Free The Last Year of Being Single by Sarah Tucker

and I went down on him. Then we went into the kitchen and did some 9 1/2 Weeks things with cucumbers and yoghurt and honey. Then we had another shower again and did it there. He’s very strong…’
    ‘OK OK. So you had a good time.’
    ‘I’m coming to the good bit.’
    ‘The good bit?!’
    ‘Yeah, well, he gave me a sweet as a small token of love. And I didn’t have the heart to eat it. And when Freddie came back, you know what the bugger did? He saw it on the kitchen table and ate it. Greedy pig. And, do you know, that night I noticed scratch marks on his back, and he couldn’t explain them away, and he eventually admitted that he’d been with a girl and she was rather forceful, but that he was sorry and wouldn’t do it again? And, do you know, Sarah, I don’t give a fuck?’
    ‘Did you say that?’
    ‘Of course not. I played upset. He got upset. We went out for dinner and had a kiss and cuddle and went back tobed and made love. But it’s not the same any more. All I could think about was Liam. I hate being in the same bed with Freddie now.’
    ‘This is what I’m concerned about, Catherine. If I take the plunge with John, how will it make me feel about Paul?’
    ‘Has Paul promised you commitment. A ring?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then why are you holding on? It’s five years. You don’t have a sex life. You love him, that’s why you are with him, but what future do you have? Go for it, Sarah.’
    So Sarah did.
    Six p.m. On the dot. Platform 13. Victoria Station. Biting lip. And index fingernails. Stop it. Stop it.
    Message received:
    I’m behind you.
    Turn around. ‘Hello, John.’
    ‘Hello, Sarah.’
    Kiss. Kiss. Both cheeks. Not a snog. Xx was right, then.
    ‘We can catch the 6:10. Do you have to be back home early tonight or do you have a pink ticket?’
    ‘I can be back late, but I must be back. OK?’
    ‘OK. I can drive you home. Just round the M25 and A12—right?’
    ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
    Train journey conversation:
    John—‘Had a good day?’
    Sarah—‘OK. Busy. Meetings.’
    John—‘Me too. You look nice. Like your nipples.’
    Three people in the carriage look up from their papers. One Daily Mail . Two Telegraph .
    Sarah blushes.
    Sarah—‘Thank you. I can’t see your nipples, but I’m sure they look great too.’
    John—‘Erect. Like yours. It’s the nipples that do it for most men. It’s not the breast size. It’s the nipples. The pertness of them. I’m a bum man. You have a lovely bottom, Ms Giles. Looked disgusting, of course, in those culottes, but I could see it was pert. I’m intrigued to find out if you have cellulite at the top of those long legs or if they’re as good as they look from the knee down. With lots of women they look as though they have lovely legs and then you get the skirt off and, hey presto, like two sacks filled with lumpy porridge. I’m sure you’re gazelle-like. Lean right to the top. Well, are you, Ms Giles?’
    Ms Giles says nothing.
    Three people in the carriage look up again. Smile. Then back to papers.
    Seven stops. Past Croydon. Redhill.
    John—‘I’ve parked the car in a car park just a few minutes from here. Would you fancy some dinner first?’
    Sarah—‘Fine.’ Fine? I’m nervous. Why nervous now? I can back out now. I can turn round and say, Hey, I have a boyfriend, whom I love but doesn’t treat me well, and you are fun and sexy but I don’t want to get involved coz it will hurt you and me and him and all be a dreadful mess.
    But I don’t.
    Sarah—‘Sounds great.’
    He has a black Golf GTI.
    John—‘My other car’s in the garage. It’s red and called Charlotte and it’s an old Sunbeam and is my pride and joy. After my cats.’
    We drive to a small Italian place where they seem to know John by face if not by name. Tables are intimate. In booths. I order sole. With something tomatoey on it but I’mnot really hungry. He orders fish, but he’s not hungry either. Neither of us touch our food.
    We quickly get onto