Shelley from nursery school days, but we’d never swapped toys or anything. She’d moved away, then for some inexplicable reason my parents had moved to where her parents had moved ten years later. And we’d ended up at the same comprehensive. Paul and I had bonded through our mutual loathing of her. It had been over a dinner in Versailles.
Paul was talking about friends.
He mentioned a girl called Shelley who was going out with his best pal Connor.
For some reason I said, ‘Not Shelley Beale?’
‘Yes, Shelley Beale. She’s horrid, isn’t she?’
‘Totally. Even the Sunday School teacher said she probably had three sixes on her head.’
‘Match made in heaven, then.’
Mutual disappreciation society was duly formed. Everyone in the ‘group’ hated her, but I was the only one to be honest enough to be cold. Bullshit was never my forte. Not in personal relationships anyway. But perhaps these days I was kidding myself.
As I stood, waving my sparkler about, listening to Paul pontificate about life and love and stuff, I thought, Fuck, is this it?
Text message:
Hi, there. Are you having fireworks like me today? John
Respond:
Yes, but it’s boring the fuck out of me. How you?
Message received:
1/2
Me fine. Pity you’re bored. Been thinking about you a lot. Amanda has been giving me a hard time about seeing you and contacting you again and she’s a good friend of Medina, so she knows if you call my office. How are your …
2/2
… nipples?
Respond:
Nipples erect and firm. Must be because I’m cold. Anything of yours erect and firm John?
Oops, perhaps I went too far. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps I should delete all messages received just in case Paul happens to look through at some stage for his loving ‘I am thinking about you’ messages and spots a nipple one.
Message received:
Yes. When can we meet?
Respond:
What’s happening with you and Amanda?
Message received:
She’s moving out next month. She has found her own flat. I helped her look for one.
That was helpful of him.
Message received:
I’m feeling filthy. I wish I could stick my long hard cock in your mouth.
Christ. And I’d thought I was going too far.
Respond:
That’s a bit heavy.
Message received:
Sorry Sarah, I think I’ve sent you a message by mistake. Pierce.
Respond:
Don’t do it again.
I decided to call John rather than risk e-mailing Pierce John’s messages and vice versa. I was just going to ask John how big Amanda’s flat was.
‘John, thought it best we speak rather than texting all the time.’
‘Nice to speak to you, Sarah. When would you like to meet? This Saturday?’
‘I can’t do weekends.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, just busy.’
‘With the boyfriend?’
‘No. We’ve split up, actually.’ (Why did I say that? That’s a lie. Why did I say that?)
Bullshit. I know exactly why I said that. Deep water here, babes. Mind you, this could make me less attractive in his eyes. I’m not so unattainable any more. I read it somewhere that men who are womanisers—which I had been told reliably by at least twenty of the men and women I worked with that John was—prefer those women who are otherwise attached. Perhaps this was a good thing. Perhaps he wouldn’t like me so much. That and the fact I was due to leave work soon through voluntary redundancy. So perhaps I told him this to get rid of him. Perhaps.
‘Oh. Well, then, how about Friday?’
‘Fine.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye.’
It would have been almost furtive if I hadn’t kept reminding myself that this guy worked for Rogerson Railways. His name was John Wayne. And the whole idea was totally ridiculous. But that was the fun of it. The sheer surrealism of doing something that everyone I knew would utterly disapprove of. After all, everyone liked Paul. Everyone. Then why didn’t I? I think he’d grown dull. Controlling and dull. He wanted a square and I’m a circle and you can’t change a circle into a square and he was trying really hard. So I wanted a bit of freedom. No marriage vows on the horizon, so, hey, why not. Even if it was with a guy called John Wayne who was a renowned womaniser with a fetish for chocolate cake, cats and English beer.
6th November
Call from Amanda. Could she take me to supper as a thank you for helping her out? OK. When? How about Friday? Er, couldn’t make Friday. How about Thursday, then? Fine. Fine. Bye.
10th November
Thursday. Supper with Amanda. Meeting at Victoria Station. I am five minutes late.
‘John says you’re always late,’ she says as I tap her on the shoulder and say hi.
‘Yes, I am. But at least I’m consistent.’
‘John suggested this restaurant in Victoria. Have you been there?’
‘No.’
I was bemused by her continual references to John this and John that. I wondered if she was going to suggest things to eat that John recommended. Fuck John. Well, not tonight anyway.
The restaurant was romantic and intimate and not really suitable for two girls together, but, hey, John had recommended it. Perhaps he got some perverse kick out of his girlfriend, soon to be ex, having dinner with his perhaps soon to be next lover. Anyway, we sat down and ordered. And.
‘John says the sole here is good.’
‘I’ll have the chicken, then.’ I smiled.
Thank God. So did she.
‘Me too.’
Amanda talked about herself. How much she loved John. How she had met him. She omitted the chocolate cake bit and I hadn’t drunk anything so didn’t ask about it. Alas, there was no chocolate cake on the dessert menu, so I couldn’t even ask if she fancied any. She talked about John a lot, and told me that he highly respected me. Really? I thought. Respected me. That’s nice. She told me she’s moving out because she needs her own space and that John has bought her a TV and that he is very generous. I said that was nice. I said that I was pleased he respected me, because I’d thought he only made time for me because he liked my legs. She smiled.
‘No, he likes you for your mind, Sarah.’
She paid. I offered, but she paid. As we left the restaurant I felt rather sorry for her. I don’t know if she really loved John but I wanted to tell her that he wasn’t worth her time, her love or her sympathy. That any man who could treat her so badly didn’t deserve such a sweet, gracious girl. That he was much more deserving of someone who could be as emotionally ruthless