Sarah Tucker - The Last Year Of Being Single

SARAH TUCKERis an award-winning travel journalist, broadcaster and author. A presenter for the BBC Holiday programme and travel writer for the Guardian and The Times, she is also the author of Have Toddler, Will Travel and Have Baby, Will Travel. She has also presented award-winning documentaries for the Discovery channel.

Sarah lives in Richmond, Surrey and France with her son. Find out more about Sarah at www.mirabooks.co.uk/sarahtucker

The Last Year of Being Single

Sarah Tucker

www.mirabooks.co.uk

How I came to write this book is a story in itself. At a Christmas party, talking to a fellow guest about life, I made a casual remark that I had a novel inside me.

She gave me her card and said she worked for a publisher … This book is the result.

A huge “thank you” to: Karin (the woman with the card), who gave me the break; Sam, the editor who made it happen and who is the kindest, most astute and enthusiastic person you could ever meet – thank you so much for believing in me; and to Paul, who struck the deal without pain and helped me to my first Mini Cooper (S) (yellow with white roof).

To my son, Thomas, who is, and will always be, my sunshine, my true love and inspiration.

To my coterie of friends – especially Jo Moore, Amanda Hall, Claire Beale, Helen Davies, Steve and Paul – who over the past year have proved to be the best friends anyone could ever hope for.

To Simon and Caroline, who both think I should put on my gravestone “Sarah – someone who was so very frustrating but gave incredible pleasure.” I aim to do both. To Kim and Linda and Karin, for listening. Lots. To Hazel and Doreen. I love you both loads. Thank you for being there.

ACTION LIST

Have fun.

Join gym and work out three times a week. Kick-box and yoga.

Buy goldfish and put in wealth area (have attended Feng Shui class and am told fish in wealth area brings in money). Unhappy as wealth area has toilet in it, which means most goes down the drain. Instructor recommends I put toilet in dining room. Or move.

Buy lots of goldfish and make sure they don’t die. Buy lots of orange candles and light them, ensuring they don’t burn anything. Be wonderful to Paul.

THE DARK PRINCE

1st September

I’ve met the man of my wet dreams.

Well, almost. I imagined some six foot two, dark, olive-skinned, firm-torsoed prince of a man, on a dark, steamy–breathed steed, thundering mercilessly towards me through a forest full of bluebells (aka sex scene from Ryan’s Daughter) and whisking me off my feet and then ravishing me almost senseless amongst aforementioned bluebells. In my dream I have huge, voluptuous breasts and long dark eyelashes—two wish-list firsts. Alas, I have neither in real life. There are no mosquitoes, worms or spiders to distract from the pleasure—and it’s a warm eighty degrees and the breeze is light. He takes me in his arms and then he takes me. Ripping clothes (aka sex scene up against wall and over luxuriant sofa in Basic Instinct with Michael Douglas and tall brown-haired actress wearing brown underwear can’t remember name of but she looked like she enjoyed it). I try to resist his advances. Fail, obviously. He always respects me afterwards.

The dark prince in reality is dark and brooding and has deep black-brown eyes which are set too close together. His eyebrows meet in the middle, which means, according to all Cosmopolitan articles, he is not to be trusted, undoubtedly a wolf and ruthlessly dominant in bed. He has the look of Rufus Sewell. Shiny jet-black hair, curly almost tight ringlets which look good enough to pull. He has a strong, defined masculine body. Harvey Keitel in The Piano masculine body. I visualise him gently toying, stroking, softly kissing my ankles as I play on a piano at least to Grade 7 level. He is completely overcome by the beauty of my calves. I revert back to reality. He looks how men should look rather than how men think men should look. I scan further. He has large hands. No wedding ring. He stares un–smilingly, never lifting his gaze from my eyes.

His first impression of me is my backside. I am leaning over my desk. Trying to get my briefing notes out of a drawer so crammed with briefing notes that it refuses to open. He ‘h-hum’s. I turn round.

‘You Sarah Giles?’ he snarls.

‘Me Sarah Giles,’ I joke.

He doesn’t smile. I flush. Sort of Tarzan meets Jane intro.

I am meeting this dark, brooding Keitel look-a-like for lunch. He hasn’t arrived on a black steed. He’s arrived on the 11.25 from East Croydon to Victoria. He is briefing me on how newly privatised Rogerson Railways is supposed to communicate with its customers. He is a specialist, I am advised, in management consultancy gobbledy-gook. The current buzz-words are ‘customer focus.’ Not passenger focus. Must learn jargon. Passengers are out. Customers are in. This makes loads of difference to the service provided, according to the management consultants. The trains still fail to arrive on time. But the angry passengers are now called angry customers. So there’s a difference. I’m told.

The man of my wet dream is a regional director of a regional headquarters of a region of Rogerson Railways. He thinks he is important. I don’t care if he isn’t. I wanna be his customer, for lunch at least.

‘You’re taking me to lunch,’ he snarls again, still staring unblinking at me.

‘Er, yes. Pizza Express.’

‘Whatever. I prefer pubs myself. A beer man. English beer only. None of that foreign muck.’

I don’t like beer—English or foreign muck—so I make no comment. He asks me to lead the way. I wish I’d worn something short and tight and sexy and, as the Brazilians do, ‘dressed to undress’. Instead I’m wearing eight-year-old Laura Ashley blue and pink flowery culottes and a white T-shirt which leaves everything to the imagination. I do as he asks, realising that everyone in the office is now looking at me. At us. Leaving the office together. I turn round, realising I’ve forgotten my bag. He’s a few paces behind me. Staring at my bum. He looks up, unabashed, unblushing. I flush again.

‘Forgot bag,’ I explain.

He says nothing. He just stares.

We say nothing in the lift. We say nothing as we cross the road to one of the few decent places to eat in Euston Square. I’ve pre-booked, but every other table is taken by people I know in the office. They all look up and smile at me and stare at him. This dark prince has a reputation. I am warned he is a womaniser. That he is amoral. That men hate him. That I am to stay away from him and keep him at arm’s length. That he is dangerous. Of course this makes him utterly irresistible to me and any other girl who has been told to keep clear. Half the people sitting on the other tables have told me as much. All eyes watch as we sit down. I feel as though the wolf will pounce any moment and start nibbling at my calves. Actually, I fantasise about it. Then I revert back to reality.

The only downside of my dark, brooding anti-hero is his name. John Wayne. How can an anti-hero be called John Wayne? There is something almost Easter Bunny about that name. The name denotes someone stoic and noble and macho, but ever so slightly cuddly and loveable. How can anyone live up to that? The Hollywood actor was always the good guy. The faithful husband. The leader. The man’s man. The saviour of every Western, who married Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man and never even got to see her naked. He never ravished anyone in his life. How could I take this cowboy seriously?