any loo paper and this fact is upsetting me. If I was going to invite a man to my house with the sole purpose of having sex with him, out of respect I would make sure that I had loo paper. Louis supplied cheap wine, two bottles of it. He must therefore have been to the shops. Why didn’t he buy loo paper? I would also have cleaned my bathroom. Louis’ bathroom is filthier than Rachel Bird’s blog and I don’t say that lightly because this afternoon I read about her attempt to teach a non-English-speaking seventeen-year-old to have anal sex. Every surface in Louis’ bathroom seems to be caked in crusty bits of bodily-fluid residue. I had come in here to compose myself before we got down to it but I would actually like to give it a deep clean instead. There is no chance of me doing that, though, because there are no cleaning products in here at all. This means I will have to leave the bathroom and have sex with Louis. I don’t want to leave the bathroom and have sex with Louis. At the moment I would rather stay in here and court the risk of contracting MRSA.

It is not that I don’t like Louis. He is what men would call a ‘good bloke’ and what women would call a ‘typical bloke’. I have been with him for the duration of a bottle of wine and in all that time – apart from me doing a small amount of moaning about the Northern Line – we have spoken about Chelsea Football Club. Actually Louis has spoken about Chelsea Football Club, in particular someone called Frank Someone, and I have done some rather good listening acting. I used the word ‘really’ twelve times and ‘wow’ fifteen times.

I told my blog I was meeting Cherub Man from the football for a night of adult fun before he went to Australia. I explained that I was wearing hold-ups, matching bra and pants, fuck-me shoes and a wraparound dress so that all Louis had to do was untie a small bow and I would be undressed. I wanted people to be desperate to log on tomorrow to read what had happened. I wanted to be like Rachel Bird. Fearless. I’m not like Rachel Bird. I’m scared shitless. And I don’t feel sexy at all in a flat full of filth having spoken about Chelsea for an hour.

‘Have you fallen down the loo?’ asks Louis, banging on the door. I wince. What a horrible thought.

‘I’m just coming,’ I say. I look at myself in the mirror. I remind myself that I’m an actress. I can play the role of a seductress. It’s not my usual casting, admittedly. I’m more comedy maids and mad people, but tonight I’m going to be a seductress. I take a huge breath and as I exhale I whisper the words, ‘Let’s get this over with.’

I exit the bathroom. Louis is standing by the washing machine in the kitchen. I try to ignore the backdrop of dirty plates and the Stella-can pyramid. I walk towards him slowly. He’s barefooted in a pair of frayed jeans. I wouldn’t walk on this floor in bare feet. His belly is quite podgy. I can see a bit of hairy man-tummy poking from beneath his grey Rolling Stones T-shirt. He smiles lazily at me.

‘Hey, sexy!’

‘Hey.’ I smile back at him. I keep my head low but lift my eyes up to meet his and I walk towards him. I stand facing him and I bite my lip, still smiling. God, I’m good. Then I run my finger along the line of his exposed belly. I feel him breathe in. I want to squeeze the flesh and say, ‘Eh up, porky,’ but I must fight that impulse as I think it might have rendered me single for years. I must remain sexy. I must play the game like Rachel Bird.

Suddenly Louis grasps my wrist tightly. He’s quite masterful. It surprises me as I thought I was taking the lead in my slow teasing way. He grasps my wrist and moves my hand to the crotch of his dirty jeans. I do not find this gesture sexy. My hand is now next to his denim-coated erect penis. Oh bugger. What do I do now? I don’t want to rub it. The swine hasn’t even kissed me yet. Then he presses his hand against my VIP area. We are standing against a washing machine in a flat caked in grime holding each other’s clothed groins. It must look as though we are about to demonstrate an advanced self-defence manoeuvre. We are frozen like this. Louis bends his head down and starts to suck and lick my ear. I hear his slurps and feel his dry tongue. Suddenly I hear my Bros ringtone.

‘What the fuck’s that?’ slurps Louis.

‘Oh, just my phone.’

‘Fuckin’ Bros,’ he says, still slogging away at my ear.

‘Don’t you knock my ringtone. I’d better see who it is,’ I say, sliding my way out of the groin grip and going to my phone. ‘It’s my mum and dad. I’ve got to take it. Hello?’

I see Louis mouthing the word ‘fuck’ in a very pissed-off fashion. I hear my mother on the other end of the line sobbing. I rush into the unhygienic bathroom and shut the door.

‘Calm down and tell me what’s happened. Is Dad OK?’ I say softly.

‘Your father’s fine,’ hiccups Mum.

‘What’s happened?’ I say, praying it’s not my sister.

‘Didn’t you see it?’

‘What?’ I scream, thinking that maybe there’s been an earthquake in Eastbourne and their house has been destroyed.

‘
The X Factor!
’

‘Mum!’ I laugh. ‘I thought something awful had happened.’

‘No, that Simon Cowell’s so cruel to those young people. I thought you were watching it.’

‘No, I’m out . . . um, at a friend’s house at the moment,’ I say, wiping my slobbery ear.

‘Oh, sorry to disturb you. Love you lots.’

I leave the bathroom. Louis is immediately upon me again. He makes a lunge for my mouth, which I deftly dodge. I look at him and I know I need to leave.

‘I’m so sorry, Louis, there’s some trouble at home. I’ve got to go.’

‘Can’t you just go in a little while?’ he says in a childlike voice. I spot him heading for my ear again.

‘No, I’ve really got to go. Now. Have a great time in Australia.’

I fling my bag over my shoulder and race out of his flat as fast as my fuck-me shoes will allow.

twelve