8. Cement Man
EIGHT
Cement Man
Wednesday, 13 February, 4.00pm
Back at home now and trying to stay up to synchronise my body clock, but I feel so sleepy. On the flight back, Ace said I was like the cat that got the cream. I didn’t tell him about the cat that brought me room service cream.
When we arrived at Heathrow, I bumped into Cement Man from NYE and agreed to go for a drink with him. Why oh why did I do that?
5.30pm
Was having a lovely afternoon nap and dreaming of The Barman when there was a text ping. It was Cement Man.
Hello Sophia, it was such happenstance to see you at the airport. Shall we go out for that drink?
No, let’s not go for that drink. Ever. And who says happenstance in a text?
Hi, yes that would be lovely. When did you have in mind?
How about tomorrow? Are you free?
No way. It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow and I’m not spending it talking about cement.
Sorry, I wish I could, but I have plans. Another time?
Or never. That would be my preference. I have no plans of course. I’m happy for all the couples in love enough to celebrate Valentine’s Day but I don’t particularly want to watch them doing it. Watching them demonstrate their love, that is. Oh, horrible image of Cement Man in an orgy in my head.
Not another paramour, I hope. How about Friday? Is that more convenient? I can get us a fabulous table at Coq Riche at 7.00?
Yes, a Friday in the year 2058 would be dandy. Another paramour? Does he think he’s my paramour? Who says paramour? At least he’d picked somewhere nice. Wait a minute. Coq Riche. Cock and Money? Oh no, I have an image of him standing on a restaurant table, legs astride, swinging his cock made of ￡50 notes. A bit like Harry Enfield’s ‘Loadsamoney’ with added penis.
Yes lovely.
Thursday, 14 February, 11.30pm
Design meeting with Cassandra and Edward. They bickered about the wallpaper options for most of the meeting. She wants florals, and he wants industrial. Cue couples counselling. They agreed on a lovely geometric style with a few flowers dotted on top. Job done.
On my way to the meeting, at least two women were carrying bunches of red roses and for a nanosecond I felt envious. Then I remembered that this time last year, I was walking the Inca Trail in Peru, crying over my high-altitude diet of potatoes and rice, growing my chin hairs (thanks menopause), and vowing never to fall in love again. I’d hacked off my hair to spite my jagged heart. I’d let the blisters on my feet balloon and burst. I’d lost weight and cultivated dark shadows under my eyes. I would have let the insects bite me if there’d been any around. None of it helped. I still felt crushed, and I looked like Edward Scissorhands had done my hair and makeup. I never want to go through that again. Being single isn’t so bad. I can choose whatever wallpaper I want.
P.S. No Valentine cards for me but I got junk mail advertising funeral plans.
Friday, 15 February, 9.00am
It’s the day of the dreaded date with Cement Man. I must have been wearing my holiday-tinted glasses when I bumped into him at the airport, feeling ultra-positive about dating, and thinking I should give him a go. Just remembering our chat on NYE sends me to sleep. But I’ll be open and make the most of it, and hope he has some non-cement conversation.
P.S. On the bus yesterday, the ticket inspector (unlike the lovely Cuban passport official) DIDN’T express disbelief that I’m sixty when he checked my travel card. Did I age in Cuba? #DoesMyBumLook60? Do I care?
6.00pm
Looking good. Smoky eyes, casually tousled locks skimming a berry-coloured cami top over jeans, and killer heels, all topped with an electric pink fur jacket. It’s wet and windy outside but I must look hot.
11.00pm
When I arrived, Cement Man was waiting at the bar with a bottle of fizz and an eager expression. He was exactly how I remembered him: dull with a hint of sand. What came first? The sandiness, then the business, or the other way round? His hair was brushed awkwardly to the side in waves that reminded me of sand dunes. He blended so well into the wooden panelling behind him, I may not have noticed him but for the unnaturally white teeth when he smiled and waved. But he was tanned, and it looked good on him. If he wasn’t so old-fashioned, he could be nice-looking. I flashed my friendliest smile while in my head I was busy giving him a trendy haircut, putting him in a sharp suit and liking the results.
‘You look ravishing, Sophia.’
How sweet. I thanked him and complimented his tan. I was starting to warm to Cement Man with a makeover.
‘How did you enjoy Cuba?’
Good start. I let myself hope we were going to have an interesting conversation.
‘I loved it. I’ve decided Cuba is my spiritual home. It’s so vibrant and musical, and the people are really warm. How was your holiday? Kenya, was it?’ I had a vision of him in a safari suit and hat, blending into the desert sand. Oh no, his penis was sticking out of his shorts. Why did I keep getting these images in my head? Did I have a subconscious longing for him? No. But my imagination was running wild after that first naked image of him.
‘It was too hot for me. I found it … oppressive,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know one could sweat so much. And the flies. Just too many of them everywhere. And I didn’t like the food. All that meat – goat and the like. Didn’t agree with me. I spent a lot of time on the lavatory.’
Too Much Information.
‘Did you like anything about it?’
‘Hmm … yes, I liked the animal safari … but again, so many insects. And lunch was meat again. Had to use the organic lavatory a few times afterwards. Simply unbearable.’
The bartender must have heard ‘heat, flies, lavatory’, and grimaced at me.
‘Would you like to see some pictures?’ he offered.
Yes, anything but lavatory talk.
He took out an iPad from his coat pocket. The folder marked Kenya had 956 photos. He complained through the first few photos as I calculated it would take fifteen hours to go through them all, then he perked up.
‘But have a look at these traditional villages. This was the best part of the holiday.’ At last, something he didn’t dislike. ‘It was absolutely fascinating to learn about the materials they use to build their huts.’ He clapped his hands and was about to launch into a (probably) long-winded monologue.
Desperate to divert the conversation, I said, ‘The views are amazing here.’
‘Shall we go and have a look?’ he asked.
He was off the bar stool and waiting expectantly before I could reply. We went onto the terrace where it was like being inside a car wash as a fierce drizzle was sprayed around by the howling wind. He was impervious to the weather and to my discomfort, pointing out a long list of London landmarks that had used concrete in innovative ways. He went on. And on.
I was losing the will to live but nodded politely then suggested going back in when my frozen nipples were at risk of breaking through my skimpy top. Stepping inside, the warmth was welcome, but as we walked through the restaurant, there were side glances and tittering in our direction. I spotted myself in the mirror behind the bar. Oh. My. God. My casually tousled beach hair had morphed into an eagle’s nest of knotted old strings. I looked like Crystal Tipps on a particularly bad hair day. And my carefully applied eyeshadow was smudged, the smoky eye looking more Alice Cooper than Kim Kardashian. And yes, my nipples were bullets about to be released at speed.
Cement Man pointed at my face and said, ‘Oh dear, you seem to have … you look … and your hair…’ The most verbose man on earth couldn’t find the words to describe my predicament.
I rushed to the loos and was horrified at my reflection in the bright light of the mirror. I tried and failed miserably to repair my hair and makeup. At least the nipples had receded by then. A perfectly coiffured young woman with excessive makeup standing at the next basin grimaced and pulled a face like there was a bad smell in the room. I stuck my tongue out at her in the mirror but went back to the bar feeling a lot less confident.
11.30pm
Just woke up in a sweat, lying on my sofa, still wearing the fur coat, and clutching my telescopic umbrella. I dreamt I was standing in my bedroom, with messy hair, smudged makeup, and giant protruding nipples. Cement Man stood before me in his Y-fronts and proceeded to woo me by pretending to be a builder mixing cement. Shovel, mix, pour. I found it sexy and couldn’t wait to get my hands on him. To touch his sand-textured skin and lick it firm. I ran my fingers through his hair and got sand under my nails.
‘I want you right now. Take me, Cement Man,’ I ordered.
I pulled down his pants with urgency and was delighted to see he was concrete hard. I fell on my back onto the bed with anticipation, but something wasn’t right. He was floating above me, and I was sinking into quicksand. He watched laughing as I screamed and disappeared into a bed of wet concrete.
My phone pinged.
Had a fantastic evening dear Sophia. Do it again soon?
No. I have no concrete plans for that.
Your talk about cement is incessant
It makes me want an antidepressant
I get it, you own a cement company
But must you buzz, buzz about it like a bee?
You’re a successful entrepreneur, yes
But your social skills are a mess
I listen politely and ask a question about cement
But your overlong reply makes me lament
You don’t pick up that I’m bored
That I’m not interested in the National Cement Board
I must be nice to you, you’re a friend’s friend
My God, will this date ever end?
‘Another bottle of fizz?’ you asked and waited
Oh fuck it, let’s just get wasted
P.S. Last night wasn’t a complete write-off. While Cement Man was in the loo, the bartender gave me a business card from someone who’d been sitting near us and wanted to meet me. He must like the Alice Cooper look. He calls himself a Wellness Advocate. Exciting.
Saturday, 16 February, 11.55pm
Can’t sleep. I could do with Cement Man to send me to the land of nod with his cement talk. He could make a brilliant sleep app. Am I being cruel? He can’t help being dull, but he could show interest in other people instead of just enjoying the sound of his own voice. Thinking about it, apart from, ‘how did you enjoy Cuba?’ he didn’t ask me a single thing all evening, so I have no sympathy for him. Told the Brunch Bunch about the date and even Leila was sympathetic, and she’s the one who introduced us. Grace was more interested in The Salsa Teacher and The Barman. She said I should totally call one of them and see if they fancy a holiday romance/shag(s).
‘If I’m going back to Cuba, I could go for both of them. One for the hotel and one for the town,’ I said.
Grace whooped. I love her. She’s so feisty and driven and fun with it. If I hadn’t gone to that exhibition of archaeological drawings – just to keep up to date in case I wanted to go back to it – I would never have met her. We got chatting about a particularly beautiful drawing of an Assyrian necklace and she was fascinated to hear about the digs I’d been on, so we went for a drink. We immediately hit it off and that was that. She’d just got married to Ajay and was pregnant with Tayo, so it must be fifteen years ago. Happenstance is a wonderful thing, as Cement Man would say.
Anyway, enough reminiscing. I should take their advice and contact The Salsa Teacher or The Barman. Or even Gorge Ooh La La Trousers. Is that something a na?ve teenager would do, or a confident woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it? The latter, I think.
Then I told them about Ace and Kelly getting divorced and they were in shock. I mentioned seeing him with that woman, but they couldn’t – wouldn’t – believe he’d have an affair.
‘He’s just not like that. He’s incapable of telling lies for a start. His left eye always twitches and gives him away. And he’s not the affair type. He’s too lovely and honest for that,’ Leila said.
‘But I saw him.’
‘What was he doing exactly?’ Grace asked.
‘They hugged and she stroked his cheek and kissed him on the forehead.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything. She could have been a friend, consoling him. You’re jumping to conclusions as usual,’ Leila said.
‘What do you mean as usual?’ I said.
‘Honey, it’s been a long time since Premature Paul.’
‘Who’s Premature Paul?’ Grace asked.
‘Sophia’s first boyfriend. She’d been seeing him for a few months. He wanted to have sex and she didn’t feel ready. On his sixteenth birthday, she went to his house to give him his present. His mum, not knowing he’d sneaked a girl into his bedroom, sent Sophia upstairs, and she walked in on them having sex.’
‘What an arsehole,’ Grace said and rubbed my arm in sympathy.
‘Exactly. Ever since then, she’s been suspicious of people having affairs.’ She turned to me. ‘Don’t let it affect you forty-five years later, honey. And you were better off without him if his nickname was an accurate description of his sexual prowess.’ Leila laughed. Grace nodded.
‘It wasn’t just forty-five years ago, though, was it? It was also The Traitor less than two years ago,’ I said.
‘I know, and I’m sorry that happened to you, but that’s life,’ Leila said and gave me a hug.
‘Why don’t you just ask Ace?’ Grace said.
‘I did but he denied it and made me swear not to ask questions again.’
‘I’ll ask him then,’ Leila said.
‘No! He’ll know I’ve told you. Promise me you won’t say anything about him having an affair?’ I pleaded and she agreed.
Do I always jump to conclusions? Am I too ready to assume everyone will have an affair if the opportunity arises? Maybe Leila is right. I’m scarred by my experiences and can’t let go. I’m pulling at the stitches in my soul to check if the scars will open again, picking at the scab over my heart to see if it bleeds, going back to the times I was hurt, and pressing on the bruises to test if they’re still painful. I don’t know how, but I must stop it.
Sunday, 17 February, 11.30pm
Met Izzy tonight. She was gushing about her new man, Francis. I’m pleased she’s happy again, but frankly he sounds like a knob.
‘So, you’ve had four dates so far and he was half an hour late for two of them and cancelled the third at the last minute?’ I said, hoping my summary of the situation would make her see sense.
‘Yes, he really wants to see me but it’s difficult for him to make arrangements what with his job and everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Well … his job. He’s a librarian. He finishes his shift at 4pm but he has to stay and put the books back, you know.’
‘And that made him late for an 8pm dinner date?’
‘Yes. He’s so conscientious. The other night he left after we had sex because he didn’t want to risk staying over and being late for work the next day,’ she said with a dreamy look.
I tried but she didn’t want my advice. Why do we turn blind when we get the hots for someone? It’s like a curtain of rose-tinted hormones falls and obscures our grasp of reality.
Monday, 18 February, 11.30pm
After the date with Cement Man, I can’t help wondering how different it might be to date a hot-blooded Cuban man. If only I could go back and try again. Will The Salsa Teacher greet me with open arms and invite me to stay with him? It’s not like I’m after anything serious. Still, it’s a long way to go for a shag. Or I could go for the tried and tested and return to the hotel for their exceptional room service. No, I think that was a one-off, and he probably gives extras to a lot of female guests. Lovely as it was, I don’t think I’ll go there again – the hotel or him.
I’ll look at London Soulmates and see if I can get matched with a Latin man instead.
Tuesday, 19 February, 5.30am
I want to be spontaneous and turn up in Cuba to see what happens. There’s nothing to stop me. I’m young, free, and single. If it doesn’t work out, I can just have another holiday, or I might meet someone else.
11.00am
The universe is looking out for me. A Valentine card came today! From Cuba! It said, ‘I’ll always want to dance with you’. It wasn’t signed but it must be from The Salsa Teacher. He could have easily got my address from the holiday rep. Or it might be one of the Ooh La La Trousers from the hotel. What shall I do? Call them and find out? It’s too early in the morning there now. I’m getting the vagina throbs.
11.30pm
Things are looking up here too. I’m meeting The Cuban on Thursday. He’s fifty-two, from Cuba (obviously), and works in a salsa bar! What were the chances of that? I’m knee deep in dancing Cubans.
Wednesday, 20 February, 11.30pm
In my sofa dream tonight, I arrived at Havana airport, breezed through passport control, and was greeted by a uniformed driver. I was a 1950s film star with cat-eye sunglasses and a white wiggle dress. I poured a tequila from the limo bar and sat back as the car glided through the lush countryside. I texted The Salsa Teacher and told him we’d be together soon. Finally, we drove along a tree-lined path, arriving at a grand colonial mansion.
He greeted me in a white linen suit with slicked back hair and a handsome expression. We kissed softly as he led me into the centre of the palatial hallway where the staff were lined up. Under the impressive giant chandelier, he dropped down on one knee and opened a ring box with an enormous yellow diamond. Ooh I could finally use my wedding planning skills for my own wedding. But as he raised the box towards me, he had the face of The Traitor. I screamed.
The dating challenge must be affecting my brain if I’m dreaming of marrying someone I hardly know with the face of a person I don’t want to see. I either need romance, or I ate too much cheese last night. Either way, the truth is, I called The Salsa Teacher yesterday and asked him about the card, but he said it wasn’t him and he had a girlfriend, then his phone cut off. I thought we’d been disconnected by the unreliable Cuban network and called him back, but his pocket must have answered as I could hear him talking to a woman.
‘You have great hip action,’ he said in that familiar raspy voice as music played in the background.
‘I wish I could stay longer and learn more from you, but I’m going home on Friday,’ the woman replied in a breathy voice. I could just see him looking mock sad. How did I fall for his act? It’s not like I’m in love with him but the insecure little girl inside me longs to be wanted. I’m happy mostly but at times like this, I wonder if being in a couple is better than being out there in the brutal dating world.
Thursday, 21 February, 11.30pm
The Cuban was all flash, all man and all over me, but he wore a wedding ring.
I’ve decided not to call either of the Ooh La La Trousers. I can’t take another rejection. They’ve likely moved on to other willing tourists. It was all a silly dream. I’m not going all the way to Cuba for a shag. I’ll just enjoy the fact that one of them liked me enough to send me a beautiful Valentine card.
Saturday, 23 February, 11.30pm
I had a meeting with Brandon and Josh today. After the drama last time, I wanted to make sure they were both happy with the design. I showed them the ‘silver’ wallpaper options Josh had asked for in his last email. He picked one but hesitated.
‘I like the pattern on this one, but I don’t like that it shines,’ Josh said.
‘OK, I thought you wanted silver,’ I said.
‘Yes, the colour is right, but I want it without the shine.’
‘You mean you want grey?’
Brandon rolled his eyes.
I don’t care what Sara says. Wallpaper is stressful.
Sunday, 24 February, 11.30pm
Met Leila at Springfield Park for a walk today. I was waiting for her in my car by the playing fields when a man came up to a tree in front of me and whipped out his penis and had a pee. Did he see me and still do it? I turned away but not before thinking that’s the first penis I’ve seen outdoors since the one on the tango dancer in Argentina last year. Technically, the last time I was near an open-air penis was in Australia, but that was in the dark. My phone pinged. It was Leila.
2 minutes. And I’ve just seen a penis
So have I!
It wasn’t the same penis. She’d seen a flasher two streets away. What were the chances of that? Talking of penises, I’m failing miserably at having lots of sex. I need to up my game and experience more penis sightings on my own terms.
Monday, 25 February, 11.30pm
A rather cute engineer came to upgrade my Sky Box today. He said the satellite dish was too high and I’d need, and I quote, ‘the two-man long-ladder team’. I didn’t know I needed it, but I want one now.
Thursday, 28 February, 11.30pm
Could have done with the Sky Two-Man Long-Ladder Team today. Site visit to the loft conversion in Pimlico. Had to climb to get into the new master suite. It was just about OK going up through a hole in the ceiling, but after we’d finished the meeting, I peered down that same hole, and could see the void all the way down to the ground floor. I got onto the ladder facing the front, then the back, and various other positions, but I was too scared to climb down. In the end, one of the burly builders carried me down while I squeezed my eyes shut, and whispered ‘oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’. Once down, I dusted myself off, and resumed my professional demeanour, pretending nothing had happened while the team stifled laughter.