My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  My Single Friend

  Also by Jane Costello

  Bridesmaids

  The Nearly-Weds

  First published in Great Britain by Pocket Books, 2010

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Jane Costello, 2010

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of

  Simon & Schuster Inc.

  The right of Jane Costello to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84739-625-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-269-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX

  For my husband Jon

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks, as ever, to the brilliant people who’ve worked behind the scenes to make My Single Friend happen.

  I’m indebted to my agent Darley Anderson for his invaluable advice and support and to his Angels – particularly Maddie, Zoe and Caroline.

  It is a tremendous privilege to be working with the people at Simon and Schuster. I am especially grateful to Suzanne Baboneau and my editor Libby Yevtushenko, with whom I simply love working. You’ve helped make My Single Friend sparkle and, together with Joan Dietch, my eagle-eyed copy-editor, saved me from more clangers than I’d care to reveal.

  Big thanks also to publisher Julie Wright, as well as the enthusiastic and talented people working in the sales, marketing and art departments.

  Finally, a mention for my family: my parents Jean and Phil, my brother Stephen and soon-to-be sister-in-law Barbara, my husband Jon and my children Otis and Lucas, both of whom are perfect in every way. Most of the time.

  Chapter 1

  Some might say I don’t need another pair of glossy black shoes with a to-die-for heel. Particularly when, to the untrained eye, there are eight similar pairs fighting for space under my bed.

  Others might point out that the success of a first date is rarely to do with the quality of the protagonists’ footwear. That you’re as likely to meet the love of your life in 99p flip-flops as in glorious sling-backs that cost . . . well, let’s not dwell on the cost. Let’s dwell instead on Sean, with whom I am going on a date this evening. The gorgeous, intelligent, chisel-jawed, tight-bummed Sean. That way, you’ll understand about the shoes – and why, despite my strict rule that a first date will never result in sex, I have removed all trace of extraneous body hair so that my bikini area now resembles that of a Californian porn star. Just in case.

  The dazzling shoes and enthusiastic depilation are but elements of a routine with which I’ve become extremely familiar in the last eight months. It was then that I was thrust back onto the dating scene with the eye-opening jolt of someone who’d spent the previous year in a relationship. A ‘steady’ relationship that turned out to be not as steady as I’d thought when I found out that my beloved was sleeping with his sister’s best friend.

  Still, being newly-single has its benefits, as my friend Dominique never tires of telling me – though admittedly, she’s a nymphomaniac. ‘Think of the fun you’ll have looking for the next one,’ she points out. ‘And . . . think of the shoes!’ I have to admit, the shoes always had their appeal.

  Trouble is, after six and a half months of dating I’m starting to realize that I’m not very good at it. In fact, judging by how few first dates have resulted in second ones, I’m positively abysmal.

  It’s not that I can’t get people to go out with me, it’s what happens afterwards that’s the problem – the date itself.

  Dominique says I’m trying too hard. My other friend Erin insists I’ve just been unlucky. And Henry – my best friend for almost twenty years and flatmate for four – tells me I should be myself. Let them get to know The Real Me. Which is one of the reasons that I worry for him, because why would anyone want to go out with The Real Me?

  The Real Me doesn’t have a glass of sparkling water between every alcoholic drink, has never read anything by Chekhov, hardly ever washes her make-up brushes and doesn’t help out at a centre for the homeless each weekend.

  That, obviously, is not the Me on show tonight as I prepare to meet Sean, whom I encountered last week at a networking event in Liverpool, which is where I live and work. Even allowing for the fact that most of our conversation was about PR strategies for professional services, the chemistry was electrifying.

  No, the Me on show tonight is the well-read, witty, charming Me, the one whose incredible shoes would make SJP look like Susan Boyle, pre-makeover. The me I want to be.

  It’s a mild evening for January and I have a good feeling about tonight.

  My dark-blonde bob is satisfyingly bouncy (which it should be, given I put in heated rollers five hours ago) and, after a drastic post-Christmas diet, my size twelve Karen Millen dress just about fits. As long as I don’t breathe out.

  I see Sean the second I walk into the bar. It’s one of my favourite venues – Alma de Cuba, a spectacular former church converted into the most stylish drinking hole imaginable.

  It’s dimly-lit and incredibly warm, so much so that I feel beads of sweat prick on my forehead almost immediately. I straighten my back and head towards him, imagining how Audrey Hepburn might enter a room. My feet stay firmly inside the new shoes instead of slipping up and down like they did before I followed a cunning trick I read in a magazine – to stick a blob of Blu-Tack under my heels. At least, it’s an adaptation of the trick: I couldn’t lay my hands on any Blu-Tack but I did find an old pack of bubblegum in the back of the kitchen drawer. After a few chews it stuck fast to the heels of my stockings and is working a treat. Note that the Me on show tonight is wearing stockings, as opposed to the more practical but considerably less sexy tights that The Real Me usually wears.

  He looks up and smiles. It’s a heart-stopping smile, a wide, sparkly-eyed, face-lit-up sort of smile. But I don’t go to pieces, oh no. Instead, I allow the subtle trace of recognition to dance fleetingly across my face.

  ‘Hello, Lucy. You look beautiful,’ he says, kissing my cheek. ‘Great shoes.’

  I have to physically restrain myself from falling to my knees and declaring my undying love for this man and his exquisite taste in footwear.

  Instead, I slide onto the stool and reveal a flicker of a smile. ‘Thank you. You’ve obviously got good taste.’ I suddenly realize how that sounds.

  ‘I mean about the shoes,’ I add hastily. ‘Um, not about me. Looking beautiful, I mean. Although, obviously, that’s not such a bad thing either. Clearly. But, you know . . . I’m not an ego-maniac or anything. Ha!’

  He looks bemused. ‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asks, to my relief.

  ‘White wine, please.’ I regain my composure. ‘A Chenin Blanc.’

  ‘Coming up,’ he smiles.

  Feeling decidedly hot – a sensation exacerbated by the presence of the ravishing Sean – I slip of
f the backs of my shoes and place my heels on the footrest of my stool. There’s no way I’m letting the over-zealous heating in this place make my feet puff up like they do anywhere more temperate than Blackpool.

  As Sean turns to catch the attention of the barman I surreptitiously scrutinize his features. He is stunning. I am so punching above my weight.

  ‘You still busy at work?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I tell him brightly. ‘But I can’t complain about that.’

  ‘Definitely not, when you’ve won all the best clients in Liverpool.’

  Hee hee! He thinks I’m a high-flyer!

  ‘I’ve been lucky,’ I say modestly. ‘But what about you? How’s life at Stratton Bell?’

  We spend the next half-hour engaged in a tantalizing mixture of work-talk (which I don’t mind as he seems to think I’m a PR genius) and lovely, flirty, pulse-quickening first-date talk. As he stands to whisk me to the restaurant across the road, I couldn’t feel more optimistic if he’d started musing about venues for our first child’s christening.

  ‘Shall we?’

  I take his hand and prepare to glide gracefully to his side. But as I go to stand, I suddenly realize that I’m not going anywhere. I realize that . . . oh shit . . . I’m stuck.

  Clamping both heels on the footrest of my stool was not a good move – not when there’s a big blob of bright pink gum on each.

  I try to pull the right one away but it stretches and stretches and, despite my efforts to disengage, it continues stretching until it’s flapping round my shins like a ridiculously-proportioned Hoover-belt.

  ‘Ooh, um, sorry . . . give me a sec.’ With blazing cheeks, I plonk my head between my knees and attempt to untangle myself.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, peering down in bewilderment. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No!’ I cry, dementedly winding up reams of gunk and attempting to pick the remainder from my sole. ‘Just a little, um . . . shoe issue. I’ll have it sorted in no time.’

  ‘Please, let me help,’ he says gallantly, reaching down.

  ‘No!’ I snap, grabbing my left ankle and yanking it upwards as if wrenching a plunger out of the U-bend of a toilet.

  ‘Really, if you’d just let me help, I—’

  ‘No!’ I shriek, rather louder than intended. ‘I mean, look . . . I’ve got it now,’ I declare triumphantly as I successfully unstick my foot and send the stool clattering to the floor.

  I cough. ‘Sorry about that.’ I straighten myself out as my eyes dart around the floor, attempting to locate my right shoe.

  ‘No problem,’ he mutters, frowning as he bends down. He hands me my new Kurt Geiger with a disconcerting look.

  ‘Ooh, and thanks for that too,’ I smile weakly, seizing it from his hand and shoving it on my foot.

  But there’s something about his expression that tells me I’ve blown it again. That, new shoes or no new shoes, nothing will rescue me now.

  Chapter 2

  ‘It was a disaster of epic proportions,’ I declare.

  ‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating,’ says Henry.

  ‘I’m not. By the end of the night, the look on his face was exactly the same as Dermot’s.’

  Henry looks at me blankly.

  ‘The property developer from before Christmas,’ I add.

  ‘Which one was he again?’

  ‘You know – the one who looked like a skinny Robbie Williams.’

  Henry shakes his head, still baffled.

  ‘The one whose arm I dislocated doing my “YMCA” routine,’ I say reluctantly.

  ‘Ah. Well, The Village People always have had a lot to answer for.’

  Despite the quip, I can’t help noticing Henry’s sympathetic look. It is a look with which I am tragically familiar.

  ‘Do you think you’re going to see him again?’ he ventures.

  ‘Not unless he has a bout of amnesia and forgets what a moron he went out with.’

  ‘It can’t just have been the thing with the shoes, surely,’ Henry says. ‘I mean, the thing with the shoes sounds quite bad, but . . . was that really it?’

  ‘The thing with the shoes qualifies as a high point,’ I reply. ‘It went downhill after that. The moment I realized I’d drunk too much to calm my nerves was probably the worst part.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘He told me I’d called him Shane all evening instead of Sean.’

  Henry stifles a smile and reaches for the toaster. ‘Would you like another bagel?’

  ‘Why not?’ I say despondently. ‘I might as well be fat as well as miserable.’

  Henry’s in his brown and orange velour dressing-gown, the one his mother bought him for Christmas. I can’t imagine where she found it, because I could shop the length and breadth of Britain and never stumble across anything so hideous.

  I wish I could say it was a one-off, but unfortunately his mother still buys a lot of his clothes, despite him being twenty-eight. I’ve pointed out that this isn’t normal, but to no avail. Besides, the few clothes he picks out himself are as bad, if not worse: polo shirts that should be illegal for under-fifties, jeans that were only de rigueur among balding uncles in the early 1980s.

  Not that this is important. Henry is the best friend anyone could hope for. As a flatmate, he’s excellent company, does more than his fair share of cleaning and always pays his rent on time (taking the pressure off me). More importantly, he’s loyal, above-averagely witty and I’ve cried on his shoulder so often over the years it’s a wonder he hasn’t invested in a raincoat.

  Despite this, there is something about Henry that, no matter how much I love him, is undeniable: he’s a geek. A lovable, kind, couldn’t-live-without-him geek, but a geek all the same.

  He puts the toasted bagel on a plate, butters it and places it in front of me. I take a large bite.

  ‘Haven’t you got any eligible friends at work?’ I ask, more in hope than expectation. ‘Someone you could tip off about my tendency to embarrass myself – but convince that I’m worth persevering with?’

  He thinks for a second. ‘The only one who’s single is William Leitch, but I don’t think he’s your type.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask defensively.

  ‘He’s sixty-three.’

  I roll my eyes.

  Henry shrugs. ‘Apart from that, there’s only me.’

  I look up and catch his eye. We both collapse into giggles.

  Despite the fact that I love the film When Harry Met Sally, I know from personal experience that its premise – that a relationship between a man and a woman is never purely platonic – is a load of tosh. I mean, look at us: Henry and I have known each other for nineteen years and in that entire time there hasn’t been a flicker of attraction between us.

  Yet there isn’t a person on earth I adore more. He’s the intelligent, thoughtful, excellent-birthday-present-buying brother I always wanted – instead of Dave, who forgot for three years on the trot then made up for it with a hot-water bottle gift set. (I was born in July.) In short, I love Henry to bits. But I’d still never sleep with him, not if my life depended on it – and the feeling’s mutual.

  ‘I’ve already told you that I think you should just be yourself,’ he says. ‘You’d have more luck with men if you did. You need to relax and let them see The Real You.’

  ‘Don’t start on that again,’ I groan.

  ‘Think about Antony and Cleopatra and Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet,’ he continues. ‘And don’t forget Madame Bovary. Those women were loved passionately by their men – in spite of their flaws.’

  This is a typical Henry comment. First, despite being a relatively short sentence, it contains not one but several literary references. Secondly, it betrays his idyllic, rose-tinted view of love – a view that’s largely theoretical as his hands-on experience with the opposite sex isn’t exactly extensive.

  ‘Those women weren’t real, Henry,’ I say. ‘They were fictional characters.’

  ‘Antony and Cleopa
tra were perfectly real,’ he replies, putting away the butter and loading my plate into the dishwasher.

  ‘Well, I know that,’ I mutter. ‘The point is, you’ll have to trust me on this one. These days, women are expected to outsmart Carol Vorderman, out-cook Nigella, and out-pout Penelope-bloody-Cruz – all at the same time.’

  ‘Out-pout?’ he smiles.

  ‘You know what I mean. Men don’t really want real women, Henry.’ I’m on a roll. ‘Not ones with unshaven legs, bags under their eyes and crusty, unpainted toenails.’

  ‘First of all, can I point out that I am a man.’

  ‘You’re Henry.’ I wave my hand dismissively.

  ‘Secondly,’ he continues, ignoring me, ‘I’m not saying that men don’t want women to look attractive. Obviously, that’s not the case. I’m saying there’s nothing wrong with not being perfect in every way.’

  ‘I’d settle for not being imperfect in every way.’

  He flashes me a look. ‘Come off it, Lucy. You’re not that bad.’

  ‘Gee,thanks.’

  ‘When am I going to convince you? You don’t need to keep embellishing your personal CV.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I reply indignantly, knowing exactly what he means.

  ‘Lucy – you’re good enough as you are. There’s no need to try to make yourself sound more exotic or accomplished.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Right – so you didn’t tell that chef a few months ago that you’d been a finalist on Blockbusters when you were in the sixth form?’

  ‘You’re always bringing that up,’ I say resentfully. ‘I did not tell him, he somehow . . . surmised it. I wasn’t going to be the one to shatter any illusions.’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Until I sat on his soufflé, obviously.’

  Chapter 3

  The day I met Henry isn’t one that I remember vividly. But Henry does, probably because he has a brain the size of Pluto, and I’ve heard his version of the event often.

  He recalls the tiniest detail of our introduction, despite it having happened so long ago that every household in Britain owned a Rubik’s cube at the time.