The Last Year Of Being Single
The first year of the rest of her life?A tipsy confession of infidelity during their engagement hadn’t been the best start to Sarah’s marriage. It had taken Paul O’Brian five years to propose, and even then he’d made only occasional guest appearances in Sarah’s bed – so how could he complain?Now, five years and one child later, Paul had decided it was time to cut their losses. What had happened to them? Weren’t they once the perfect couple? Thrown into a state of denial, then self-doubt, followed by determination not to go under without a fight, Sarah is catapulted into an unforgettable last year of being married.“Tucker tackles infidelity and sexual repression with aplomb. ” Mirror
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About the Author
SARAH TUCKER is an award-winning travel journalist, broadcaster and author. A presenter for the BBC Holiday programme and travel writer for the Guardian and The Times, she is also 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
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
How I came to write this book is a story in itself. At a Christmas party, talking to a fellow guest about life, I made a casual remark that I had a novel inside me.
She gave me her card and said she worked for a publisher … This book is the result.
A huge “thank you” to: Karin (the woman with the card), who gave me the break; Sam, the editor who made it happen and who is the kindest, most astute and enthusiastic person you could ever meet – thank you so much for believing in me; and to Paul, who struck the deal without pain and helped me to my first Mini Cooper (S) (yellow with white roof).
To my son, Thomas, who is, and will always be, my sunshine, my true love and inspiration.
To my coterie of friends – especially Jo Moore, Amanda Hall, Claire Beale, Helen Davies, Steve and Paul – who over the past year have proved to be the best friends anyone could ever hope for.
To Simon and Caroline, who both think I should put on my gravestone “Sarah – someone who was so very frustrating but gave incredible pleasure.” I aim to do both. To Kim and Linda and Karin, for listening. Lots. To Hazel and Doreen. I love you both loads. Thank you for being there.
SEPTEMBER
ACTION LIST
Have fun.
Join gym and work out three times a week. Kick-box and yoga.
Buy goldfish and put in wealth area (have attended Feng Shui class and am told fish in wealth area brings in money). Unhappy as wealth area has toilet in it, which means most goes down the drain. Instructor recommends I put toilet in dining room. Or move.
Buy lots of goldfish and make sure they don’t die. Buy lots of orange candles and light them, ensuring they don’t burn anything. Be wonderful to Paul.
THE DARK PRINCE
1st September
I’ve met the man of my wet dreams.
Well, almost. I imagined some six foot two, dark, olive-skinned, firm-torsoed prince of a man, on a dark, steamy–breathed steed, thundering mercilessly towards me through a forest full of bluebells (aka sex scene from Ryan’s Daughter) and whisking me off my feet and then ravishing me almost senseless amongst aforementioned bluebells. In my dream I have huge, voluptuous breasts and long dark eyelashes—two wish-list firsts. Alas, I have neither in real life. There are no mosquitoes, worms or spiders to distract from the pleasure—and it’s a warm eighty degrees and the breeze is light. He takes me in his arms and then he takes me. Ripping clothes (aka sex scene up against wall and over luxuriant sofa in Basic Instinct with Michael Douglas and tall brown-haired actress wearing brown underwear can’t remember name of but she looked like she enjoyed it). I try to resist his advances. Fail, obviously. He always respects me afterwards.
The dark prince in reality is dark and brooding and has deep black-brown eyes which are set too close together. His eyebrows meet in the middle, which means, according to all Cosmopolitan articles, he is not to be trusted, undoubtedly a wolf and ruthlessly dominant in bed. He has the look of Rufus Sewell. Shiny jet-black hair, curly almost tight ringlets which look good enough to pull. He has a strong, defined masculine body. Harvey Keitel in The Piano masculine body. I visualise him gently toying, stroking, softly kissing my ankles as I play on a piano at least to Grade 7 level. He is completely overcome by the beauty of my calves. I revert back to reality. He looks how men should look rather than how men think men should look. I scan further. He has large hands. No wedding ring. He stares un–smilingly, never lifting his gaze from my eyes.
His first impression of me is my backside. I am leaning over my desk. Trying to get my briefing notes out of a drawer so crammed with briefing notes that it refuses to open. He ‘h-hum’s. I turn round.
‘You Sarah Giles?’ he snarls.
‘Me Sarah Giles,’ I joke.
He doesn’t smile. I flush. Sort of Tarzan meets Jane intro.
I am meeting this dark, brooding Keitel look-a-like for lunch. He hasn’t arrived on a black steed. He’s arrived on the 11.25 from East Croydon to Victoria. He is briefing me on how newly privatised Rogerson Railways is supposed to communicate with its customers. He is a specialist, I am advised, in management consultancy gobbledy-gook. The current buzz-words are ‘customer focus.’ Not passenger focus. Must learn jargon. Passengers are out. Customers are in. This makes loads of difference to the service provided, according to the management consultants. The trains still fail to arrive on time. But the angry passengers are now called angry customers. So there’s a difference. I’m told.
