The Last Year Of Being Single. Sarah Tucker

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СКАЧАТЬ Sarah, we will be something very special. Like everything that’s good in life it has to be worth waiting for. Trust in me as I’ve trusted you. Let me into your world as I’ve let you into my heart. Words can only say so much. Just believe.

       Love, your Paul. xxxxx

      I desperately wanted to believe. At the beginning we would write notes to each other—at least three a week. My feelings would inspire poetry. Sounds naff, but I sent love poems and letters. Do people do that any more? The old–fashioned way. Handwritten in cards. I was always getting the length wrong and having to use the back cover to complete my work. E-mail and text messaging are so deletable and lazy and quick. Not as clever. Writing takes longer. Means more. Mistakes, smudged by tears, crossings-out and all.

       To Paul …

       Your name means strength and valour You come from noble stock You’ll travel like your father To find what others mock

       You’re a leader and a driver Leaving passengers behind You act when others wonder How quickly works your mind

       You understand the Game of Life As though you’ve played it all before Aching as each new morning breaks To improve upon your score

       You have few faults in my eyes But my eyes are blind to see All the faults and contradictions That you often find in me.

       I’ve never felt this hurt before I’ve never known this joy Echoing through my heart and mind Becoming as fragile as a toy.

       Love Sarah xxx

      First Christmas I wanted to spend with him. But his father didn’t think it right.

      ‘You haven’t known this girl long.’

      ‘I’ve known her for four months.’

      ‘Not long enough. Just our family should be here, Paul. Can’t she go with her own family?’

      ‘She doesn’t want to.’

      I didn’t want to. Mum was driving me nuts. So I didn’t spend Christmas Day with my love. I spent it with my ex. With David.

      David had returned from one of his Saudi I-will-find–my-focus trips, to discover his long-suffering girlfriend had found a focus of her own and he wasn’t in it. After taking all his furniture from the flat we’d shared (i.e. three-quarters of it) when I was away and leaving me with minimalist decor—which had up sides (less to clean and I didn’t like his stuff anyway)—he calmed down. Realised he was a prat. And asked to see me. To have dinner. I declined. But he called after Paul told me we wouldn’t be spending Christmas together. I said I was fine. David said I couldn’t spend it by myself. He said he’d take me out to dinner.

      He took me to Paris. By Eurostar. First Class. Montmartre and Sacre Coeur on Christmas Eve and top of Eiffel Tower on Christmas Day. At the top he proposed.

      David—‘Sarah, I have something to ask you.’

      Sarah—‘What?’

      David—taking little black box from his pocket—‘Will you …?’

      Sarah—realising what little black box contained and thinking on feet—‘Stop. No. Don’t. I’m not right for you. You know I’m not.’

      David—looking shocked and dejected—‘I understand.’ (He didn’t)

      Long hug. Saying nothing. Him in tears. Me trying to be.

      I said no. I said I was saving him from himself and myself and that in years to come he would thank me. He looked crestfallen, but I was adamant. Plus I didn’t love him. Not that way. We ate at the restaurant in Gare de Lyon. Ornate and grand and value for money—a rare combination. We then returned home, still friends. He dropped me at the bottom of Paul’s parents’ road. I walked up to be greeted by Paul and family as though I was one of them. Although obviously not on Christmas Day.

      Looking back, my relationship with Paul in those first years was innocent and special and wonderful and naïve and I wish it could have lasted for ever. But, like the ink on the cards and letters, over time it faded leaving only the impression of happiness rather than the reality of it.

      I keep a box of the letters and cards. They stopped about the fourth year. The last note I wrote was a contract of love. I’d applied to so many jobs over the years, I thought I could work the format. A request for a full-time position in his life.

       Dear Mr O’Brian

       RE: POSITION AS LIVE-IN SPOUSE

       I’m writing to express my interest in the position of best friend, lover, occasional domestic, gardener, sexual arouser, hostess, intelligent wit and sleeping partner to Mr Paul O’Brian. My relevant experience and learning points to date include:

       • How to balance precariously on knees without using hands, and bending over at an angle. The only thing stopping me from toppling over is will-power.

       • How to prove Paul wrong about women drivers.

       • How to prove Paul wrong.

       • How to sexually arouse myself.

       • How to sexually arouse myself keeping Paul guessing as to whether I know he’s watching me.

       • How to ring the same person over three times a day, having just seen them in the morning and about to see them that night, and still feel you miss the sound of their voice.

       • How lucky I am to be as supple as I am.

       • How lucky Paul is to have someone who is as supple as I am.

       • How cuddles take on a new dimension when you’re with someone you love.

       • How everything takes on a new dimension when you’re with someone you love.

       • How I hate electric guitars and never knew it.

       • How I must never speak after ten o’clock when I’m in bed with a very tired man who has been working hard all day and needs his rest, unless he’s feeling randy, in which case I’ll have my mouth full anyway.

       • How I have a cute arse.

       • How Paul thinks I have a cute arse.

       • How other people probably think I have a cute arse but Paul won’t tell me.

       • How although Paul likes my chest he would like it to be bigger.

       • How although I like my chest—I would like it to be bigger.

       • How I can watch TV, play records and have a meaningful conversation at the same time.

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