got my diary here. Wait a minute.’
I gave myself space to think. What was I doing? Lunch with John Wayne. Had done it before but then I hadn’t had the message before. The signal. The idea of him thinking about me that way was firmly in my mind. Couldn’t get it out of my mind. He wouldn’t be able to do the chocolate cake trick on me. My breasts wouldn’t fill a teacup, let alone a cake tin. I returned to the phone, having not found the diary but found some breath and balls.
‘I can do day after tomorrow.’ Anything or anyone that day would have to be cancelled.
5th October
Day after tomorrow. Don’t know where tomorrow went. Lunch at one p.m. at the restaurant up the road from Pizza Express. None of the staff go there. Food is limited, service slow, you need more than two hours to meander over the courses and wines and coffee.
I was early. Chose the table. He was late. Ten minutes. I smiled. So did he. I went up to kiss him. Both cheeks. He smiled again. His smile was scaring me less each time. Always a good sign. Perhaps because he looked less like a wolf, or perhaps because I didn’t see the wolf-like qualities any more. Only the deep brown eyes, the dark hair and his smell.
John Wayne smelt fabulous. I know women can smell great—but this man smelt of pheromones. I personally believe when he was a research chemist he concocted some artificial ones and impregnated himself with them. Whatever, they worked. I found him more and more irresistible every time I met him. Despite the fact he was just six foot and had a bit of a belly on him, I found the way his mind thought fascinating. Occasionally disgusting but always interesting.
I asked him about his cottage. He told me he’d got all the interior design done for free.
‘What, did you sleep with the decorators?’
‘Actually, yes.’
His story was that there were two girls who were designers that he had known from university, and that he’d kept in touch with them. That they had always liked him and he’d invited them round for the weekend. He’d propositioned them by saying that if they would paint his house inside and out he would sleep with them both all weekend. My mind was whirring round like crazy. Imagining them covered in paint, taking it in turns to sleep with this supposed sex god. I told him this was all bullshit. He said I could phone them and ask. I said it was bullshit and didn’t have to. Anyway, the arrogance of the man was sometimes phenomenal.
He told me that Stephanie’s brain was like a lighthouse to his torch. And that my mind was like a match to her lighthouse. I held in there for the pheromones.
He told me about his sexual prowess at college. How with one girlfriend he only had to touch her breast lightly and she would come.
‘Really? That must have been inconvenient if you were in a pub with friends and you brushed past it by mistake.’
‘It used to be my party trick.’
Why did I like this man? Arrogant, misogynistic, rude, undoubtedly bright and sexy, and pheromonal and animalistic and, and … Keep focused, Sarah. The guy is an arsehole!
He did more of the wrist-tickling and then asked if I would like to see his little cottage. And meet his cats. And have a drink in one of the pubs which do really good English beer (salivating here).
At three-thirty p.m. we get up and go back to the office. Kiss on both cheeks and he smiles again. I positively squeak with pleasure, floating off back to the office and fourth floor.
Text message:
Thank you for a lovely lunch. You are quite lovely Sarah.
Methinks was that quite lovely as in quite amazingly lovely, or quite as in quite almost OK lovely?
I return message:
1/2
Thank you for a lovely lunch. Wonderful company. Don’t believe your story about the decoration, but am sure the cottage is fab. Can’t wait to stroke your…2/2
..…Cats.
10th October
Text message:
Hello Sarah. We’ve never met but John suggested I get in contact with you as you specialise in recovery. I am working on a project for the Change Management Team and wondered if you could help me. My name is Amanda.
Amanda? Miss Piggy Amanda?
Respond:
Amanda—John’s girlfriend Amanda?
Text message: Yes. Can we meet?
Respond: Yes, when?
Text message: This afternoon.
Er. Right. Didn’t expect this.
Three p.m. Amanda Cruise walked into the office. Beautiful, but then I looked at her legs. John was right about everything, but she looked nothing like Miss Piggy.
‘Hello, I’m Amanda.’
‘Hello, I’m Sarah.’
‘I know. John described you very well.’
‘He described you well too.’ (I was wondering which Muppet I was supposed to look like.)
Amanda sat down and we talked recovery for thirty minutes, twenty minutes more than it deserved, and she said thank you, and I said it was a pleasure, and she asked if I would like to go out for a drink and I said fine (really thinking not a good idea) and then she left as quickly as she came.
NOVEMBER
ACTION LIST
Have fun.
Have fun.
Try to enjoy dinner parties.
Avoid dairy and wheat products as Anya has told me I am allergic to loads of things, but mainly dairy and wheat. I can eat lots of trout and carrots and garlic. (I live off it for two days and give up.)
Be nice to Paul.
Go to gym five times a week to work off aggression and frustration.
FIREWORKS
1st November
BANG. I’ve gone nearly a whole month without talking to John or Amanda. Or e-mailing either of them. I’ve been manic handling the conference on crime on the railway. Making sure all the speakers know what they are saying and stick to it and don’t nick each other’s thunder or soundbites or unique selling points. That each has equal time and that their graphs and charts and pie charts are the right colour and everything is correctly spelt.
Then there is the catering. Ninety per cent of those attending are male so they want hot food which is plentiful and there on time. So lots of beef
