50 Ways to Find a Lover (49 page)

Simon flies in six hours. Perhaps I’ll be able to heave myself together then. I have been back for four days. I have left the house twice. Once to do a healthy-food shop, the other to buy a book on fitness, a book by Eckhart Tolle and an Olivia Newton John album. This is not because I haven’t been invited out. On the contrary, I’ve had more social invitations in the last four days than I have ever had:

I can grasp the fact that without Simon here there is something major missing in my life. I’m like roast beef without the Yorkshire pudding, or a cashpoint without a queue, or Mum without Dad. That’s the hardest thought. I believe that if Simon and I were together our lives would be a chaotic adventure. We would be like my mum and dad, still making each other laugh after forty-five years together. Without him I just feel like I’m in black and white and everything else is in colour. Still, I am taking his advice and trying to be positive. At least we’ll be friends for ever. At least I haven’t buggered that up by telling him how I feel. That’s something.

My phone rings. It’s Paranoid Jay.

‘Hey, Jay,’ I say flatly.

‘Hey, Sare. I was sorry to hear about your mum. Is she doing OK?’

‘Yeah. Thanks. That’s really sweet of you, Jay. How are you doing?’

‘All right. I’m going to miss Si though.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘How’s the blog going, Sarah?’

‘Oh, I’m not going to do it any more. I’m trying to get fit. I think it’ll be healthier.’

‘Right. Have you, er, looked at that bloke’s blog,
A
Bachelor’s Quest
?’

‘No, I’m really not bothered, to be honest. Good on him. I hope he meets someone. I’m just going to deal in the real world for now, you know, as opposed to the virtual world I was obsessed with.’

‘Right,’ he says slowly. ‘Oh well, nice to speak to you, Sarah. We’ll have to go for a drink.’

‘Yeah, cool,’ I mutter. But he’s already hung up.

I remember that yoga is good for clearing the mind. I stand in the lounge and try to do a downward dog. Simon was always doing a downward dog and some other weird side stretch. Simon makes a downward frigging dog look much easier than it is, I think, as the backs of my legs start to burn. I try the side stretch but topple over on to the sofa. I try the dog again. My legs feel like a Californian forest in a dry summer when someone forgot to stub their fag out. I don’t think I like yoga much. I head to the cross-trainer and set the timer to twenty-five minutes.

When I get to eighteen minutes I hear banging on the front door. I catch sight of my puce face in the mirror. I don’t think I’ve ever looked so ugly. It’s bound to be the man from Flat 3. I open the door an inch and peep out. It’s not the man from Flat 3. It’s Nikki and Bertrand.

‘Hello,’ I say, surprised. I open the door wide and let them in.

‘Saraaah, you are all sweaty,’ says Bertrand, deciding not to kiss me.

Nikki looks peaky and runs to the toilet.

‘Morning sickness?’

‘Hm hm. Eeeven at seeex o’clock she’s seeek.’ Bertrand walks into the lounge.

‘Sorry I didn’t make it last night. Did you come up with some names?’ I ask, putting the kettle on.

‘No, we all got distracted and just started chatteeng,’ he says.

Something is wrong with Bertrand today. He’s twitchy and distant.

‘You all right?’ I enquire.

‘Yeah, yeah, um, how eees ze blog?’

I must have been possessed by my blog. It’s all anyone talks to me about now.

‘Oh, I’ve given all that up. I think Si was right. It was a bit evil.’

‘Ah.’

Nikki returns from the bathroom.

‘I used your toothbrush, Sarah. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Lovely,’ I wince. ‘Tea?’

‘Great, so have you seen that
Bachelor’s Quest
blog?’ asks Nikki.

‘No, I’m off blogs,’ I say, looking at my last two teabags and wondering how to deal with the situation. There’s another knock at the door.

‘That’s probably the man from Flat 3,’ I say, walking to get it. But again it’s not. It’s Julia and Carlos.

‘Bloody hell, it’s a drop-in centre,’ I say, kissing them. They walk into my living room. They don’t seem very surprised to see Nikki and Bertrand, which is odd.

‘Listen, I’ve just got to run out and get some teabags,’ I say, going into my bedroom to find my coat. Julia runs after me.

‘Sare, don’t. We’re not here for tea.’

‘I’ve got wine,’ I offer.

‘We’re all worried about you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you haven’t been out.’

‘I’ve only been back a few days.’

‘And you’ve stopped your blog.’

‘I DON’T WANT TO BLOG ANY MORE!!’ I shout, exasperated. ‘The blog was stupid. I got all addicted to it and missed what was under my nose.’

Julia raises her eyebrows at me. I want to tell her all about Simon and how I feel. But if I do it’ll prolong the agony. It’s like the best audition of my life and I didn’t get it and I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll move on and wait until the next one.

‘Have you looked at that bachelor’s blog?’

‘No I cocking haven’t. I told you I’m not interested in blogs any more.’ I head back to the lounge with Julia trailing after me. She stands in the doorway, hands on hips, wobbling cleavage, breathing heavily.

‘She hasn’t read it, guys,’ she says seriously.

‘What’s the big deal about this bloody bloke’s blog?’

Eight eyes look at me.

‘Where’s your computer?’ She’s panting. It’s the Julia temper. I don’t care.

‘Not telling,’ I say calmly.

‘Sarah,’ she screeches, running into my room. She decimates my desk. I stand saying, ‘Cold, colder, a bit warmer’ in that way children do when you’re trying to find something they’ve hidden. This riles Julia. She throws all the clothes on my floor on to my bed. Then she stands in the middle of my room, muttering, ‘Where’s the sodding laptop, Sarah? Where’s the sodding laptop, Sarah?’

I stand there goading. ‘Not telling, not telling.’ I am enjoying myself. This is an exact replica of the conversations we used to have when I smoked and Julia would hide my cigarettes to make me stop. She gets warmer and warmer, until she’s on her knees peering under the bed.

‘Found it!’ she exclaims. She fishes it out and stalks into the living room. I follow behind, shaking my head.

‘You’ll need to charge it,’ I smile.

‘I saw the charger,’ she says, giving Carlos the laptop and running back to my room.

‘Why would I care what this bachelor says?’ I ask them.

‘There’s stuff in there you should read. It might help you to get back to your old self, Sare,’ says Nikki kindly.

‘That’s so sweet. But I don’t want to get back to my old blogging ways.’

Julia’s back now. The computer’s plugged in and she’s typing.

‘Sit here, stubborn annoying best friend.’

I don’t move.

‘Pick her up, Carlos,’ she tells him firmly. He rises from the sofa.

‘No, I weigh a ton and I’m all sweaty,’ I squeal, rushing to the chair that Julia’s proffering. ‘Look, I’ll read his blog if it makes you happy.’

I look at the screen. It’s filled with a photo of a bare-chested man holding a micro meal for one. You can’t see his head or below the waist. Just his very toned torso.

‘The bastard has already got a photo on there. I never worked out how to do that,’ I mumble.

No one says anything. He looks tasty, although toned chests will forever make me think of Simon. I’ll have to meet a man with a belly shaped like a Chinese dumpling. I start to read his words aloud in an over-the-top male voice.

‘My blog started “I am a spinster.” So unoriginal.’

‘There’s no such thing as love, matey. Get over it.’

‘If it’s moves to “Love Shack” you’re after, I’m your lady,’ I say, warming to him.

‘Blimey, he’s got it bad.’

‘She sounds like me.’

‘Good woman.’

I stop reading aloud now.

I look up at the eyes staring at me.

‘Well . . . ?’ says Julia.

‘I have to get to Simon’s mum’s house!’ I gasp.

‘I’ve got Big Daddy,’ shrieks Julia. ‘LET’S GO.’

‘I need clothes and pants! I’m going to Brazil!’ I am crying now.

‘We packed you a bag!’ squeals Nikki.

‘It’s in the car! Get your passport! Go, go, go!’ implores Julia, jangling her keys.

Big Daddy sounds like he is having an asthma attack. He’s carrying five people so we are unnervingly near to the ground. Carlos is in the front and I’m in the back with Nikki and Bertrand.

‘Please make it, please make it,’ is my mantra.

‘He’ll make it, won’t you, baby?’ coos Julia.

‘I can’t believe he started a blog for me. He even checked his spelling.’

‘I elped im, Sarah. With the site and eees spelling. It was fookin ouwwfool.’

‘Ah.’

‘That was why I ad zat stuff on my computer about you,’ Bertrand adds with a smile.

‘Man, it’s been the hardest secret in the world,’ chips in Julia. ‘He told me how he felt about you when I threw myself on him at the wedding. I was sworn to secrecy though. He said he’d been trying to split up with Ruth for ages but he didn’t know how you felt and didn’t want to get blown out. Then you went and called Paul bloody Poo-pants that night and he looked so gutted.’