The Last Year of Being Single Read Online Free Page A

you…?’
    Sarah—realising what little black box contained and thinking on feet—‘Stop. No. Don’t. I’m not right for you. You know I’m not.’
    David—looking shocked and dejected—‘I understand.’ (He didn’t)
    Long hug. Saying nothing. Him in tears. Me trying to be.
    I said no. I said I was saving him from himself and myself and that in years to come he would thank me. He looked crestfallen, but I was adamant. Plus I didn’t love him. Not that way. We ate at the restaurant in Gare de Lyon. Ornate and grand and value for money—a rare combination. We then returned home, still friends. He dropped me at the bottom of Paul’s parents’ road. I walked up to be greeted by Paul and family as though I was one of them. Although obviously not on Christmas Day.
    Looking back, my relationship with Paul in those first years was innocent and special and wonderful and naïve and I wish it could have lasted for ever. But, like the ink on the cards and letters, over time it faded leaving only the impression of happiness rather than the reality of it.
    I keep a box of the letters and cards. They stopped about the fourth year. The last note I wrote was a contract of love. I’d applied to so many jobs over the years, I thought I could work the format. A request for a full-time position in his life.
    Dear Mr O’Brian
    RE: POSITION AS LIVE-IN SPOUSE
    I’m writing to express my interest in the position of best friend, lover, occasional domestic, gardener, sexual arouser, hostess, intelligent wit and sleeping partner to Mr Paul O’Brian. My relevant experience and learning points to date include:
How to balance precariously on knees without using hands, and bending over at an angle. The only thing stopping me from toppling over is will-power.
How to prove Paul wrong about women drivers.
How to prove Paul wrong.
How to sexually arouse myself.
How to sexually arouse myself keeping Paul guessing as to whether I know he’s watching me.
How to ring the same person over three times a day, having just seen them in the morning and about to see them that night, and still feel you miss the sound of their voice.
How lucky I am to be as supple as I am.
How lucky Paul is to have someone who is as supple as I am.
How cuddles take on a new dimension when you’re with someone you love.
How everything takes on a new dimension when you’re with someone you love.
How I hate electric guitars and never knew it.
How I must never speak after ten o’clock when I’m in bed with a very tired man who has been working hard all day and needs his rest, unless he’s feeling randy, in which case I’ll have my mouth full anyway.
How I have a cute arse.
How Paul thinks I have a cute arse.
How other people probably think I have a cute arse but Paul won’t tell me.
How although Paul likes my chest he would like it to be bigger.
How although I like my chest—I would like it to be bigger.
How I can watch TV, play records and have a meaningful conversation at the same time.
How I have a meaningful relationship with little black dresses.
How having fun and being loyal are not incompatible.
How I love you…
    I would be grateful if you would consider my application in your loyal and gentle care, and hope this temporary position will one day evolve into a permanent one.
    Yours sincerely…
    See. Sounds naff. But at the time, writing it, it was funny and wonderful and just right. I would keep the letters and cards in a little red box and occasionally look through it on quiet Sunday afternoons if Paul was out with friends. Reading it back, somehow it made me feel just sad and very lonely.
    The letters and poems and cards grew less frequent as the months progressed, until the only cards sent were for birthday and Christmas. And, on the fifth year, he sent a Valentine.
    Five years in, the romance had faded. We’d forgotten to respect each other and do what agony aunts enthusiastically call ‘working at it’. There was almost a laziness in his attitude