50 Ways to Find a Lover (27 page)

‘Yes,’ I laugh, ‘so should I!’

‘You’re looking rather flushed and excited, Sarah, is there a man involved?’ she says perceptively.

‘Well, sort of,’ I tell her coyly.

‘This sounds interesting; do tell me all.’

‘OK, stop me if I bore you though!’ I start. I then proceed to tell her my whole love-life story. All about the blog and meeting Paul and Paul turning out to be a shit and now getting back on with my quests. Then I proudly describe my trip to the breakfast trailer.

All the time Maureen nods and chuckles and makes some truly pained sounds at the disappointing bits. By the end of my tirade I am hopelessly in love with Maureen and hoping she might adopt me as her grandchild and ask me to come and live with her.

She smiles kindly, then she winks at me.

‘I may well just have had a very good idea, Sarah. I have a—’

There is a violent knock on the rickety trailer door and Gus the Gorgeous Geordie shouts, ‘Sarah Sargeant, get to make-up!!’

I look at Maureen, itching to know what her marvellous idea was.

‘I’ll tell you later, love, don’t let me forget!’

‘No danger of that, Maureen,’ I smile and then I give her a kiss on the cheek. This impulsive display of affection surprises both of us.

I race to the make-up trailer; I love make-up trailers because they’re full of make-up and people who know how to apply it. This one is no exception. A lovely lady called Helen takes my flawed face and applies some quality cosmetics to it. I leave the make-up trailer, wondering if Maureen could ask Helen to live with us as well.

I am driven to the set of
Casualty
. I see the entrance to the hospital, which Mum and I have watched on telly every week for years. Men are swarming all over it like ants, carrying cables and lights. I discover that men who carry heavy things are a lot more attractive than men who don’t carry heavy things. I am led inside the
Casualty
department studio and am introduced to a snotty boy who looks about seven.

‘This is Alfie, he’ll be playing your son,’ I am told.

‘Hiya, Alfie.’ I smile. ‘Shall I get you a tissue for your nose?’ I am trying to sound maternal.

‘Duh, it’s make-up!’ he tells me.

‘Cool!’ I exclaim.

‘Yeah, snot make-up!’ he giggles, emphasizing the word ‘snot’ to let me know that it’s not a word he’s allowed to use at home.

‘Can I touch it?’ I ask, fascinated. He nods. ‘Urgh!’ I squeal when my finger meets Alfie’s snot. He giggles. ‘I’m so jealous, Alfie, I want some snot make-up too!’ I say, and then Alfie puts his little hand in my slightly sticky one.

We are led on to the set and start to practise our little scene. I start to really enjoy having a snotty son until Alfie says his lines so brilliantly that I go off the talented little bugger. We shoot the scene in what feels like four and a half minutes. And before I have had time to say, ‘Take me now, anyone with a toolbox,’ I’m being driven back to the trailer. On the one hand thinking, Short of high-class prostitution there can’t be a quicker way to make money, but on the other I have failed to find a well-paid man who works in telly above the age of seven. I open the trailer door and Maureen looks up from her knitting.

‘Oh dear, what’s wrong, Sarah? Didn’t it go well?’

‘Oh, the scene was fine, actually. But no opportunity to find the man who wants to take on this slightly overweight bit-part actress for life,’ I lament melodramatically.

Maureen chuckles.

‘Thank you, Maureen, for finding my loveless status comedic.’

‘Now then, drama queen, I have the perfect man for you,’ she says, nodding towards her knitting. ‘Marcus, my grandson.’

‘Really?’ I say suspiciously.

‘Mmm. He’s a lovely young man.’

‘How young?’ I ask tentatively, clocking the ghastly purple jumper she’s knitting for him.

‘Thirty-three.’

‘Thirty-three!’ I sigh. ‘Thirty-three is the perfect age for my future life partner.’

‘Yes. You’ll love him. He’s a wonderful photographer,’ she tells me confidently.

‘Hmm. Maureen, please don’t take any offence at this but if he’s so wonderful why is he single?’

‘How long did you say you’ve been single, Sarah?’

I gasp and smile. I’m impressed.

‘Touché!’
I say, because that’s what actors do.

‘Sarah, I’ve got a plan. He’s taking me to the theatre next week. I’m going to tell him that I’m feeling under par but that I know you’d love to see the play so I’d like him to take you instead.’

‘What play is it?’ I ask, loving this plan.

‘That thing at the Haymarket,’ she says.

‘Oh great,’ I say. Oh God! I’ve heard of it. It’s about three hours long and has had dreadful reviews.

Another frenzied bash on the trailer door and the Geordie foghorn: ‘Sarah Sargeant, shift your arse. Your car’s outside. Phil the gaffer’s dropping you back. He lives near you.’

I look at Maureen.

‘Write your telephone number down for me, love. I’ll sort it all out.’

I do as I’m told.

‘Maureen, thank you,’ I say honestly and give her another kiss.

She smiles kindly and winks.

thirty-four

Phil the gaffer is not a looker. He needs:

Phil is taking me home in his Mondeo full of empty Nicorette boxes because all the other drivers in their luxury people carriers with tellies and heated seats and talking doors are busy. However, Phil could be taking me home on a donkey and I’d still be on a high. I have a theatre date with a young photographer next week! If things carry on like this I’ll need a diary. Or a little black book. Or better still a little pink book with the words ‘man eater’ on the front in diamante.

Poor unkempt Phil is getting the brunt of my excitement, which is taking the form of verbal dysentery. Not that I am telling him about my love life. I’m not doing much talking myself. I’m just interrogating him. The book is life-changing. I never knew other people could be so interesting.

‘So what happened when your dad got out of prison?’ I ask, leaning forward. When I got in the car I asked him how long he’d lived in Camden, then I asked him where he lived before that, and so it went on until now I have his life story.

‘He came back to Gran’s where I was living one night and burgled the place. We never saw him,’ he tells me. He speaks in barely audible growls, like a chainsaw on its last legs.

‘Shi-ii-it,’ I respond. I’ve responded to Phil the gaffer’s life story a lot with ‘shi-ii-it’.

‘And your mum? Did you see her again?’ I venture.

‘She lives with me now,’ he says, grinding.

‘And are you married?’ I ask. I let a yawn slip out. I feel sleepy after my early morning.

‘It’s just me and Mum.’ His eyes are fixed on the road. I wonder whether his mum nags him to clean his car. I yawn again. This yawn is like a plane taking off, all noisy build-up and popping ears.

‘If you’re tired, sleep,’ he says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

‘Thanks.’ I smile at him.

I lean my head back and shut my eyes. Phil the gaffer turns on the radio quietly. Bloody Keane is playing. It’s one of the tracks off their old album. The same album that was playing at the speed-dating event where I met Paul. During the weeks when I thought that Paul was the most sensitive, funny, handsome man on the planet I stopped loathing Keane and their insipid dirge. In those weeks when I thought Paul and I were going to have a lifetime love the likes of which no one else could comprehend, I found myself loving the way each song sounds the same but just a tiny bit more boring. I used to hum Keane when I thought of Paul. I should have known then.

‘Bloody hate Keane,’ I mutter. My eyes are closed. I’m on the doorstep of sleep.

‘Oh ho ho!’ chuckles the unkempt gaffer with something approaching animation. ‘Keane should only be listened to when tearing away from your cheating boyfriend’s house in the early hours of the morning.’

‘Hmmm. Well said,’ I sigh sleepily. Then I realize that it is ‘well said’. Very ‘well said’. Because I bloody said it! I open my eyes wide. I look at Phil. He must read my blog. When I imagine my blog readers they don’t look like this unkempt gaffer. I imagine them to be normal-looking, maybe even pretty. He must be one of the people who were led to my blog via the search term ‘sweaty fanny’.

‘Phil, where did you hear that expression about Keane?’ I enquire, trying to sound cool. It is an uncomfortable question. I have never before asked someone to cite a bibliography or reference during a conversation.

He glances at me in the rear-view mirror.

I continue, ‘I write a blog on the Internet. I wrote the exact words you just said about Keane. That’s all.’

Phil ignores me. He concentrates on the road as he slows down near my flat. He parks and switches off the engine.

‘Thanks ever so much for the lift, Phil. Bye.’

‘Sarah,’ he says seriously.

‘Mmm.’

‘I love your blog.’ His face lights up like a drawn-on fag. ‘I’m your number one fan.’

‘Oh.’

I close the door and race inside. I need to hit Simon hard for trying to persuade me to go on a date with Phil the Gaffer. My No. 1 Fan.

thirty-five