The Last Year Of Being Single

I didn’t want to see anyone just in case they took me aside and slapped me awake. I didn’t want to break the spell and perhaps discover it was a dream. A high I couldn’t maintain. I wanted to marry him and have his children and live happily ever after. And this had never been my dream before. I had never met anyone I would want to share an evening with, let alone a lifetime. But this man was good and kind and sexy and honest and made me feel special and told me I made him feel special. Neither of us was stupid. I had split from boyfriend, David, who’d kept disappearing off to Saudi Arabia to ‘find himself’ in an endless desert and strangely always returned a few months later more lost than ever. He had eventually moved out of our flat to Notting Hill, where everyone, it appeared, was as lost and nutty as he was.

Paul had just split from his girlfriend, Gillian, who was still ‘hanging around’. He told me it wasn’t until he met me that he realised how unhappy he was with her. He said he’d continued to see her, but only for sex. Occasionally Paul would say something that would make me stop and think, That’s cruel or mean, but there were so many pluses, what of the negatives? Of the little snide comments about past girlfriends? How they had hurt him and weren’t quite up to his standards—which were high. I felt sorry for her. This pre-Sarah girlfriend called Gillian. She would stalk the house occasionally and ask to see him. He once returned to the house two hours later than he’d said. I’d cooked something simple. Steak. So it was about two hours overdone. And he explained that he had seen Gillian and that she had been very upset and wanted him back but that he had told her it was all over. That he had been very calm about it. That she had looked dreadful. Her nails were bitten and she had started to smoke, but he had moved on. This wasn’t for him. He then kissed me, told me he loved me, and allowed me to go down on him. Bless. And he wasn’t hungry—for food—so not to worry about the steak.

Sometimes Paul came out with lines—as in well-rehearsed verging on the corny ‘I need space/must move on’ variety. I felt somehow he had probably told Gillian the same story when he had dumped his previous girlfriend for her. I occasionally got the feeling he used the same lines, because they came out as sing-song. I knew this because most men I knew did it and most women I knew did it. But, hey, I was guilty of that too. And I felt he was genuine when he looked into my eyes and said he loved me and called me his angel and little pixie and that I was wonderful. And I thought he was wonderful and special because he loved me. And deep down I didn’t want to believe him. And I did.

We got on to the subject of past boy and girlfriends, as you do. And shouldn’t.

Paul—‘What were yours like?’

Sarah—‘I had one, really. David. Who kept buggering off to Saudi Arabia to find himself in the desert and always managed to find his way back home after a few months. But that was it. How about you?’

Paul—‘Well, before Gillian there was Eve, and before that there was Isabel and a girl called Tracy, but she didn’t count, really. I was embarrassed to be seen with her. I used her a bit. I liked Eve. She was short and plump. Sort of like a moped. Fun to ride but not for best. Gillian, who you know of—well, I just got tired of her coz she moaned a lot in the end and wanted to get married and I didn’t want that. And she did. Very mature for her age she was. So was Eve. Isabel was sort of a school romance. You’re breaking my criteria, really. You don’t have a chest, you’re not shorter than me—or really short, which is what I usually go for, for some reason, and you’re not the mature type.’

Sarah—‘Sounds as though you want someone to look up to you and want to fuck your mother.’

Think he was a bit shocked by me being so up-front, but, hey, I’d met the type before. In fact, methinks that most of the men I had met were hunting for their mums. They said they wanted independent-minded feisty women but bottom line is they didn’t. Not really. Problem with independent feisty women is that usually they also like their own space, want to move on and are capable of doing so—and don’t want to do anyone’s cooking, cleaning, ironing, washing. At a push, only their own.

Paul—‘No, I’m not looking to marry my mother. But you have broken the criteria. Most men have a wish-list. Just depends when they decide to break it. Sometimes it’s tried and tested. Sometimes it evolves. Mark, my brother, always goes for townies. Girls who work in London, good job, must be beautiful and have a brain and humour and conversation. Do you have a wish-list of things to look for in a man?’

Sarah—‘Kind, loving, intelligent, funny, nice hands, nice eyes, nice hair, over six foot. Handsome, if possible. Good dancer.’

Paul—‘Well, I’m most of those things. Just six foot, though. And I think you can ask any of my friends and they’ll tell you I’m not a cruel person. As for the rest. You decide. I like a woman with her own mind.’

Sarah—‘Really? Most men I know say that, but what they really mean is that as long as their opinions are the same as theirs, they’re welcome to have an opinion. If they’re not, well, they might as well not have one.’ Paul—‘I’m not like that.’

We’ll see, I thought. But as the weeks rolled on he proved himself to be kind and considerate and generous and loving, and occasionally boorish but a very good dancer and very sexy—in and out of bed. I remember him looking at me one evening and calling me his angel with tears in his eyes and me thinking, Hey, I would love to be your angel. Just yours. Just the two of us. As he would say to me, ‘Two of us against the world.’ I never really got that bit. I never thought the world was against me. I always felt I had to make it work for me. Somehow I had to work with this gritty, nasty world rather than against it. I had to be kind to it, and it would be kind to me. But Paul had other qualities which more than made up for some of his reasoning.

For a start, he was romantic without trying. He never sent Valentine cards. Which miffed me as friends received bouquets and dinners at the Ivy or Samling in Windermere. Instead, on one February fourteenth, he wrote a card …

Dear Sarah

As you know, I don’t believe in celebrating Valentine’s Day. It always seems a pity that people need something as commercialised as VD to show each other they need each other. However, it would appear that you feel you need reminding.

Well, let me take this opportunity to make sure you realise that you are the most important thing in my life. You cause such extremes of emotion. I love you so much sometimes I need to come up to the surface to breathe before I can dive again to be surrounded by your love.

My feelings for you go beyond just affection. I think about everything that affects you. Sometimes you catch me just staring at you—it’s as though I don’t even have to touch you. Just looking at you I feel our love. You are the only person I have ever met who in the same minute can drag me to the edge of despair and desperation and as I’m about to fall grab me and hold me close. You should always know that even when I’m not with you you are in my thoughts and that I can’t experience love unless I’m in your presence, because only then do you release my heart from the prison you’ve built for it, to let me really feel what love is.

You must never doubt me—because through all that has happened to us in the last two and a half years I’ve never really doubted you.

Together, 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: