50 Ways to Find a Lover (21 page)

‘And this guy,’ I point. ‘He wants someone to go to Greece with him. I mean! You so wouldn’t.’ I start doing a high-pitched histrionic voice. ‘Oh yes, I’ll go to Greece with you, then you can dismember me far away from the British judicial system.’

Favourite Customer laughs raucously at this. I like it when people laugh at my wittering rather than gaze blankly at me as though I am touched. However the only problem with people laughing at my wittering is that it encourages me.

‘And they all want really young women, bloody paedophiles.’ Favourite Customer doesn’t laugh when I mention paedophiles. Best calm down, Sarah.

A very handsome man appears in the doorway.

‘Can I get you anything, Eamonn?’ he asks casually. He is six foot something. He looks as though he’s in his late thirties. He’s Gillette-advert perfect and he’s just said my favourite customer’s name. I love him.

‘No, we’re fine thank you, Alistair,’ smiles my favourite customer, or Eamonn as I can now call him. Alistair disappears to go and be gorgeous elsewhere.

I am so stupid. My favourite customer is gay. It never occurred to me but then I never thought about it. It makes sense though. He dresses well, looks after himself and likes to eat out. I must ask him what I should do with my hair. Gorgeous Alistair must be his boyfriend. Lucky man.

‘So is there anyone you like the sound of ?’ asks Eamonn.

‘Hmmmm.’ I look thoughtfully at the page. ‘He sounds nice.’ I point at the only ad that I can read without wanting to commit voluntary manslaughter. ‘“OK, so you want young, entertaining, can put up shelves & good in bed? Problem solved: I can do seventy-five per cent. Early fifties, writer, slim, witty, passionate.” ’

‘Why do you like him?’ asks Eamonn, intrigued.

‘Well, he’s probably mad but I like him because he starts with what I want not what he wants, and he doesn’t say he wants some nineteen-year-old nymphet with big breasts and a high IQ who’s sensual, caring, kind to animals, blah blah blah, and he mentions sex, which is quite refreshing.’

‘Will you get in touch with him?’ enquires Eamonn.

‘God no, he’s bloody old, but I like his ad. I might copy it when I do my own one. I’m going to put one in next week’s edition. I was thinking something along the lines of “Do you want someone young with cellulite who can cook and likes being frisky? Problem solved: I can do seventy-five per cent. Nearly thirty, slimmish, witty, passionate.” ’

Eamonn chuckles while I drink wine.

‘What do you think I should do with my hair?’ I suddenly ask.

Eamonn looks startled.

‘Have you any ideas of how I should style it?’ I continue.

‘Sorry, um, no. I think it’s fine as it is,’ he says.

‘Now you’re being polite. I’ve got a head like a walrus’s fanny at the moment,’ I tell him emphatically. Then I notice the statues on his mantelpiece. They must be a collection as there are seven of them and they are all the same. I leap up from the sofa and skip over to inspect them.

‘Wow these are ni—’ I begin and then I realize what they are. They are BAFTAs. I spin around to look at him with my mouth open.

‘You’ve got seven BAFTAs,’ I whisper. He nods shyly.

‘Fuck me,’ I say slowly and then I read each one and as I do I begin to feel overawed.

My favourite customer is Eamonn Nigels. Eamonn Nigels is one of the most talented film directors in the UK. Eamonn Nigels directed the first film I ever saw at the cinema. My sister and I went to see it five times and cried each time. I have been serving Eamonn Nigels breakfast for years. I’m supposed to be an actress. How could I not know? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I probably live next door to sodding Spielberg as well. I have been painfully twittering to Eamonn Nigels for half an hour. I mentioned cellulite and paedophiles. I said ‘walrus’s fanny’!

‘You’re Eamonn Nigels,’ I blather.

‘Yes. Sarah, please don’t look at those. Alistair insists I have them on display. But really I find the whole thing very embarrassing.’

‘You’re Eamonn Nigels.’

He nods.

‘You’re Eamonn Nigels.’ I’m stuck. Say something else, Sarah, I will myself. But I can’t think of anything to say. The Etch A Sketch in my mind has been shaken and all normal thoughts and pictures have disappeared. I am humbled in the presence of celluloid greatness.

‘I always called you Favourite Customer,’ I jabber as though I am nine and three-quarters.

‘Have some more wine, Sarah,’ he says kindly.

‘Um, no, I think I should get my stuff and head home. Thank you. Though. That was lovely.’ I’m mumbling incoherently. I have to get away. Quickly. I know that he is just a person and I shouldn’t feel intimidated. But I do. I rush up to the bathroom. Someone has dried and folded my clothes. I quickly put them on and walk downstairs. Eamonn Nigels is waiting for me at the bottom, holding my motorcycle helmet.

‘Can I give you a lift home?’

‘Oh no, thank you though. Thank you for the wine and will you thank Alistair?’ Stop thanking the poor man now, Sarah.

‘It was lovely to see you away from work, Sarah.’

‘Oh yes, thank you, thank you,’ I mumble for about the fifteenth time, and I shuffle out of his beautiful house.

twenty-five

Every new day begins with the same old question. Do I snooze again or do I get up and start doing things?

Now I know I should get up and start doing things to the day – seizing it and grabbing it by the bollocks, etc. But this knowledge is being complicated by the fact that I am undergoing a spiritual epiphany. I am currently experiencing oneness with the mattress. I have melted into springs, flock and foam rubber. I am the mattress. The mattress is me. We are one. Eternally.

Nine more minutes and then I’ll get up. I want to get back to my dream. It was a sublime one. I was at an awards ceremony. The results of the Best Actress category were just about to be announced.

I snuggle into the duvet and close my eyes. After a few moments I am dreaming again. Stephen Fry has a lot of awards to dole out. He is being very droll. ‘Ah ha,’ I laugh. I’m in the front row. I’m very pale for LA. I should have had a St Tropez tan for the occasion. Stephen Fry’s talking about me. He just mentioned my ‘marvellous flanks’. Apparently I’ve done a steamy film with Kiefer Sutherland. Thank you, God! He’s showing a clip on a big screen. My nipple is visible. Kiefer’s hand is moving towards my nipple. Oh my God, Kiefer’s about to touch my nipple! Ah, it’s stopped. That was the shortest clip in the history of clips. I was enjoying it too.

‘And the winner of the Best Actress category is . . . Sarah Sargeant.’

I start screaming. I hug Stephen Fry. I cry. I’m worse than Gwyneth. God, you could have let me be demure for once, in a dream! Stephen Fry has left the stage to get my award. Alone on the stage I hoick a lost G-string out from between my bottom cheeks. Stephen Fry and Kiefer Sutherland return to the stage carrying something heavy. The heavy thing is covered by an oriental rug. Stephen and Kiefer stand before me smiling for a moment. Then they whip the rug away to reveal a six-foot-high pink plastic penis. I hug it. I cry and hug it. Then I clear my throat and start to speak. It is my voice but with a dreadful American accent.

‘Single actress, thirty, seeks sexy man,’ I say. I’m using the awards ceremony as a way to find a man. I look around at the faces in the auditorium and say hopefully, ‘Anyone?’

Blank faces stare back at me. I continue though. I embrace the humiliation. ‘Anyone?’ I repeat. The same dreadful accent. The same desperation in the voice. I search frantically for someone who might want me. I am stroking the giant penis. The rows of faces look embarrassed. They turn away.

My alarm goes off. I open my eyes. While I was asleep someone filled my room with boxes. All I can see is boxes. And the boxes are full of willies. I’m not joking. I’m not dreaming. There are piles and piles of boxes full of willies in my room. Little pink willy faces are smiling at me. There can be no doubt about it: this is the acid flashback.

I scream. I see Simon’s face appear in the doorway above a box of willies. It is closely joined by Paranoid Jay’s. Paranoid Jay is grinning. Paranoid Jay is always grinning. I scream again.

Simon starts to manoeuvre himself around the boxes. He is making a slow path to my bed. His arms are up with his palms facing me as though he is a hunter approaching a wild beast who might kill him. The gesture reminds me of the fact that I actually do want to kill him because he left me in the rain last night.

I open my mouth to speak. But then I change my mind. I’m not going to speak to him. I’m going to send him to Durham or Coventry or wherever it is. I scream instead. Not because I’m scared. I am just compelled to make noise.

‘Now then, Sarah, I had some trouble with storage,’ he says delicately. ‘They won’t be here for long.’

Paranoid Jay coughs. I give Paranoid Jay a withering look but he just grins back. God, when will I be able to do withering looks?

‘She’s just given you one of her withering looks, Jay mate, you’re supposed to respond.’

Jay looks blank. I look cross.

‘It’s a business venture,’ continues Simon. ‘I’m going to make a fortune. Look at them. Cockalada. A tequila-based drink served in the shape of a cock! Genius! Try one!’

I shake my head.

‘They won’t be here long, I promise,’ he says seriously.

Paranoid Jay coughs again. Simon shoots him a look to silence him. I look at Simon grimly. Then I look at Jay.

‘Jay, would you mind doing me a favour?’ I ask with all the cloying sweetness of fourteen Sweet’N Lows in a cup of tea.

‘Anything for you, beautiful angel,’ he replies. I wonder whether I’ve been a little harsh on Jay.

‘Tell him to bugger off!’ I screech.

‘Sare! I just didn’t want you calling that wanker,’ Simon protests. ‘You could barely get on the scooter in that tight skirt anyway.’

I look at Simon. It is a look of stone. It is hardly the apology I was expecting and I am categorically not going to speak to him until he apologizes.

I roll over in bed. I keep my back to the room until I hear him and Jay leave. Then I get up and inspect the boxes. There are a variety of cocktail flavours: marga-willy-rita, tropic erotic, apricock and penis colada. I haven’t heard of anything so brilliant since someone told me there was a porn film called
A Midsummer Night’s Cream
. I am laughing as I open a box. But I stop laughing when I see twenty-four phenomenally realistic bell ends peek back at me. What has happened to my life? When I was ten I used to daydream in Maths class. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wasn’t supposed to be living in a flat full of cocks and getting my boobs out for short Goths. I had a career and a kind man who was a lot like Paul. Paul. Paul. Perfect Paul. Perfect Paul the Perpetrator of Pain. I make the ‘urgh’ sound. I wish Simon would give me back my Pat Benatar CD.

twenty-six