50 Ways to Find a Lover (23 page)

‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God!’ I scream, newspaper in one hand, croissant with butter and jam in the other.

‘Sarah. Breathe.’

‘I’m at the top of the page! Look! Look!’

‘Breathe,’ Julia reminds me flatly.

‘I’m in print in the
Observer
.’

‘It’s a plagiarized lonely-hearts ad.’

‘No need to pee on my bonfire.’

‘Well, you’re stupid!’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

‘You’ll just meet more short Goths.’

‘Cheers for your support, Julia.’

‘What about Paul?’

‘Oh not this again . . .’

‘He is fit, successful, rich, sane! And he’s still keen on you, Sarah! And up until some stupid conversation that Simon overheard you were naming babies with the bloke! YOU SHOULD HEAR WHAT HE’S GOT TO SAY!’

I look at her for a moment. It is a pregnant pause. There are eight people in the café. It is the biggest audience I have had for some time so I can be forgiven for milking it. I put my croissant down sadly.

‘You’ve put me off my croissant.’ I look at the croissant and shake my head. ‘Well, you can shout at me and put me off croissants but you will never, never’ (the second ‘never’ was louder and slower for emphasis) ‘persuade me to call Paul. I’m doing this lonely-hearts thing and that’s that.’

‘Well then, like I said, you’re stupid.’ She shrugs and starts folding napkins with venom.

I don’t know what to say so inevitably the ‘urgh’ sound comes out. It makes the man on table 9 jump. Julia is as stubborn as an olive-oil stain when she wants to be. But she’s wrong about this. Not that I don’t think about Paul on average five times a minute. I would love to see him. I would give up wheat, and possibly dairy as well, to have things back to the way they were. But the damage is done. Whoever he was on the phone to is someone he cares for and didn’t want me to know about. How could I trust him?

I pick up my newspaper and head to the kitchen. The head chef, whose name I can’t pronounce, has taken the Cockalada I gave him and stuck it in his chef’s hat.

‘He dickhead!’ the other chefs inform me before leaning on silver kitchen surfaces and laughing to snort point.

‘Yes, yes he is,’ I agree.

I make my way into the tiny out-of-order toilet, otherwise known as the staffroom. It smells of feet and chef farts and is where we keep our coats and bags. The glory days when waitresses were able to keep their personal belongings inside their waitressing aprons are sadly over. Glenda, the menopausal owner, sent all of us a written warning stating that phones are now to be kept in the staffroom. Apparently one of the Polish waitresses was taking an order when her phone rang. She pulled the phone from her apron to stop it ringing and a tampon fell on to the customer’s table. He said the experience put him off ordering a full English and he wrote a letter to complain. A villainous overreaction on Glenda’s part. It wasn’t as if the tampon was used.

I hold my breath and take my phone from my bag. I’ve got seventeen new texts. Blimey. All from Soulmates. Each one alerts me to the fact that a new man has responded to my ad. This surprises me: I thought I’d declined the offer of these notifying texts as they’re 50p each. But seventeen men! Piss off, J Lo! The frisky waitress is a hit! I excitedly dial the number. It is barred from my mobile phone. I walk back into the restaurant.

‘I can’t call the number from my mobile because it’s barred,’ I tell Julia in dismay.

‘You’ll just have to call Paul instead.’

I don’t respond. But I must look hurt because when she speaks again she sounds much softer.

‘It’s probably one of those expensive premium numbers.’

‘Seventeen men have left messages and I can’t even hear what they have to say.’

‘Seventeen men!’ She’s impressed. She’s even stopped punishing napkins. She winks at me. ‘Use the café phone.’

I will be sacked should the menopausal owner find out, but the lure of seventeen men is worth it. ‘Maybe just once.’

I dial the number on the café phone.

‘Calls to this number are barred,’ I am told. I repeat the message to Jules.

‘Oh yeah, because the kitchen boys used to call that sex line?’

I tut. Years ago the Polish chefs used to call Babes for You. They would put the ‘babe’ on loudspeaker and all you’d hear when you placed orders was ‘Oh, you’re so good, I’m coming, ah, ah.’ This pursuit came to an abrupt end when one of the customers overheard and told the menopausal owner. I still use her facial expressions when extreme rage is ever called for in auditions. I believe one of the kitchen boys might still be having his wages docked to cover the cost of the calls.

‘Cover for me while I go to the payphone?’ I tell Julia, pulling the only three pounds I own from my pocket.

Seventeen clever
Observer
-reading men! I enter the vandalized phonebox. I dial the number; thankfully it isn’t barred from the payphone. I can barely breathe I’m so excited.

‘Hi, Sarah, my name’s Brian, I, um, hello, yes, I liked your ad, you sound like a fun girl! I’m forty-six. I work in finance.’ I’m sure he’s very nice but I don’t like his name, he’s too old and the word ‘finance’ bores me. How can I skip him and get to the next one? ‘But before you think I’m dull because I work in finance I also play bass in a Human League tribute band . . . and er . . .’
Beep.

The line goes dead. I look at the phone. It tells me something alarming. I have run out of credit. I stand and stare at the phonebox. There is something perversely compelling about witnessing money being spent at such a rate. I’m sure Brian’s a nice guy but I’m not sure he’s worth £3.

‘That was quick,’ says Julia excitedly when she sees me.

‘Three quid and all I got was some old bloke called Brian. Can you think of anything weirder than a Human League tribute band?’

She thinks for a moment and then shakes her head.

‘I need more money,’ I say, going to the till. ‘I’ve got another sixteen to get through. Right, if they’re £3 a pop what’s that?’

We stand there trying to work it out in our heads. Our eyes open very wide. We sing in unison, ‘Nearly fifty quid.’

‘Shit. Can you lend me fifty quid? I’ve got no money on me.’

‘Wank, neither have I,’ wails Jules. Then she gets bossy. ‘Right, I’ve got a plan. Take it out of the till and then we’ll have to be bloody brilliant and make fifty quid in tips. You can put the money back at the end of the day.’

‘We’ll never make fifty quid!’ I start to protest, but Julia’s on a roll.

‘Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ she says and opens the till and starts to count out pound coins.

‘Go get ’em, girl!’ she says, handing me a plastic bag containing all the change in the till. It nearly yanks my arm off. I cradle the bag of coins in both arms like an overweight baby and race back to the phonebox. After Brian I have a message from phlegmy Neil, then someone who works in insurance, then mumbling Michael, then someone who sounds quite sexy but will only meet Indian women. Then the witty writer whom I plagiarized scolding me for copying his ad, but saying he hopes I have as much luck as him as he’s currently seeing someone special. I stand feeding borrowed money into a machine and listening to lonely men. I start to feel depressed. I don’t like the sound of any of them. What a waste of time, energy and money. Then suddenly number fifteen jolts me from my slumped stance.

‘Sarah, hello, it’s Eamonn Nigels from the café. I realize I’m bloody old. I suspect you think I’m gay, but I’m not, I’m er, very heterosexual and I’d love to take you out for dinner. I think you’re great.’

I walk back to the café, stunned. Julia is standing at the counter counting out a lady’s change in five-pence pieces.

‘Well?’ she says, raising her eyes when she sees me.

‘Eamonn Nigels asked me out,’ I whisper.

‘You said he was gay!’ she shouts.

Fifteen people look up from their breakfasts.

‘I was wrong,’ I whisper.

twenty-nine

I turn the computer off. I make the ‘urgh’ sound loudly. Then I sit on a box of cocks with my head in my hands. Simon hurls himself through the door and into the room.

‘What’s the matter?’ he pants.

‘Paul’s started writing crap rhymes on my blog and now all my readers think he’s some sort of hero,’ I say, exasperated. it