Sarah Tucker - The Last Year Of Being Married

the last year of being single

Sarah Tucker’s intensely honest and wickedly funny prequel to The Last Year of Being Married .

For better or for worse?

Everyone tells Sarah Giles how lucky she is to be with Paul O’Brian – a handsome city hot-shot who’s steady, financially secure and knows how to throw the perfect dinner party. But what no one else knows is that her seemingly blissful relationship has been celibate for nearly five years.

Sarah isn’t looking to be rescued – least of all by a man called John wayne! But what began as an innocent office flirtation is fast turning into erotic obsession. Sarah’s plunging deeper into a double life. But which life is the lie?

Torn between two men, the clock is ticking as Sarah writes a scandalously honest diary of one life-changing year, and faces the challenge of creating her own happy ending…

Available now from all good booksellers .

Read on for an exclusive extract!

Sarah Tuckeris an award-winning travel journalist, broadcaster and author. A presenter for the BBC Holiday programme and travel writer for The Guardian newspaper and The Times , she is 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

Also available by Sarah Tucker

THE LAST YEAR OF BEING SINGLE

Sarah Tucker

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Thank you…

To my editor, Sam, who refused the first draft of this book. It wouldn’t have been this funny or sexy first time ’round.

To Sarah Shurety, who has always led me in the right direction. You are a breath of fresh air, Sarah.

To friends, some of whom happen to be family: Jo, Amanda, Claire, Helen, Chris, kim, Linda, Gina, Caroline, Fulva, Helen, Nim, Coline, karin, Paul (not the one in the book) and Hazel. Thank you for your love and support. This book is about friendship more than anything else – and I couldn’t ask or wish for better friends than you.

And to Doreen, you star.

To Thomas, who is sunshine. And my dad, who is looking down on usnow and smiling. Daddy, I will never ever give in.

Sleeping with the enemy

My husband is an alien. My husband of seven years is an alien. He still looks like Paul, but it’s not Paul. This person doesn’t walk like Paul, talk like Paul, drink, eat, or even smell like Paul. He’s like that character taken over by the hideous fire-breathing insect in Men In Black . He’s an alien in a human suit. Only Paul is marginally better looking. And I’m worried. As in lost-a-dress-size-in-a-week worried. So I’m meeting Kim Bradshaw, thirty-eight, no-bullshit best friend and Financial Times columnist, in Circle, hip-happening funky restaurant in the heart of London’s medialand. I know I’m worried because I’m on time for our meeting, and I am never on time for anything. Ever .

Kim—‘God, Sarah, you’re on time. I was hoping to catch up with work. I usually get about half an hour before you turn up. I’ve just interviewed some twat about an Internet scandal and Dick has given me a ridiculous deadline for tomorrow’s paper. I’ve only just got here myself.’

Kim is a girl who calls a spade a fucking shovel. Dick, her editor, loves her because, he tells her, he’s surrounded by stupid sycophants and she’s brighter than him and tells him the truth. Even when it hurts.

I like her for the same reason. That and the fact I’ve known her for over ten years and we know each other inside out. We’ve agreed we’ll end up as the Golden Girls . Or at least the Witches of Eastwick . As long as I’m Michelle Pfeiffer and she’s Cher.

Sarah—‘I know I’m on time. Sorry.’

Kim—‘Don’t say sorry. You’re on time. That’s great. Shit, girl, you look thin.’

A size eight Ghost dress is hanging off me. I look like a coat-hanger these days. I reassure myself that if I ever get a break on TV I will look fabulous.

Sarah—‘I haven’t eaten for, I think, a week. Maybe longer.’

Kim—‘Sit down. Have something to eat. Try not to throw up. You look thinner than the models in here.’

Sarah—‘I’m fine. I’ll have the tuna. I always have the tuna in here.’

Waiter arrives and smiles warmly. Duncan Simpkins, tall, slim, dark and gay. Knows me. I used to work round the corner and this is a regular of mine. Light floods in even on miserable winter afternoons. The place is blessed with huge picture windows to watch the people-watchers. Large round white tables, pristine tablecloths, no centrepiece flowers to move, not too close together so the media buyers can’t eavesdrop on a competitor’s pitch for business. Simple yet eclectic menu, good champagne, unobtrusive service. Duncan sits us at a corner table out of ear-and eyeshot of everyone else.

Duncan—‘Tuna, Sarah?’

Sarah—‘Yes, please. And just some sparkling water. No ice. And a jug of lime cordial on the side. Side salad. Something different for a change.’

Duncan—‘And for your guest?’

Kim likes her food. As in, she would have two of everything if she could. And in Circle she realises everything is the size of a starter even when it’s not.

Kim—‘Which choice has most food? Do I get more if I have the tuna or the cod?’

Duncan—‘Well, the portions are about the same, madam. Would you perhaps like to order side dishes? The homemade chips are good.’

Kim—‘That sounds good. Will they go with the cod?’

Duncan—‘Yes, madam. Cod ’n chips. I think it has a certain ring to it.’

Duncan goes, and Kim gets up and gives me a hug.

Kim—‘You look as though you need this.’

Sarah—‘I do. I’m okay. I’m okay.’

Kim—‘You sounded completely wired on the phone. Were you pacing, or something? You were up about four decibels on your normal pitch. Thought you would be chilled after the week’s holiday in France, but sounds as though it didn’t go to plan.’

Sarah—‘No, it didn’t. Paul’s behaving very strangely.’

Kim—‘He always behaves strangely, Sarah. What’s he doing that’s different from his norm?’

Sarah—‘You know he never goes to the gym? Well, he’s decided to go now. Twice a week. He has a personal trainer. The boys—well, they’re not boys, they’re forty-year-old men, most of them—anyway, the boys in the office are doing it, and now Paul’s doing it. He tells me his body is a temple. A fucking temple. He showers for an hour each morning. Then there’s the underpants…’

Kim—‘What about the underpants?’

Sarah—‘He has to buy new ones every week. Designer. Next, M&S, Gap won’t do. Must be Gucci or Prada. Anything with a huge initial on the crotch area.’

Kim—‘I didn’t know Prada did underpants.’

Sarah—‘Nor did I, but maybe they do. They’ve got a big P on them, anyway.’

Kim—‘Appropriate, really.’

Sarah—‘And now he wants separate holidays and thinks it’s a good idea if we give each other space. I’m a travel journalist, for fuck’s sake, Kim. How much more space can I give him? I spend three months each year travelling and get us free holidays together when I can. It’s unnerving me.’