The Last Year Of Being Single

‘Mr Wayne has handed you back to me. He has suggested I arrange another lunch with you as you don’t seem to understand the issues revolving around customer focus.’ Medina sounded less sexually frustrated.

More amused this time. She had obviously heard what I thought of her boss.

‘Er. Right.’

‘He can do a week on Wednesday. I will book Santini’s. Is that OK with you?’

‘Where is Santini’s?’

‘By Victoria Station. One o’clock. It’s smart.’

‘Fine.’

‘Fine.’

Click.

I’m wearing those culottes again. Screw him. 14th September

I am meeting John Wayne today for lunch in Santini’s. And, no, not wearing the culottes. And I’ve binned them. They were old anyway. Instead I’m wearing a dress. Sort of white, empire line and just above the knee and feminine. Not see–through. Just nice. Virginal. I feel virginal these days. Neat pumps. I look like a potential for the Sound of Music.

I arrive late. Ten minutes past one.

‘You are late, Ms Giles.’

Dark, brooding, rude bastard scowls at me.

I make no excuse. It seems a bit churlish to blame the trains when I actually work for the railway at the moment.

We are shown to our table. Middle of the room. Harsh, unforgiving light. We order sole. And eat in silence. I start conversation.

‘So, do you think Rogerson Railways will improve its customer service?’ I ask.

Stares into my eyes.

‘Who gives a fuck?’

Silence then smile (God, it makes me nervous when he does that).

‘No, really. I think it will get better but it will take time and money, which the government are not prepared to give at the moment. Why are you wearing a bra?’

Somehow the sentences seemed a little incongruous together, and I wasn’t quite sure whether to comment on the first bit or answer the second. So I did both.

‘Do you think the funding structure will change with the new government and do you think privatisation will work? And this dress is slightly see-through and I didn’t want you to see my nipples.’

‘I don’t think the funding structure will change within this government or the next. The petrol and car industry subsidise government coffers so heavily, and the catch-22 is unless the service improves customers will not use public transport over private transport. It’s a pity I can’t see your nipples. I think that would make you look quite sexy.’

I stare straight back into his eyes, which are now boring into me.

‘How do you know all this about the government subsidy and the link with the car industry? Is it common knowledge? Surely there must be some sort of policing committee to stop this from happening or continuing to happen? Travelling by air is still the quickest and easiest way to get around the world. And, yes, it would look sexy, but I don’t want to look sexy today. I want to look professional and have a conversation about airlines rather than my nipples. OK?’

‘I know about the subsidy because we work closely with local government and we get told, like many journalists do—‘ (pointed look here) ‘—off the record about back-handers. What we need to do in the railway is change the culture so that we can better manage the limited funding we have and then we can progress from there. And I like talking about your nipples. Interesting. Are they very responsive to touch? And you have nice legs, Ms Giles. The dress allows me to see that you have very long legs. Long calves. Long thighs.’

John Wayne starts to salivate, which puts me off my sole. I get up, taking my legs and nipples with me to the Ladies’. I can feel his eyes following me, but he doesn’t.

In the Ladies’ I sit on the loo, pontificating whether I should allow him to kiss me. Or pat my bottom. Or hug me goodbye. Of course, he may not want or offer to do any of these things. And, hey, Sarah, you have a boyfriend, right! Yes, yes. Out of mind. Get John Wayne out of your head. Ten minutes later and no pee. I leave the Ladies’ and go back to the table. John is coming towards me.

‘I was going to send out a search party. Thought you’d flushed yourself down the loo. You OK?’

‘Me OK.’

‘Good.’

He escorted me back to the table, now soleless. And asked if I wanted dessert.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Coffee?’

‘That would be nice.’

Two hours, two liqueurs, two coffees and wafer-thin mints later, I was beginning to relax in his company. As we sat at the table, he started very slowly to stroke my wrists. The inside of my wrists. Very gently with his fingertips and then with the back of his hand. It made me feel quite dizzy.

‘Why are you doing that?’ I asked him, knowing full well why he was doing that.

‘Why not?’

Why not, indeed?

‘When you were in the loo, it took me back to when I was a child. Do you know that if you prevent yourself from going for a pee for long enough you might orgasm?’

‘I thought I would just wet myself, or worse get severe stomach cramps.’ (God, this guy is weird.)

‘No, it’s true.’

‘Did you read that anywhere?’

‘No, one of my girlfriends told me this is what happens. It was always very exciting having sex with her when she was dying to go to the loo. She would have the most amazing orgasms.’

‘I presume you weren’t giving her oral sex at the time? Would be a bit messy, what?’

John smiled. (Ughh).’Yes, I suppose so. But keep that in mind next time you go to the loo. Hold on and you never know—you may relieve yourself in more ways than you think.’

This guy was certainly different, and entertaining in a very unexpected way.

‘Tell me about your boyfriend, Sarah.’

‘I told you. He works in a bank. He is a trader. His name is Paul. I love him to bits.’