The Last Year Of Being Married

the last year of being single

Sarah Tucker’s intensely honest and wickedly funny prequel to The Last Year of Being Married.

For better or for worse?

Everyone tells Sarah Giles how lucky she is to be with Paul O’Brian – a handsome city hot-shot who’s steady, financially secure and knows how to throw the perfect dinner party. But what no one else knows is that her seemingly blissful relationship has been celibate for nearly five years.

Sarah isn’t looking to be rescued – least of all by a man called John wayne! But what began as an innocent office flirtation is fast turning into erotic obsession. Sarah’s plunging deeper into a double life. But which life is the lie?

Torn between two men, the clock is ticking as Sarah writes a scandalously honest diary of one life-changing year, and faces the challenge of creating her own happy ending…

Available now from all good booksellers .

Read on for an exclusive extract!

Sarah Tucker is an award-winning travel journalist, broadcaster and author. A presenter for the BBC Holiday programme and travel writer for The Guardian newspaper and The Times, she is the author of Have Toddler, Will Travel and Have Baby, Will Travel. She has also presented award-winning documentaries for the Discovery Channel.

Sarah lives in Richmond, Surrey and France with her son. Find out more about Sarah at www.mirabooks.co.uk/ sarahtucker

Also available by Sarah Tucker

THE LAST YEAR OF BEING SINGLE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you…

To my editor, Sam, who refused the first draft of this book. It wouldn’t have been this funny or sexy first time ’round.

To Sarah Shurety, who has always led me in the right direction. You are a breath of fresh air, Sarah.

To friends, some of whom happen to be family: Jo, Amanda, Claire, Helen, Chris, kim, Linda, Gina, Caroline, Fulva, Helen, Nim, Coline, karin, Paul (not the one in the book) and Hazel. Thank you for your love and support. This book is about friendship more than anything else – and I couldn’t ask or wish for better friends than you.

And to Doreen, you star.

To Thomas, who is sunshine. And my dad, who is looking down on usnow and smiling. Daddy, I will never ever give in.

AUGUST

Sleeping with the enemy

My husband is an alien. My husband of seven years is an alien. He still looks like Paul, but it’s not Paul. This person doesn’t walk like Paul, talk like Paul, drink, eat, or even smell like Paul. He’s like that character taken over by the hideous fire-breathing insect in Men In Black. He’s an alien in a human suit. Only Paul is marginally better looking. And I’m worried. As in lost-a-dress-size-in-a-week worried. So I’m meeting Kim Bradshaw, thirty-eight, no-bullshit best friend and Financial Times columnist, in Circle, hip-happening funky restaurant in the heart of London’s medialand. I know I’m worried because I’m on time for our meeting, and I am never on time for anything. Ever.

Kim—‘God, Sarah, you’re on time. I was hoping to catch up with work. I usually get about half an hour before you turn up. I’ve just interviewed some twat about an Internet scandal and Dick has given me a ridiculous deadline for tomorrow’s paper. I’ve only just got here myself.’

Kim is a girl who calls a spade a fucking shovel. Dick, her editor, loves her because, he tells her, he’s surrounded by stupid sycophants and she’s brighter than him and tells him the truth. Even when it hurts.

I like her for the same reason. That and the fact I’ve known her for over ten years and we know each other inside out. We’ve agreed we’ll end up as the Golden Girls. Or at least the Witches of Eastwick. As long as I’m Michelle Pfeiffer and she’s Cher.

Sarah—‘I know I’m on time. Sorry.’

Kim—‘Don’t say sorry. You’re on time. That’s great. Shit, girl, you look thin.’

A size eight Ghost dress is hanging off me. I look like a coat-hanger these days. I reassure myself that if I ever get a break on TV I will look fabulous.

Sarah—‘I haven’t eaten for, I think, a week. Maybe longer.’

Kim—‘Sit down. Have something to eat. Try not to throw up. You look thinner than the models in here.’

Sarah—‘I’m fine. I’ll have the tuna. I always have the tuna in here.’

Waiter arrives and smiles warmly. Duncan Simpkins, tall, slim, dark and gay. Knows me. I used to work round the corner and this is a regular of mine. Light floods in even on miserable winter afternoons. The place is blessed with huge picture windows to watch the people-watchers. Large round white tables, pristine tablecloths, no centrepiece flowers to move, not too close together so the media buyers can’t eavesdrop on a competitor’s pitch for business. Simple yet eclectic menu, good champagne, unobtrusive service. Duncan sits us at a corner table out of ear-and eyeshot of everyone else.

Duncan—‘Tuna, Sarah?’

Sarah—‘Yes, please. And just some sparkling water. No ice. And a jug of lime cordial on the side. Side salad. Something different for a change.’

Duncan—‘And for your guest?’

Kim likes her food. As in, she would have two of everything if she could. And in Circle she realises everything is the size of a starter even when it’s not.

Kim—‘Which choice has most food? Do I get more if I have the tuna or the cod?’

Duncan—‘Well, the portions are about the same, madam. Would you perhaps like to order side dishes? The homemade chips are good.’

Kim—‘That sounds good. Will they go with the cod?’

Duncan—‘Yes, madam. Cod ’n chips. I think it has a certain ring to it.’

Duncan goes, and Kim gets up and gives me a hug.

Kim—‘You look as though you need this.’

Sarah—‘I do. I’m okay. I’m okay.’

Kim—‘You sounded completely wired on the phone. Were you pacing, or something? You were up about four decibels on your normal pitch. Thought you would be chilled after the week’s holiday in France, but sounds as though it didn’t go to plan.’

Sarah—‘No, it didn’t. Paul’s behaving very strangely.’

Kim—‘He always behaves strangely, Sarah. What’s he doing that’s different from his norm?’

Sarah—‘You know he never goes to the gym? Well, he’s decided to go now. Twice a week. He has a personal trainer. The boys—well, they’re not boys, they’re forty-year-old men, most of them—anyway, the boys in the office are doing it, and now Paul’s doing it. He tells me his body is a temple. A fucking temple. He showers for an hour each morning. Then there’s the underpants…’

Kim—‘What about the underpants?’

Sarah—‘He has to buy new ones every week. Designer. Next, M&S, Gap won’t do. Must be Gucci or Prada. Anything with a huge initial on the crotch area.’

Kim—‘I didn’t know Prada did underpants.’

Sarah—‘Nor did I, but maybe they do. They’ve got a big P on them, anyway.’

Kim—‘Appropriate, really.’

Sarah—‘And now he wants separate holidays and thinks it’s a good idea if we give each other space. I’m a travel journalist, for fuck’s sake, Kim. How much more space can I give him? I spend three months each year travelling and get us free holidays together when I can. It’s unnerving me.’

Kim—‘Sarah, this has all the signs of a mid-life crisis. How old is he now?’

Sarah—‘Thirty-five. Bit early for a mid-life crisis. But perhaps men are having them younger these days. Plus stress at work. It’s been tough, and he’s been a bit depressed about his weight.’

Kim—‘What else is he doing and saying?’

Sarah—‘He’s coming back late. Often drunk. Been drinking with the boys.’

Kim—‘Sounds as though his body is being treated more like a pub than a temple.’

Sarah—‘And there’s more. He keeps buying really strong-smelling aftershave. Smells like a brothel in the morning. Always humming to himself, too. And he’s bought one of those—you know—soap on a rope things. But with a hole in the middle of it.’

Kim—‘Wants a clean willy, then.’

Sarah—‘I asked him about it and he said he’d read this article about penis hygiene. I think it was penal hygiene but he took it the wrong way.’

Kim laughs.

Kim—‘Bollocks. He just wants to wank and wash and save time.’

I laugh now.

Kim—‘What else has he said?’

Sarah—‘Serious bit, this. He wants Ben and me to move out of the house. Wants to buy us a little house nearby—not too close, not up the road or anything. He says he doesn’t want to accidentally bump into us. Just be in a neighbouring village. And he suggests I get a job as a PA somewhere local. So I’m able to prove I can look after myself. He feels I haven’t put enough into the marriage and doesn’t respect me anymore. Well, he says I haven’t put anything into the marriage and doesn’t respect me at all, actually. That’s the bit that is worrying me.’

Kim—‘He wants you to do fucking what? You’re a travel journalist, Sarah. Why would you want to be a PA? You’ve worked so hard to get this far. Is the man nuts? Okay, he wants space. Let him move out. Let him get a bachelor pad in London.’

Sarah—‘That’s what I told him. And he said the house was his house. And that it’s all his money. And he got very angry and threw a mini-size plastic Badoit bottle on the floor. And that made me laugh and he got angrier. But he looked such a prat, Kim. And, anyway, he doesn’t see why he should move out.’

Kim—‘Don’t you dare, Sarah. You stay put. What planet is he on?’

Sarah—‘As I said. He’s an alien.’

Duncan returns with tuna, water, salad and lime. And no ice. Kim and I change the subject while Duncan hovers.

Sarah—‘Ben’s well.’

Kim—‘That’s good. How old is he now?’

Sarah—‘Three. Four in December. He’s getting to that edible age. You know—I want to bite his bottom all the time. And I can still go in the bath with him and play submarines and it’s not considered indecent or unnatural.’

Kim—‘That’s wonderful. Give him a big kiss from me.’

Sarah—‘I will.’

Duncan stops hovering and leaves. Subject reverts back to alien.

Sarah—‘Paul is a sensible guy, you know. Dependable. Like a rock. Always there for me. Always putting up with me.’

Kim—‘What do you mean, putting up with you? You’re a wonderful, fabulous sexy woman, Sarah Giles. Okay, you look emaciated at the moment, but have a few chips and you’ll be fine. And don’t you forget it, because the man you’ve married obviously has. As for being a rock. Well, rocks may make you stable but they can also hold you down. And I think that’s what he’s done. Bit by bit, day by day, he’s held you down. And chipped away—quite successfully too, it appears—at your confidence.’

Sarah—‘Oh, he’s not that bad. We’ve done some fun things together. You know, holidays and stuff. But what do I bring to the relationship, to be honest?’

Kim—‘What do you bring? You bring you! Or are we talking dowry here? He married you because he loved you. Because you’re fun and full of life and fire and energy. He knew you couldn’t cook. He knew you weren’t domesticated. But so what? He can afford a cook and a cleaner if he wants one. Christ, he can afford one for every day of the week if he wants to. He makes it sound as though he considers you a liability.’

Sarah—‘He does. He says I’m a negative on his balance sheet.’

Kim—‘He says you’re a fucking what?’

Sarah—‘That I’m a liability. That I spend all his money.’

Kim—‘Sarah. This man is full of shit. You know Debbie—my next-door neighbour, helium-voiced Debbie? She’s married to a city oik who earns—I think—half what Paul does. She has manicures, facials, pedicures, and lunches and does Knightsbridge most weeks. She doesn’t do a thing for her man, Mike. Think she probably even charges him for a blow-job. They’ve got a cleaner, gardener, spiritual healer, live-in nanny—and Mike dotes on her. You, on the other hand, look after yourself, buy your own clothes, get your own holidays. You’ve given Paul a wonderful son. What else does he want you to bring to the marriage?’

Sarah—‘Money.’

Kim—‘I should imagine he earns well over a hundred grand a year, Sarah. Plus bonuses. What’s he want with more money? This is all an excuse for something. He’s deflecting you from something. Do you think he’s met someone else?’

Sarah—‘That’s crossed my mind. Makes me feel sick. Best not to think about it. I’m a jealous woman—greeneyed monster and all that. Always have been. Remember the thirtieth birthday party I told you about when that girl was dancing with him? I was at the other side of the room and saw her flirting with him. One minute I was dancing in the corner and the next I zoomed in like a heat-seeking missile and sent her flying into the steaming wontons. And she was just dancing with him. If I thought he’d met or was sleeping with someone else it would kill me. Especially as he’s not sleeping with me. And hasn’t been for years.’

Kim—‘How long has it been now?’

Sarah—‘For most of our marriage, Kim—Ben was a wonderful blip—plus four of the five years we were going out before then.’

Kim—‘What excuse does he give?’

Sarah—‘Same old story. Same reason. Doesn’t respect me. Doesn’t feel I bring anything to the marriage. Doesn’t trust me. He brought up all the past things I’d done when he smashed that Badoit bottle. It’s as if he’s kept a mental list. But he says he still loves me and all that.’

Kim—‘Sounds as though he resents you, Sarah.’

Sarah—‘I think so, too. But I’m no innocent, Kim. I haven’t exactly been squeaky clean, have I? After all, I had an affair. And Paul discovered the affair by reading one of my e-mails. You know? That e-mail from Stephen from Australia.’

Kim—‘Er, yes, that was a bit of a bummer. Explicit, wasn’t it?’

Sarah—‘Er, rather. If you have an affair with the editor-at-large of a lad mag—and he was…well, rather large—he tends to be rather eloquent with words. Especially when writing about sex. And—well, he did enjoy it. And hey, for fuck’s sake, so did I. I hadn’t had sex for years. I used to go to the gym and work out like crazy. The Kai Bo teacher said he didn’t know where I got my energy. I got so flexible and fit I could do the box splits, and there wasn’t even a face to sit on. But Stephen’s e-mail… Well, it was quite poetic—about how the water trickled down my back when I bent over, and how he loved my nipples, and how he wished we could have stayed in the shower longer but the hot water ran out and then so did we, and ended up having sex on the bathroom floor. And on the dining room table, and in the garden under the apple tree. He wrote a sonnet. Think he published it in a later edition of the magazine he was so proud of it. Not nice to read. Well, I enjoyed reading it, which is why I saved it. But not nice for Paul, obviously.’

Kim—‘Well, he shouldn’t have been reading your e-mail, then, should he? Serves him bloody well right.’

Sarah—‘He was trying to sort out my virus and was checking to see who had given it to me.’

Kim—‘Yeah, really. Well, he found out, didn’t he?’

Sarah—‘Yes, yes, but you know what I mean. Well, he was furious—and rightly so.’

Kim—‘What do you mean, rightly so? He wasn’t fucking fucking you, Sarah. He hasn’t been sleeping with you for years. That’s emotional cruelty or punishment or something. Anyway, it’s not natural, and I think he should go and see a counsellor or someone about it.’

Sarah—‘Think he went to see his priest.’

Kim—‘His priest? That’s gonna screw him up even more.’

Sarah—‘I know, Kim. I’ve got to the stage when I think Hey, my husband won’t sleep with me, won’t give me a sound reason why he won’t sleep with me, and won’t go to see anyone about why he won’t sleep with me, but he doesn’t want me to mention it to anyone.’

Kim—‘Of course he doesn’t want you to mention it to anyone. They’d think he was bonkers. You’re a babe, Sarah. And with friends like his, they’d probably try and sleep with you themselves.’

Sarah—‘Yes, one of his brokers did say over dinner once that if we lived in London he would have probably slept with me by now.’

Kim—‘Was he drunk?’

Sarah—‘Think so.’

Kim—‘Was Paul there at the time?’

Sarah—‘The broker was taking us out for supper. At the Ivy. He was with his wife. She talked Botox all night.’

Kim—‘Sounds like a lovely evening.’

Sarah—‘It was interesting. Never saw them again after that. Think Paul still does business with him, but I don’t ask. Anyway, I’m going slowly nuts. And along comes this guy who obviously does want to sleep with me. And—well, the rest is history.’

Kim—‘If your husband doesn’t fuck you, someone else will. If it was the other way round he would have slept with someone else. Mark my words, Sarah. He would have had an affair. Lots of them.’

Sarah—‘Yes, I know it’s different for men.’

Kim—‘Too bloody right it is. They can do it. But you can’t. Well you did. But you had a reason.’

Sarah—‘Paul could argue that so does he.’

Kim—‘Ah, but that’s different. The no-sex thing is his choice, Sarah. Not yours. And it’s up to him to go and see someone about it. You can’t go for him.’

Silence again. We’re both thinking. Then…

Kim—‘I know one guy who had an affair with this other woman. But when he got divorced from his wife, and the other woman said she wanted to marry him, the bugger turned round and told her he couldn’t marry someone like her because she’d gone off with a married man and he couldn’t marry someone that immoral.’

Sarah—‘Double standards.’

Kim—‘Quite. But it happens. Anyway, have you told anyone other than me about the no-sex thing?’

Sarah—‘Few people. Told Stephen in Australia. That’s why he slept with me.’

Kim—‘Not a good idea to tell men about that. Specially those that are a bit lecherous. Beware men who see you as vulnerable. They think it’s sexy. Plus you’re easy prey.’

Sarah—‘Well, I wanted to. Can’t seriously say he seduced me, or I was taken against my will. Think I actually seduced him. And it was the other side of the world.’

Kim—‘Yeah, and it came back to haunt you. Bloody e-mails. You never know who’s reading them.’

Duncan returns to ask if we are enjoying our meals.

Duncan—‘Is it enough for you, madam?’

Kim—‘Yes, thank you.’

Duncan—‘Good. Anything else I can do, just let me know.’

Kim—‘Thanks. Dessert menu after this would be good.’

Duncan smiles and leaves.

Sarah—‘I think one of the problems we have is that he comes from a very traditional background. His mother did everything for him. He’s the eldest of four boys, and his father was out working all the time, so his mum got the brunt of it. And she’s a bit—well, odd emotionally. So he’s used to having everything done for him. And getting his own way.’

Kim—‘Yes, he is rather boorish. But he has to be aggressive for work. It’s a dog-eat-dog environment.’

Sarah—‘Absolutely, and he doesn’t like most of those he works with, and trusts even fewer, so that’s bound toruboff. Asformylifestyle—onthefaceof it, everything is fine. Big house in the suburbs, house just bought in France, fabulous child, two cars. But you know, Kim, it’s not me. I feel as though I should be happy, but it’s not me. I don’t live in a house I particularly like. Actually, I hate it. I don’t live in a town I like. Actually, I hate that, too. And I don’t particularly like his parents. His father is okay, but his mother is—well, cold. Shit, I sound ungrateful.’

Kim—‘No, you’re just being true to yourself.’

Sarah—‘I sometimes wish Dad were still here. He gave me really good advice. It’s nearly four years since he died. Don’t know if he ever knew I was pregnant with Ben. Tried to tell him in hospital, but don’t think he could understand me. He would have loved his little grandson so much.’

I’m fighting back tears. I don’t want to cry. Not now. Not about that. Not in public. I’ve got too much else to worry about. Kim senses it and leans over the fish ’n chips to hug me. I think—Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Think of something that will stop you from crying. Someone that makes you anaemic emotionally. I know, Tony Blair. Visualise Tony Blair sitting on the toilet. Great, that’s done the trick. Tears stop immediately.

Kim tucks into her cod and chips. I don’t have an appetite. I think my stomach has shrunk, so after two mouthfuls I’m full. Then…

Kim—‘Sarah, I think he’s got someone else. I’ve been thinking. It’s obvious. He wants space suddenly. Clean underpants. Coming back late and drunk. No sex. Bringing up things from the past. Why bring them up now? The things he says—they all say the same things. I’ve heard this all before, with other friends. It’s fucking spooky, really. As though men have all read the same books. You’d think they’d be smarter, but they’re not.’

I redden. And start to feel very hot. Because deep down I know she’s right, but don’t want to believe it. I don’t think even visualising Tony Blair on the toilet will work this time.

Sarah—‘Perhaps.’

Kim—‘Sarah, women run from a relationship they’re unhappy with, but men tend to run to another woman. Men don’t leave—emotionally or literally—until they’ve found someone else to look after them. Someone to lean on. It’s in their nature. They’re weak; they need the support. Paul is like any other. Just out of interest, how much time do you spend with Ben and how much with Paul?’

Sarah—‘More with Ben, of course.’

Kim—‘Well, then. Paul’s even further down the pecking order.’

Sarah—‘That’s obvious. Ben is three. Paul is thirty-five. Slight difference.’

Kim—‘The more I get to know men, the more I think they’re just like toddlers. They want to be looked after. Paul just has more grown-up toys. And probably likes dollies.’

Sarah—‘He knew what he was getting when he married me.’

Kim—‘Perhaps he thought he could change you.’

Sarah—‘You can’t change people.’

Kim—‘Paul is so arrogant he thinks he can do anything.’

Sarah—‘People can mellow.’

Kim—‘No. Their traits usually get stronger as they grow older.’

Sarah—‘Think so?’

Kim—‘Yep. If they’re mean, they get meaner. Generous, they become more generous. Seen it in all my parents’ friends. They just go round in circles. Don’t learn.’

Sarah—‘Do you think I should start cooking for him?’

Kim—‘God, you’re that worried, Sarah? No, if I were you, I’d just stay the same. Play cool and focus on Ben. And get some food inside you, girl. Sounds as though he’s got someone, but wait until he’s drunk or some-thing. He may tell you then. They usually do.’

And, looking at my untouched tuna…

Kim—‘Are you going to eat that?’

With that, she swaps plates and scoffs the lot.

Duncan returns.

Duncan—‘Have you finished, ladies?’

Sarah—‘Yes, that was wonderful, Duncan.’

We start talking puff while Duncan clears the plates.