50 Ways to Find a Lover (17 page)

Bloody hell, Ruth’s taking ages in the bathroom. My cream’s been on five minutes too long already.

There’s a knock on the front door.

‘Sare, will you get that? I’m just in the middle of sun salutation,’ pants Simon from the living room.

‘No one cares about my pubic region,’ I mutter, opening the door an inch and peering out. It’s the bloke who lives in Flat 3.

‘Just going round the flats. Now do you have any damp?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Any damp floors or ceilings?’

‘Oh, right, yes, a bit actually, in the lounge above the telly.’

‘Can I have a quick gander? It’s just to let the management company know the extent of the problem.’

‘Um, OK.’

I waddle him through to the lounge, holding the dressing gown away from my lady’s place. I’m sure all this movement’s smothered the cream everywhere. Now I’ll look prepubescent. Bloody Ruth’s still in the loo. As we enter the lounge, Si shouts hello upside-down from between his legs.

‘You OK, Sare, what you got under there?’

‘Nothing.’ It comes out quite high-pitched.

‘Yes, are you in pain?’ asks the man from number 3. He sounds concerned.

‘You’re putting hair-removal cream on your fanny for your big date,’ laughs Simon.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I nod to the man from Flat 3. Then I whisper to Simon, ‘I was actually trying to quietly cream my bikini area, but I can’t take it off because your girlfriend’s having a crap in the loo.’

‘Right, so that’s the damp, is it?’ the man says, pointing at our damp patch.

‘It’s not her fault yoga and massage stimulates the bowels,’ pants Simon defensively. ‘She doesn’t know you’re creaming your fanny.’

The man from number 3 looks embarrassed and whispers, ‘I’d better be off then. Don’t worry, Sarah, I’ll show myself out. You do your, er, thing.’

I wait a further twelve minutes for Ruth to leave the bathroom. I hold my breath and go in. Blimey, for a pretty girl with a healthy diet she can really create a war zone in twenty minutes. I take the cream off. I am left with two tufts. My pubic region now looks as though two little money spiders have died upside-down on it. Bloody Crazy Canadian. Oh, but I’ve got a new text. It’s from Paul.
The thought of you in the bath makes EVERYTHING pleasurable xxx
. Wow. We’re on to three kisses and sexy texting. Thank you, God.

nineteen

I panicked this morning. I suddenly realized that inviting a man to meet your entire family on the third date was probably certifiable. What a waste of panicking! It has been extremely and completely wonderful. Everyone loves him. Except my mother. She hasn’t met him yet, on account of the fact that she has been running for five hours. We are all assembled on Pall Mall to cheer Mum on for the final stretch. I can’t wait to see her. We’re going to put out the banner and hum the music from
Chariots of Fire
.

I am unable to stop grinning. It’s like someone has inserted a CD into my mouth. And every time Paul says or does something wonderful, which is permanently, my stomach feels like it’s on the fast bit of a Zanussi spin cycle. Why did I waste so much time not wanting a man? Why did I keep harping on about how crap relationships were? I didn’t just dwell on negatives, I built a bloody great castle on them.

Talk about everything going according to plan. It’s making me think that I should make plans more often. Fifty Ways to Get a Part in the New Season of
24
. Fifty Ways to Firm My Bottom. Although I must remember when making future plans not to completely remove my pubic hair and then wear tight jeans on a hot day. The only way to ease the itching is by making little pelvic movements. I hope he doesn’t think I have crabs.

Paul’s phone is vibrating in his pocket. If I turned round that would give my pubic area a nice little scratch. Best not. His phone has been vibrating for most of the day.

‘Blimey. You’re popular.’

‘I wish.’ He turns it off in his pocket without even looking at it. ‘Work.’

‘Get it. I don’t mind.’

‘No. I’m here with you. And your family.’

A ridiculous, delirious hiccuping sound escapes from me before I can stop it.

‘I’m going to go and find a loo or a bush in a child-free area to pee in before your mum comes through,’ he says, kissing me lightly on the cheek. I want to turn my body in to his and snog his face off. It’s sunny and I’ve been drinking champagne in the daytime. Those facts alone make me randy. The fact that Paul’s warm body has been at my side and his hand has been in the small of my back all day is making that randiness unbearable. He’s wearing a T-shirt and I’m wearing a vest top so there’s been lots of skin touching skin. Talk about tingle-tastic. I smile to myself as I watch him walk away. Then as soon as he is out of sight I race to my dad, who’s sitting on a box of empty champagne bottles.

‘Dad, have you got a pen?’ I say hurriedly.

‘I think I’ve got a golf scorecard pencil in my pocket. Here you go,’ he says, handing me the pencil but not taking his eyes off the runners. I rummage in my pockets for some paper. All I have is an old credit-card receipt. It’ll have to do.

‘George,’ I shout to my eight-year-old nephew, ‘come here a sec.’

George shuffles over to me in his little Arsenal trainers. I manoeuvre him so that his back is towards me and he is bending over slightly. I place the receipt on his clammy Arsenal-T-shirt-clad shoulder and start to make a list in tiny writing.

I have to write down all the lovely things that Paul has said to me today because I don’t want to forget anything when I write my blog later.

‘Do you think he’ll really take us to see Arsenal play?’ asks George.

‘Yes, if he says he will,’ I reply with pride.

‘Really?’ squeaks George excitedly, turning round.

‘George! Keep still, I’m trying to write!’

‘What are you writing?’ he whines.

‘Nothing.’

‘It tickles,’ he says, wiggling. My hand slips and I create a big line through my minuscule writing.

‘Sweetheart, please be still, I’m nearly finished.’

‘Her bottom’s even bigger than yours,’ shouts George, pointing at the lardy monument of Queen Victoria on Pall Mall, which we are facing. His sister Rosie, my six-year-old niece, giggles and then they both start singing, ‘Sarah and Paul, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G.’

‘Control your children!’ I shout to my sister, Gail. Gail looks a lot like me but with more breast and less height. She turns to me and shrugs.

‘They’re restless. What can I do?’

‘When will Granny finish? I’m hungry,’ whines George.

‘Soon, sweetheart. Very soon,’ I tell him.

In fact, she could be here any moment. Simon came through the line over an hour ago. He’s been laid out on a grass verge with Ruth giving him a back rub ever since. I put the receipt back in my wallet and pull the home-made banner out of my bag.

‘How are you doing, athlete?’ I ask, shouting over to Simon. He releases his head from his hands.

‘Fucked.’

‘Don’t repeat that, George,’ I say. George chuckles.

‘She’ll be here soon. Give us the other end of that banner,’ Simon says, getting up and walking over to me. He grimaces as he moves his limbs.

‘OK. Just till Paul gets back.’ We drape the banner over the railing and crane our necks so that we can see down the course. I start
der der der de der
-ing quietly.

‘There she is, there she is,’ gasps my dad, standing up. His bifocals must be incredible. He’s pointing towards a blob in the distance.

‘It’s her!’ shrieks my sister.

We all watch her for a moment. But no one says anything. In fact I don’t think anyone even breathes. I didn’t expect her to be sprinting still. But I definitely didn’t expect her to look like this. Mum is moving incredibly slowly. She’s hobbling and swaying. It’s the sort of gait you normally see on people hanging around Camden tube with a can of Special Brew.

‘Is Granny all right?’ asks George innocently.

I look at my dad because that’s what you do. You look at your dad because he’s supposed to know everything. But there’s a tear in the corner of his eye. My dad doesn’t cry. Maybe it’s rain. Or perhaps I spat on him a little bit when I spoke.

I turn back to look at Mum in time to see Simon giving his end of the banner to George. Then he suddenly hops over the railing.

‘What the bugger are you doing?’ I shout at him like his annoying wife.

‘I’m going to give your mum a hand. That’s the blister shuffle she’s doing there and it’s not nice. Won’t be a sec.’

We watch him as he jogs off against the flow of exhausted finishers. When he reaches Mum he puts an arm round her waist and starts to carry her along. She looks as though she might cry with relief to have the weight taken from her feet. We all cheer. They get level to us and my mum looks up at Simon and says, ‘My hero.’ We all cheer again. I feel a familiar hand in the small of my back. I turn and smile at Paul.

‘That’s my mum,’ I say and I’ve never felt so proud.

twenty