50 Ways to Find a Lover (19 page)

The same email every day for nearly a week. I hate reading it. It’s like I have a gammy infected paper cut and every time I read this email it gets pressed into the corner of a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps. I didn’t think he’d send one of these on a Sunday afternoon though. He’s probably on the sofa with his BlackBerry, his girlfriend sleeping by his side, one arm draped over his hairy torso. I hope she farts and dribbles and wakes up and dumps him.

I press Play on my CD player. Track number one. ‘Heartbreaker’. I take a deep breath and give it my all. I start to feel a bit better.

By the time I get to the ‘NO’s I am a soft-rock legend. I don’t notice Simon enter the room and press the Stop button. This is unfortunate. I definitely need accompaniment. It would take a long-haul flight to get me to the note I should have been on.

‘Ooops,’ I giggle at the end of the line.

Simon is breathing heavily. ‘Who is this?’

‘Pat Benatar,’ I tut. ‘You’re so uncultured, Si.’

‘It’s got to go.’ He shakes his head and soberly takes the CD out of the machine. ‘Haven’t you got any other heartbreak music you can listen to?’

I think for a moment. ‘I’ve got The Cure.’

Simon does an involuntary shudder. He holds his hand out. ‘Give me that too.’

‘No!’

But he’s already taken it from the pile of CDs scattered like rubble next to the player. He leaves the room muttering something about wishing I had an iPod but I stop him before he’s out of the door.

‘Si, what did you hear Paul actually say on the phone?’

Simon sighs deeply. Then he turns to face me.

‘Sare, you’ve got to stop asking me this. It just makes you upset.’

‘Yes, but you might be wrong. He could have been talking to his handicapped sister or something.’

Simon takes a deep breath and raises his eyebrows slightly.

‘Does he have a handicapped sister?’

‘Well, not that I know of, but . . .’

‘Sare.’

‘What?’

‘He said, “I love you babe, don’t do this,” or something like that, but it was his tone. Believe me, I’m a bloke. I can tell when another bloke is talking to his woman. And he told me not to tell you about it, remember?’

‘Hmmm,’ I say sadly. ‘But he’s emailing me every day. Shouldn’t I just let him explain?’

‘Would you believe whatever he said?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t think you would be able to,’ he says gently.

‘I really liked him, Si.’

‘I know, baby.’ He comes back into the room and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You need to get back out there. You can’t set yourself a challenge of fifty ways to find a lover and then stop after two! You’ll meet someone much better than that plonker.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘How about that bloke who asked you out on the blog?’

‘What, my number one fan?’

‘Yeah. Didn’t he say he was local?’

‘Si, he’s probably a psycho!’

‘I could chaperone you if you wanted to meet up with him.’

‘No,’ I scoff. ‘I think I’d rather try Internet dating. Loveless keeps going on about it.’

‘Who’s Loveless?’ He sounds hurt that I dissed his dreadful idea.

‘The woman who leaves loads of comments on my blog.’

My blog readers have been very sympathetic about the

Paul situation. However they keep prescribing Internet

dating with the confidence with which you’d suggest

Canesten to someone with thrush.

Maybe everyone’s right. I currently have two options:

I have already done a week of moping. Perhaps it’s time for another quest.

twenty-two

I joined
Love Direct
. It was supposed to cheer me up. It hasn’t. I spent days scouring hundreds of online sites, which kindly offered to find me love for a nominal joining fee and monthly direct debit. Eventually I registered with
Love Direct
because it was the only one I had heard of. I defy anyone not to have heard of it. It’s a household name. I think it sponsors
Coronation Street
or air or something. I now know that picking a dating site purely because you’ve heard of it is a bit like choosing Iraq as a holiday destination because it’s on the telly a lot.

Eleven men have sent me messages so far. ‘Eleven men,’ you cry. A football team? A board of directors? No! Eleven men who each bear a very real resemblance to Shrek. Julia came round last night and I showed her the men who had contacted me. She laughed so hard I think a bit of wee came out. At least she finds it funny. I can’t even manage a minuscule insincere smile like newsreaders do at the end of the news.

This time a fortnight ago Paul’s hand was in the small of my back and we were watching my mum run the marathon. I thought I had found the right man for me. I thought I didn’t need to look any more. But I was wrong. Everything still makes me think of him. I stood on Camden High Street for ages today staring forlornly at a dollop of spit. I was imagining him walking down the spit-free streets of Mortlake holding hands with his small-bottomed girlfriend.

I take a deep breath and type in my
Love Direct
password, bracing myself for the daily horror. But something unprecedented has happened. An attractive man has left me a message. There must be an error on the
Love Direct
server.

‘Breathe, Sarah, breathe,’ I gasp.

I close my eyes tightly and take three deep breaths. I’ve only tried acid once but it could be a flashback. I reopen my eyes again, expecting the handsome man to have morphed into an unfortunate-looking Disney character. But he hasn’t. He is still a gorgeous, tanned, rugged-looking man standing in front of a waterfall. ‘Thank you, God,’ I say for the first time in ages. His name is Alan and he’s a writer. Perhaps he’ll write me a one-woman stage show. He’s twenty-seven and he lives in Croydon. Oh well, you can’t have everything. He writes:

to which I respond:

And suddenly we’re off. He’s a quick typer and quick to the point too.

Love Direct
rocks.

He’s funny. He’s handsome. I just hope he’s not into polygamy or adultery.

twenty-three

I am wearing my magic bra for the tanned waterfall man. Julia bought the magic bra for me ages ago. It rescues my breasts from somewhere near Clapham and squeezes and raises them until they are close to my chin. I can’t work out if it looks sexy or as though I’ve got a child’s bottom stuck to my chest. It’s all my dad’s fault. When I was getting dressed I remembered a conversation I had with him. He told me that he met my mother at a youth-club hop when he was sixteen. He asked my mum’s friend Pauline to dance first. I asked him why he didn’t ask Mum to dance first. He told me that Pauline had bigger breasts and he was working his way through her group of friends in order of breast size. As men don’t mature much past the age of sixteen I have deduced that breast-showing is vital. However, if the key to finding the love of your life is breast size I’m buggered. I’ve always filled my knickers more than I’ve filled my bra.

I leave my room. Simon is in the hallway, studying the motivation noticeboard.

‘Blimey!’ he shouts, looking at my chest. ‘Where you off to with your boobs out?’

‘I’m meeting a fitty from
Love Direct
,’ I tell him proudly. ‘You’re WHAT??’ he asks.

‘I’m going on a date,’ I say, making my way to the front door.

‘Sare, what if he’s a rapist?’

‘He’s not a rapist, he’s a writer,’ I correct him.

‘Wait! I’ll take you on the scooter.’

‘Si,’ I protest. I have two problems with the scooter: