The Last Year Of Being Single - Sarah Tucker

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gently making his way up the calf. Then stopping, and gently pushing to go even further. I was so pleased I was wearing a bra. My nipples have a life of their own.

      He continued …

      ‘You see, Sarah, I went into the railway because after leaving university I trained as a research chemist, but there weren’t many women in that job. Or not that I found attractive. I joined the rail industry, because I considered myself on the fast track in life—‘ (he smirks; I don’t) ‘—because I liked the challenge it presented and also because I thought you’d find more women working in the industry.’

      I must admit, I found this argument totally unbelievable and told him so.

      ‘I thought you would have found other industries with more women in them. Advertising or marketing, for example. Far more women, and attractive ones. Or PR. That industry is full of women who give good head as well as PR … I’m told.’

      He smiled.

      ‘I know. They do. I’ve met quite a few.’

      He pays the bill. Scowls at the cost. But he chose the restaurant—not me. I thank him.

      ‘Thank you for a lovely lunch.’

      ‘My pleasure.’

      He walks and talks me to the station.

      ‘I came here with a management consultant last week. Her name was Stephanie. She was very beautiful, soon to be engaged and she told me she was quite fixated by me. She pushed me into that alcove over there—‘ (he points at alcove in wall of station) ‘—and ripped my shirt. I had to go back home to Amanda and explain.’

      I didn’t quite know if he meant to tell me this because a) he wanted me to do it to him—and wanted to put the idea in my head; b) he didn’t want me to do it, just in case I’d considered doing it, as Amanda might understand once but not twice in a fortnight; or c) he liked Stephanie and she was going to be Amanda’s replacement after the chocolate cake fetish had turned mushy.

      I said … ‘Oh.’

      Unimpressed by my lack of response and clever riposte, he said he would see me to Liverpool Street Station, to make sure I was safe. I said I would be fine.

      ‘No, I’ll make sure you’re OK.’

      And that’s what he did. Made sure I was OK till Liverpool Street Station. Ten stops Circle Line. Standing up all the way. No conversation. Just lots of staring. Mostly at my legs and then into my eyes. No smile, laugh or sign of light. No wrist or calf or ankle-stroking. Nothing. Very peculiar end to a very peculiar lunch with a very peculiar, sexy, ravishable dark prince.

      20th September

      I’m bored. I have done nothing to report about. Nothing to recover from. John Wayne has not been in my life. Touched my heart or my wrists. Every time I go to the toilet I think about him. And he was right about the pee thing. I contact his office and get Medina, who says he’s gone away for a fortnight with his girlfriend Amanda. I tell her to tell him he was right about the ‘pee thing’. I tell her John will understand. She huffs that she’s sure he will. I try to find out where they’ve gone. Some hotel in the middle of nowhere with a four-poster bed and an en suite bathroom with a bath for two and a shower for two. Probably. I wonder if he’s tickling her wrists as I’m writing my appraisal on why Rogerson Railways fails to communicate with its customers while disruption occurs. I wonder if he’s eating chocolate cake off her voluptuous breasts. I wonder if it’s chocolate with or without milk, if it’s home-made or from Marks & Spencer. I wonder if he’s drinking English beer or the crap foreign muck and if he’s eating sole in the evening and thinking ever so briefly about me, or about Stephanie, who tore his shirt.

      30th September

      ‘Hello. This is John Wayne.’

      Unexpected voice. Unexpected pleasure first thing on a Friday morning. Indian Summer of a morning and John Wayne calling me. Not Medina saying John is on the phone. He is actually calling me direct. ‘I wanted to know how you were.’ ‘I’m fine. Did you have a good holiday with Amanda? Not too much chocolate cake, I hope? Or ripped shirts? Or foreign muck to drink?’

      ‘It was fine. Amanda is definitely moving out. I’ve suggested she moves out. She needs her own place. She moved into my cottage just as an interim measure. She needs to find her own space. I’ve told her as much. I got your message from Medina.’ ‘What message?’ I’d forgotten.

      ‘About the pee. Good to hear it worked. Hope you’ve been practising. I find it quite exciting, the thought of you in the bathroom now, Ms Giles.’

      ‘Whatever turns you on, Mr Wayne.’ Silence.

      ‘Well, I’m at the Crime Prevention conference in November, which I believe you’re organising. So look forward to seeing you there.’

      ‘You too.’

      ‘Goodbye, then.’

      ‘Goodbye.’

      Click.

      What a weird conversation. Started so well. So promising. Sort of sexual innuendo. Literal toilet humour and then nothing. Just a goodbye, and a tease about his girlfriend moving out. The Miss Piggy I’ve yet to meet. Perhaps Stephanie will be the replacement. Anyway, girl, focus on your man. Your Paul. Your Rock. Leave the chocolate cake to someone else …

       OCTOBER

       ACTION LIST

      Enjoy work.

      Go to gym four times a week. Be able to do the box splits.

      Try out new kick-boxing class.

      Beat crap out of bitchy girls in office.

      Try to seduce Paul into having sex with me.

      Drink eight glasses of water a day. GMTV suggested this helps eyes shine.

      Eat less low-calorie chocolate drink.

      Take vitamin pills. Despite making pee very yellow.

       TEXT SEX

       1st October

      My mobile phone is an extension of my right hand. It is almost a spiritual thing. It is another intrinsic sense. To smell, to touch, to see, to hear and to text message. I have discovered the power of text messaging. It was designed for me. Short and sharp and to the point. Ability to spell totally irrelevant. In fact, lousy spelling adds a certain charm. You can be as smutty as you like. It doesn’t matter. You can say you meant to send it to someone else. That is, of course, if it doesn’t continue to happen after repeated warnings.

      Paul works in an office of men. Their bodies are full of testosterone. Their egos are huge and wallets are full. These testosterone-filled money bags are surrounded by women who work there with one goal in mind. To bag these money bags. Ideally by getting them in the sack and getting them to realise that they can’t live without them. These girls are pros. They should work on the streets (albeit SW1 streets), and some of them (I am told) have done so. Anyway, out of every ten who enter the trading room, one usually gets her man. Or someone else’s. Wedding rings are totally irrelevant.

      Paul is different. He wears no ring (we’re not engaged), but he’s faithful and loves me. He goes to lap-dance joints because his brokers pay for it, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He tells me so himself. Like a dog, really.

      He texts me every morning:

      I’ve arrived safely.

      I love you.

      Hi gorgeous, big confident kiss.

      I wish I was still in bed with you.

      At Christmas:

      I’ve had my first mince pie. I wish you were in my bed.

      Miss you loads. Looking forward

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