50 Ways to Find a Lover (41 page)

fifty-four

‘Nice to see that turning thirty has matured you, darling,’ says my sister, holding back my hair.

‘Sodding sambuca.’

‘How many did you have?’ she asks.

‘Eight.’ I retch again. I must learn that drinking sambuca doesn’t make me happy. It makes me vomit.

‘Nice toilets, aren’t they?’ she murmurs, pulling the old-fashioned chain.

‘He missed my birthday,’ I say sadly.

Paul sent me a text two hours ago:

So sorry baby. Something’s come 1up at work and I don’t think I can get away. I will make it up to you I promise x

Something has come up at work! Something has come up at bloody work! It’s my thirtieth. I so wanted him to be here. Everyone was looking forward to meeting him. Simon bought me a double bed for my birthday. I was trying not to get too drunk so we could christen it later. Julia bought me the world’s quietest vibrator. It’s more likely I’ll be christening that. All I can think is that the thing that came up at work must be his penis in the vicinity of a pretty work-experience girl. My dad’s out there dancing with my blog readers, Ian Beale’s snogging his fiancé, who looks a lot like Charlie Dimmock from those gardening shows. Marcus and Clive are there with Eamonn Nigels and Rachel Bird. Nikki announced she’s pregnant. It is a terrific party but my boyfriend, my gorgeous, successful boyfriend, did not come and now I am crying and vomiting in a toilet with my sister. As if this isn’t bad enough, lots of strangers keep coming up to me asking where P the Poet is. I feel like such a fool.

‘Come on, darling, get up and let’s redo your make-up and get you back out there again.’

I stand limply as she washes my face. I love my sister.

‘Don’t let a man ruin your big night, darling. The DJ’s very good-looking.’

‘Julia loves him.’

‘I thought she loved Simon.’

‘She told me earlier that there was no chemistry when they kissed.’

‘Ah, that’s good.’

A girl enters the toilets. She is wearing a strapless pink dress and dainty kitten-heel shoes. She is miniature. She is even smaller than my sister, who is five foot and the smallest person I know. She is like a perfectly sculpted little china doll. She should live in a cabinet. I bet whenever she goes anywhere men fling coats down in puddles and try to impregnate her. And she looks about twenty-two. I fight the urge to cry again. I wish I was petite and twenty-two instead of thunderous and thirty.

‘Oh hi, Sarah.’ She smiles at me.

‘Hi,’ I slur, due to the combination of sambuca and the sustained attack of bronzer being thrust in my face.

‘I really enjoy your blog.’

I nod. Gail’s on to lip liner now.

‘Is Perfect P the Poet here?’

I shake my head. My sister licks a tissue to wipe the lip liner off my nose.

‘No, he got held up at work.’

‘Oh you poor thing! On your thirtieth birthday as well.’ She could have just said ‘birthday’. She didn’t have to rub in the ‘thirtieth’ bit. ‘That’s awful. You must feel terrible.’ I wonder whether Little Miss Small But Angelically Formed would like a trowel to lay it on any more.

‘Hmmmm,’ I respond.

‘I know exactly how you feel. I used to go out with a guy who worked all hours. I used to think it was another woman. You get so paranoid.’

‘Was it another woman?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you split up?’ I ask.

‘I thought I was too young to be in a relationship.’

My sister and I give her a lingering, loathing look. But her little face looks so sad. We both make that sympathetic ‘ah’ sound that women do when other women are upset about men or when they see a baby with a rash on its face. Then her bottom lip starts quivering. So we make the ‘ah’ sound again.

‘I miss him,’ she whispers.

‘Ah, you poor poppet,’ coos my sister.

‘Why don’t you call him?’ I ask.

‘He won’t answer my calls!’ she wails.

‘Bastard,’ I say as I watch her cry.

‘No, he’s not a bastard. He’s lovely.’

‘Well, why don’t you go to his house? Have you seen yourself ? You’re so beautiful. I’m sure if he actually saw you again he wouldn’t be able to say no.’

‘But what if he tells me to fuck off ?’ She sniffs.

Gail and l look at her blankly for a moment.

‘Well, you only ever regret the things that you don’t do. You might be miserable for a bit. But you’re miserable now.’

‘Yes, maybe you’re right. Thank you,’ she says. And she walks over and hugs me.

‘Ah, that was nice what you said to her,’ my sister tells me after she’s left.

‘Hmmmm. Maybe I could be a matchmaker like Cilla Black. I could call myself Super Cilla.’

‘Your dad’s exhausted me!’ It’s Julia, hair stuck to her head with sweat, panting. She leans forward clutching her knees in that post-heavy-exercise recovery position that I recognize from having seen other people do it. ‘I tried to keep up with that Mick Jagger thing he does. I feel sick.’

‘How’s it going with the DJ?’

‘Carlos,’ she sighs. ‘I need advice. He’s gorgeous, plays brilliant music and he’s got big hands. What do I do?’

‘Well, it just so happens that I have an alter ego. I am Super Cilla, matchmaker extraordinaire.’

‘Yer wha?’

‘Let’s go back in.’ Then I start barking like that scary bloke from
Celebrity Fit Club
, ‘You go out there and do your “Hit Me Baby One More Time”.’

fifty-five

I love rehearsing. I love arriving in the rehearsal room and drinking tea, eating biscuits and gossiping with other actors before we settle down to work out what the bloody hell the play’s about. I love practising my scenes and trying out different ways to play them. But most of all I love the moment when it all clicks into place. When you know your character so well you could be them in the pub or the corner shop. When I was a child I used to dress up and pretend I was another person. Now I still do that and someone pays me. It makes the interminable periods of out-of-work poverty and all the rejection worth it.

I especially love rehearsing this play. My character has lots of anecdotes that she tells the audience directly. When I’m not rehearsing scenes with Dominic and the company I go off with Tristan the assistant director and practise them. I adore working with Tristan. He is a marvellous director. He is a natural at the ‘stroke then poke’ method of giving you notes. The stroke-then-poke method of direction means you are flattered before you are criticized. Some directors just poke. For example, a poke director would say something like, ‘No, no, no, that was the definition of bollocks, I had my hands over my ears for most of it, do it like this.’ A stroke-and-poke director would say, ‘That was wonderful. What makes you such a remarkable actress is your emotional honesty. I’d love to see you do it again – without the Welsh accent and the limp though, if you wouldn’t mind, darling.’

I am developing a little crush on Tristan. He is gloriously tall and dishevelled. He wears shoes that are falling apart and which belonged to his grandad. He is always looking around him on the floor for a tenner he’s lost. Whenever he needs something from his pockets there is a flutter of old receipts and tissues. He carries a dog-eared E. M. Forster because the way he writes of love is extraordinary. You feel his soul is a mesmerizing, beautiful ramshackle castle on the Cornish coast where poets live and children play. He’s only twenty-three and his wisdom teeth are coming through. He’s so young he’s teething.

‘Can I ask you something, Sarah?’

‘Course, Tristan.’

‘Have you ever been a dominatrix?’

‘Er, no. Why?’

‘It’s just you’ve really got a handle on the character. What you’re doing is extraordinary.’

‘Thanks.’

I hear my Bros ringtone and see my bag vibrating in the corner of the rehearsal room.

‘Tristan, I am so sorry. I thought I’d turned it off,’ I say, running to my bag to turn it off.

‘No worries. Take the call. I think we’re done for today.’

It’s Julia, who’s screaming.

‘He called me. We’re going on a date. He’s taking me to Ronnie Scott’s. Can I borrow your fuck-me shoes?’

I smile. I had an email from Carlos yesterday. He asked me for Julia’s number.

‘Course. Come round later.’

‘I thought you were going out with Paul?’

‘Yeah we were, but he’s got to work. Apparently.’

‘Oh bubba, I’m sorry.’

‘Yep. Shitty.’

‘Sare. I’ve been thinking, if it’s not going great with Paul, why don’t you go out with that number one fan guy?’

‘Jules! No way. He’s a smelly gaffer bloke from
Casualty
.’

‘What?’

‘He told me. Look, I’ve got to go.’

‘OK. See you later. Oh my God. I’ve got a date!’ she screeches before hanging up.

‘That looks like it was a good call,’ says Tristan, clocking my smile.

‘Yeah, my best mate’s got a date with a handsome DJ and I might have had a little hand in them getting together.’

‘I’d love a date,’ he sighs.

‘Are you single, Tristan? That’s criminal. You’re lovely. Perhaps I should set you up with someone. I’m actually turning into a bit of a matchmaker.’

Tristan looks terrified.