Free The Last Year of Being Single by Sarah Tucker Page A

the subject of sex, as you do when it’s on your mind and you want to have it at some stage during the evening.
    John—‘You look good. Much better than at the pizza place. And Santini’s.’
    Sarah—‘Thank you. So do you.’
    John—‘You have very pert nipples.’
    Sarah—‘It’s cold in here. I’m not pleased to see you.’
    He smiles.
    ‘So, how you getting on with Paul?’
    ‘I think we are just good friends now. How about you and Amanda?’
    ‘She’s moving out.’
    Two uneaten starters, main course and desserts later, we head out.
    In the car, music. Something classical. Radio Four. Mozart.
    Little yellow cottage. Just as I imagined. Very small, very intimate. Very cosy. No black or chrome or mirrored ceilings, as per most bachelors living alone. The kitchen seemed to be the most lived-in room.
    I like to cook.
    Open cupboards full of spices and herbs. Fresh variety, not the ‘dried muck’, for curries and stews which he concocts.
    ‘I would like to cook for you, Sarah.’
    ‘I don’t think you will be able to. I’m fussy with food. No dairy, no wheat, no red meat.’
    ‘I could cook you a chicken curry with coconut. Or don’t you eat coconut milk either?’
    ‘I don’t eat that either.’
    ‘Well, I’m sure I can think of something. Would you like a tour of the house?’
    ‘Er, yes, that would be lovely.’
    The front door entered into the kitchen. Then the kitchen led into the dining room and this led into the sitting room. It was then I realised the front door was actually the back door, but it was at the side. The front door was in the sitting room at the bottom of the stairs, but John never used it. Up the stairs was a large landing, on which was a sofa, so it was sort of another sitting room.
    ‘It could be the second bedroom, but I’ve kept it as a sitting room-cum-dressing room. It’s got more light than the downstairs.’
    Then into the bathroom, and lastly the bedroom. Black duvet, black sheets. The bed took up the whole room. Except one wardrobe.
    ‘That’s it. I’ve had it for five years and love it. Bought it with my girlfriend, but bought it off her, and am now quite happy living by myself, or soon to be by myself—when Amanda moves out completely.’
    ‘I can’t see any of her stuff,’ I say, looking around for female stuff. Knickers, bottles and potions in the bathroom. That sort of thing.
    ‘No, she’s moved most of it out, and some of it is in boxes. She says she’s going to come round for the rest at some stage. I’ve bought her a TV for her new flat,’ he says, pointing to a big brown box in the corner of the bedroom.
    ‘Wondered what that was.’
    Some sort of sex toy, perhaps?
    Perhaps.
    I leave the bedroom quickly. Where has my nerve gone? I should have drunk more wine.
    ‘Do you have any wine?’ I say as I go down the stairs.
    ‘Why, yes. Red or white? Dry or full-bodied?’
    ‘Red and full-bodied.’
    ‘OK.’
    Bottle of Australian Shiraz. Very large wine glasses. The sort you like to hold and play with. Which I do. Sitting on the sofa in the downstairs sitting room. He has a range of music. What would I like? I try to pick something I doubt he has or likes. Sweet. 1970s. ‘Love is Like Oxygen.’ Does he have that? He does. Single vinyl. He plays it. Always did make me feel, well, slightly icky inside.
    Another glass of red wine. Head going fuzzy and feeling flirty and relaxed. Glazed. He’s not drunk.
    ‘I do a mean massage.’
    ‘OK, then.’
    He takes his shirt off. ‘Massage the shoulders, please.’
    OK, then. I slip my shoes off and ask him to sit on the floor in front of the sofa. I sit on the sofa behind him, legs either side. Skirt hitched up ever so slightly. I’ve come prepared. Aromatherapy oil in pocket. Patchouli, ylang ylang and lavender with a dash of orange. Massage round the shoulders. Then the neck. Then through the hair.
    ‘You don’t mind getting oil in your hair, do you?’
    ‘Don’t have much say, do I?’
    Not