The Last Year of Being Single by Sarah Tucker Page B

the girl. Everyone ‘put up’ with her and she didn’t even know it. Made me wonder if they did the same with me. Paul assured me not.
    En croûte was undercooked. So everyone wanted my chicken. Conversation revolved around music, sex, drugs and Shelley—and not in that order. I did the washing up. Kelly helped. Kate talked a lot and told Paul he was boorish and I was an angel to put up with him. Shelley sulked a lot. Paul drank the most port, but got least drunk out of all the men. Then we watched Highlander (Paul’s favourite film), then Paul in a rally car race (Paul’s favourite video), then played Led Zeppelin at full blast and the men played air guitar till three in the morning while the women talked about fluff. They then left, women driving home.
    Paul went to bed.
    Sarah finished washing up (I would have to do it in the morning anyway), then came to bed to snoring, fartyboyfriend. He slept till two the next afternoon. Then got up. Had something to eat and then back to bed again.
    It was the same every time there was a dinner party. Occasionally we would get up at one and go to the Punch Bowl. I still loved the restaurant because it was romantic and it had good memories and it reminded me how much I loved Paul, which made me as melancholy these days as it did happy in years past.
    I remember when we had lunch the first time, returning from France. We couldn’t eat anything. We then went to the cricket ground and watched them play and kissed in the hope that a ball wouldn’t knock us out or kill us. I have never been happier in my life than those first nine months of meeting Paul.
    At the end of dinner party evenings, if I had drunk a little too much champagne or wine or a combination, I would try to think of people I was indifferent to. Who made me numb with their blandness. It was a sort of mental anorexia. Think of people who starve you of feeling about them and with them, and there is no chance for sadness or any emotion. It worked. Usually. Sometimes I would sit in the downstairs toilet and sob. Then wait while the flush died from my cheeks and I could go out into the dinner party crowd once again and face even the sulking Shelley.
    We had about ten of these a year. Sometimes Paul would invite his broker friends. Once, my friends were invited, but he didn’t like them, so they weren’t invited again.
    13th November
    Two p.m.
    Message received:
    Thinking of you. Jx
    Message sent:
    Thinking of you too. S xx
    Message received:
    XXXXXXoXOXOXOXOX
    14th November
    Still in bed eight-thirty a.m.
    Message received:
    Still thinking of you. Can I call?
    Message sent:
    Yes.
    Phone rings.
    ‘How are you? Been thinking about you all weekend. Amanda was here and she kept asking if I was OK I was so distracted. We’re supposed to be going on holiday for a week, but I don’t want to go.’
    Sarah—‘You must. It will do you good. Anyway, you can still contact me. Where are you going?’
    John—‘The Caribbean. St Thomas. Got it at that travel agent at Liverpool Street Station, ironically. It’s the most built-up but it’s a cheap deal. They are renovating and the water sports are supposed to be good. Hiring a car and touring the island.’
    Sarah—‘Have fun.’
    John—‘I won’t.’

DECEMBER
    ACTION LIST
    Buy presents which are meaningful for friends and family but are also cheap.
    Don’t eat everything at parties.
    Don’t drink too much at parties—makes me too honest.
    Be nice to Paul.
    Be nice to me.
    Go to gym six times a week, two hours on Saturday morning.
    Enjoy work.
    1st December
    I am miserable. John has not called. He was back over a week ago but Medina, his PA, says he is out of the office and can’t be contacted. He hasn’t texted or phoned or left a message on my machine or anything. Karen says he hasn’t left a message and I trust her. Haven’t told her about him, that I like him, but I think she guesses.
     
    2nd December
    Still miserable. Still hasn’t phoned. Paul asks why I’m