The Last Year of Being Single (26 page)

John—‘You’re in your own little world again.’

He interrupts my thoughts.

Sarah—‘’Fraid so. But you are in them. I love you, John. Whatever happens, I will always love you.’

John—‘What do you mean by that?’

He’s sensing there’s something final in what I’ve just said.

Sarah—‘Nothing. I have to go now.’

He kisses me. Long, lingering, breathing in and out kiss. And I melt into him and want there to be nothing of me and want him to take the breath and responsibility and guilt and fear and anger away from me with his breath. Coz I think he can, but I won’t let him. And tears run down my cheeks on to his and he opens his eyes, still kissing me and I look into his and he’s puzzled but continues to kiss me because he knows that I want to and can’t let go of him and don’t want to go despite saying I do.

Walking down the hill, we hold hands and I play with his fingers in mine. And I kiss his palm occasionally, raising his hands to my lips. At the bottom of the hill, by his car, I cup his large hands over my face. Spreading his fingers so that they completely cover my face and kiss them. Individually, one by one. Holding his hand tight as though the rest of his body is superfluous. He takes his hand away and strokes my cheeks and then under my chin. My face follows and responds to his touch.

John—‘I’m sure you were a cat in your past life, Sarah. You’re a sensual creature. You like curling up and making love in front of the fire. You prefer outdoors to indoors. You love basking in the sun but also enjoy the sensuality of the shade. You were a cat, Sarah. Not a dog. Don’t think you’re that loyal.’(He smiles.) ‘Don’t let anyone call you a dog. Jessica and Hannah give you a big lick. Wish I could now.’

He moves his other hand to my thighs and gently, through my skirt, starts to stroke and fondle. With the other hand he holds me at the base of my spine, pushing me to him. Again gently. And, still kissing me, he very slowly brings me to climax and breathes in my pleasure.

John—‘Have a lovely holiday, Sarah.’

Sarah—‘Thank you. Can I…?’

Sarah, you can’t do this now. You can’t do this now. Don’t do it. Deal with the guilt. Deal with it. Your issue, not his. Deal with the guilt. Shut up, girl.

John—‘Yes?’

Sarah—‘Can I kiss you again?’

John—‘Of course.’

We kiss again. It’s long and sensual and I want to be naked and in his little cottage in his bed with his cats. Or perhaps I just want to be away from this situation and not there at all. Just not here. And not me.

ACTION LIST

To dump John.

To dump Paul.

To escape with grace.

FINAL CALL

2nd September

Wedding Day. I haven’t told John. He thinks I’m on holiday for the next two weeks.

Nine a.m. have to be at the hairdresser’s to get my hair coloured and cut. It takes an hour longer than I think.

Eleven a.m. facial with Lisa, beautician.

Mobile phone rings.

‘Sarah? It’s John. I have just had the weirdest phone call. I phoned your flat. Karen answered. I asked where you were. She said you were busy. I said I needed to get in touch with you. She said she doubted if I would be able to. I asked her why. She said you were getting mar
ried today and would probably be otherwise occupied. Is this true?’

Lisa noticed my skin change colour and stopped massaging my face.

Lisa—‘Sarah—are you OK? I can’t work on you like this. You are completely stressed. Are you OK?’

Sarah—‘I’m fine. Fine. Just fine. Rather stressful phone call. Can you stop for a minute?’

Lisa leaves the room and I sit up, half naked, and talk to John.

Sarah—‘It’s true. I’m getting married today to Paul. I’m marrying Paul.’

John—‘How can you be marrying Paul? You’ve been with me since April. How can you have been seeing him as well? What…?’

Silence.

Sarah—‘Are you still there?’

John—‘I’m still here. I just collapsed. I couldn’t stand up. My legs just gave way. Sarah. I’m devastated. How can you do this to me?’

Sarah—‘I wanted to tell you. I tried to tell you. But time just fled by. I couldn’t tell you. Every time I saw you I would look into your eyes and you would start to undress me and I would think, Hey, next time, I can’t tell him now. Not before we make love. Not after we make love. But every time I saw you we made love. We spent most of our time horizontal.’

John—‘Marry me. Marry
me
. Don’t marry him. Don’t marry him, Sarah. He doesn’t love you. He wouldn’t treat you the way he has if he loved you. At best he’s fucked up; at worst he’s punishing you. Building up resentment over the years. He’ll make your life hell. He won’t change. For God’s sake, if he’s not sleeping with you now he won’t change just because he’s married to you. It doesn’t happen like that.’

Sarah—‘He’s tortured. He’s a tortured soul. I know it and I can’t help him and I don’t know who can. God, perhaps. But he doesn’t believe in God, and all I can do is try to love him—and I love him, John. I have always loved him, despite the problems we’ve had. I’ve always loved him truly and deeply and you don’t want to hear this.’

John—‘He’s not a tortured soul. He’s a wanker, Sarah. He’s a selfish, self-serving wanker who’s punishing you and will continue to do so. Can’t you see that?’

I could hear John start to weep down the phone.

John—‘Why have you done this? Why couldn’t you have saved me the pain?’

Sarah—‘Because I wasn’t strong enough. I don’t have the emotional strength or maturity to deal with this situation. A situation which I created but didn’t have the foresight to get out of or not get into in the first place. I wanted you and didn’t realise the implications. I thought you were a womaniser. Someone who would dump me. Grow tired of me. Learn to hate me. But you didn’t. The fact I was unattainable made you want me more. The fact you couldn’t see me at weekends made you need me more. I was different from the rest because I wasn’t there at your beck and call. But it was for a reason. John, I love you, but not in the same way I love Paul. I am very sorry I have hurt you, but this is my decision.’

Change of tone on the phone. More stern and angry.

John—‘Where are you getting married? I’m going to come to the church. Why didn’t you ask me to the wedding?’

Sarah—‘Are you nuts!’

John—‘Where are you getting married?’

Sarah—‘I’m not telling you, John. Don’t come. If anyone must tell Paul it will be me.’

John—‘Drive over to Surrey—just meet me and talk about this.’

Sarah—‘No.’

John—‘Please?’

Sarah—‘No.’

John—(pleading)—‘Please, Sarah, I love you. Don’t do this. Don’t marry this man. You wouldn’t have slept with me if you had loved him. You wouldn’t have done this. Think about it. Why did you do it? Because you knew it wasn’t right. You knew it wasn’t right for you and you wouldn’t have done it if you had been happy. Would you? I know enough about you to know you wouldn’t have done it if you had been happy.’

Sarah—‘I know, John. But that is past and I have to live in the present and deal with the situation. I have made my bed and must lie in it. I’ve confided in people about us and about you. Anya and Catherine, neither of whom have met you, both say you sound nice and that I needed you for a reason and that was as a catalyst to identify the strength of my feelings for Paul. Whether it would work or not.

‘Perhaps when the priest asks me to say I do, then and only then will I know for sure. And if I can’t say those two words then I won’t go through with it. And, before the eyes of God and everyone, everyone will know my feelings. But I know and believe I love Paul, and what I have done with you has been for physical gratification and no other. I believed you felt the same way.’

John—‘It started that way, Sarah. But it’s not like that any more.’

Sarah—‘You just think that. You just think that. But you’re not thinking straight.’

John—‘I am. This is so unfair, Sarah. You allowed me to fall in love with you, knowing this. Do you realise the pain this is causing me? Are you aware? I’ve never felt so much pain.’

Sarah—‘I didn’t think it would be this way. I didn’t think
you would care or fall in love with me. I wanted you to, but didn’t think you would. Relationships always seemed a game to you.’

John—‘They were, but this one wasn’t, Sarah.’

Silence for thirty seconds. Quiet sobbing.

Sarah—‘Are you still there?’

John—‘Yes. Perhaps you’ve treated me the way I’ve treated other women in the past. And I’ve learnt my lesson. Learnt how much pain I’ve caused. You’ve taught me a lesson. Well done. The way I’ve—well, compartmentalised them in my life and literally switched them off, like a light, when I’m finished with them. Men do that. I’ve done that. That’s the only way we know how to deal with things. We move on, pretending it didn’t happen. Our arrogance pulls us through. But this time my arrogance can’t pull me through, Sarah. Because you’ve got to me. And I love you. And it’s real. I’m distraught, but I’ve got to go and I’m going to find out where this fucking wedding is.’

Click.

Sarah is stressed. Sarah is so stressed she can’t do anything and just sits. Sarah Giles is completely wired and worried and, on supposedly the happiest day of her life, she is a wreck and wretched and miserable and losing weight through nervous tension. Lisa tells Sarah that she is too stressed to work on. Legs are waxed so Sarah drives, and manages not to crash, back to her parents’ home. She is half an hour late. The video man and photographer have been pacing. As has Sarah’s mother, who is agitated and tells Sarah that Paul has got her a lovely honeymoon so at least she should be at the wedding on time. Sarah knows why she can’t confide in her mother. Perhaps if she told her about John she would say the same thing.
You can’t leave Paul, Sarah. He’s got you such a nice honeymoon.

Sarah gets dressed and made up. She looks in the mirror.
She looks stressed. She needs John to unstress her and kiss her and make love to her. She has to settle for a vodka and orange instead. Double—on an empty stomach. She walks down the stairs. The video man says she looks lovely. The photographer tells her that her bridesmaid looks prettier. Sarah has photos taken in the back garden with her father, who is smiling but notices Sarah is not herself. And is not there. But says nothing. The bridesmaid leaves. The video man leaves. The photographer, thank goodness, leaves. The man with the black Sunbeam and Sarah’s father remain. Another vodka. Sarah smiles and says nothing.

Dad—‘You don’t look sure about this, Sarah.’

Sarah—‘I’m not.’

Dad—‘Bit late now.’

Sarah—‘I know.’

Dad—‘Just last-minute nerves, I expect.’

Sarah—‘Yes, just last-minute nerves.’

Dad—‘It will be fine. Paul is lovely.’

Sarah—‘Yes. Paul is lovely.’

Dad—‘Mrs O’Brian…’

Sarah steps into the car in her long oyster white dress. Her father looks at her and asks her if she wants to change her mind. She says she does. He says it’s not too late if she wants to. But she thinks about the problems it will cause. The humiliation it will cause Paul. A no-show. He’s worth more than that. Thing is, so is she.

Why couldn’t she do this earlier? Why couldn’t she have explained to John that it was just a fling and that she was getting married and not to get involved with her emotionally? Why? Coz she wanted to get involved with John, that’s why. She wanted the emotional, not just the physical. She wanted to get under his skin. Into his mind. She wanted the communication and control and contact she’d lost with Paul and desperately wanted back but couldn’t find. She
wanted the romance, the bluebells, the passion. She wanted him to fall in love with her. She wanted it all. To have the wedding cake and eat it.

And then she remembers Guy, who said it wasn’t too late, and only after you say I do is it too late. So it’s not. But she says nothing. She is driven slowly through the streets on the ten-minute drive to the village, where the bells are ringing and the pews are full of bankers and wedding presents and people she doesn’t know and will not meet again. Sarah gets out of the car. She is fashionably ten minutes late. The car got stuck behind a cow. Don’t ask how it got stuck behind a cow. It just did. Perhaps the cow ate a dog, who ate a cat, who ate a bird, who ate a spider who ate a fly.

I think I’m going nuts. I need another vodka. Perhaps I just need John.

Then Sarah hears the music and can’t smile any more. And can’t walk any more but does. She walks down the aisle and doesn’t look at anyone and wants to turn back. But she doesn’t. She walks and looks straight ahead and thinks of nothing. And everything. And doesn’t want to look at the faces she doesn’t know and even less at those she does. Her cousins who don’t talk to each other are standing next to each other and making conversation and it all seems such a huge fake. A huge white wedding fake, and she doesn’t want to be the character she’s playing and she doesn’t want to be in this act and she realises that loads of women don’t want to be in this act but go through with it because it’s called role play. It’s just that it’s for grown-ups. And she stands by the character called Paul. And he smiles at her. And she looks round just in case the character called John is walking up the aisle and shouting, I have so many just causes to say that these two should not be lawfully married that it would take a fucking year.

And I want him to. I want him to find the church and I
want him to speak and I want him to come and rescue me. Not to take and have and hold me. But to rescue me from myself. From my weakness. And then I realise that this character can only rescue herself. No one can rescue her other than herself. She is alone and she is standing alone and she must rescue herself.

Sarah repeats the lines and hears Paul repeat his lines. They have to face one another to do so. They have to perform in front of an audience of hundreds who are there to bear witness and ensure that they stay together. And are there to eat the food and drink the wine and the port and dance to the band and network and have fun and party. Which is what it is about. And dress up. And all the women look very pretty. And the sun has come out. And it’s not raining and rain had been forecast and wasn’t that good? And lucky. And a good omen.

Priest—‘Do you, Sarah Giles, take Paul O’Brian to be your lawful wedded husband? Will you love him, comfort him, and, forsaking all others, keep only unto him so long as you both shall live?’

The book we rehearsed with says I should now say I will. It says the bride says
I will
. It’s in italics. That is what it says. It says I will. I do.
I will.

I turn around. No John in the congregation. At the end of the aisle. The faces look at me, perplexed, as though I’ve forgotten my lines in the play and I need prompting, and some of them quaintly and involuntarily mouth the words
I do
.

And I smile back and think of Guy’s warning and Jenny’s sparkling eyes and the bliss of dancing down the steps of Versailles with this man, and his poems and my poems, and the Plumtree at Peerton, and John blowing on my calves and Anya pummelling me and telling me to postpone and Catherine’s excitement when she first kissed Liam and the
doctor with the general anaesthetic. Fuck, I wish I had that now. I want to sleep for a year. Please, God, I want to sleep for a fucking year and wake up when the play is over and the waters have passed under the bridge and I can be Sarah Giles the person and not the actress I have been playing on a stage I never wanted to enter. And I think of the last time I saw John and how I spread his hand over my face.

And I say: ‘I don’t. I’m sorry, Paul. I don’t.

‘I don’t because it’s not right. It’s not the right time and I’m not the right person. It’s not right. I love you and I let you go now because I do. Because I love you, I let you go now. I let you go because I am not good for you at the moment, and you are not good for me. Because you will grow to resent me, as you have already done. Because you are too controlling and you would make me more free-spirited and I would make you more stern and set in your ways. And we are opposites and would push each other to extremes. And I have and would continue to make you unhappy, and you me.

‘But I love you, and everything before the “but” doesn’t matter. But it does in this case. On this day. In front of these people. At this moment it matters a lot. And I should have told you before, but I am telling you now, so you don’t have to explain to any of these people here, who bear witness, friends, family, acquaintances, hangers-on, people I’ve never met before and will doubtless never meet again. I love you, Paul O’Brian, but I can’t marry you. Not until I love myself. And I don’t. Not now.’