‘I suspect the practice will be rather more challenging than the theory. Dominique and her flip-chart won’t be much use tonight.’
‘True. But she’s right when she says it’s about attitude.’ I sit at the kitchen table and do battle with the plastic bag containing the newspaper supplements. ‘Go in there thinking you’re the hottest thing on two legs and people will believe it. You walk in thinking you’re a saddo who’s never going to get a girlfriend and people will believe that too. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.’
He nods.
‘Besides,’ I continue, opening the listings magazine, ‘I’ll be there the whole time – and Erin and Dominique.’
‘That’s partly what I’m worried about.’ He pours the boiling water into his cafetière. ‘I could do without the audience.’
‘Support team,’ I correct him. ‘No one expects you to be perfect first time. In fact, it’d be odd if you were. But flirting and body language are practical-based subjects, Henry. Just like tropical medicine.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘We could sit around all year studying the theory,’ I lecture him, ‘but until you get out there and have a go, we’ll never get anywhere.’
‘I can’t help thinking that epidemiology is simpler.’
‘Look, in a few months’ time, when you’ve snogged a handful of girls, been out on a couple of dates and possibly become intimately acquainted with someone’s inner thighs, you’ll be wondering what you were worrying about.’
‘When did you stop worrying about the opposite sex?’
I reach over and take a bite of his sandwich, stumped for an answer again.
Erin is having a wobble – and I’m quite relieved. It’s not normal to be as stoic as she was when you’ve been dumped.
‘I’m not sure I’m coming out tonight after all,’ she announces despondently when we speak on the phone at three in the afternoon. ‘I don’t feel up to it, Lucy.’
‘The worst thing you could do is stay in and mope about Gary. You need to get out. You’ll feel better being with your friends than sitting in front of Last Choir Standing.’
‘Strictly Come Dancing, actually. But I take your point.’
‘Besides,’ I tell her, ‘Henry needs all the immoral support he can get.’
‘I know. But what if I see Gary? I don’t think I could cope.’
‘If we do, we deal with it. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding, on the offchance you’ll bump into him.’
There’s a pause. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. Thanks, Lucy. Pick me up at seven-thirty?’
By eight o’clock, Team Henry is in a taxi on the way to the city centre and I get a sense that my words of encouragement earlier didn’t entirely dispel his malaise. He’s hiding it well, but I can tell Henry finds this experience about as enjoyable as having his chest hair waxed by a chimpanzee.
Dominique, however, is full of confidence. ‘Henry – you look gorgeous. If I saw someone looking like you walk into a bar, I wouldn’t hesitate to make a move.’
Henry smirks.
‘Of course, it would depend on the competition,’ she clarifies. ‘I mean, if Matthew McConaughy walked in behind, I’d have to think twice. Or Johnny Depp. Al Pacino in his Godfather days. Ditto De Niro. But, all things being equal, I wouldn’t hesitate. Really.’
‘That’s very reassuring,’ Henry says politely.
‘How are you finding your new contacts?’ asks Erin, applying lip gloss. ‘You look so much better without glasses.’
It’s nice to see Erin glammed up. I was starting to worry about her this afternoon, but I’m sure tonight is what she needs. She certainly looks the part. Tousled hair, Missoni top, cowboy boots . . . If The Lovely Gary could see her now, I’m sure he’d reassess how exciting he found her.
‘The contacts are fine,’ replies Henry. ‘They took a bit of getting used to, but so did the clothes and hair. I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of everything yet.’
‘If it seems unnatural, don’t worry,’ says Dominique. ‘In time, it’ll be second nature. Now, let me clear something up: is this the first time you’ve tried to pick someone up?’
Henry frowns. ‘Yes, Dominique. Until I met you I was a lonely recluse who rarely emerged from my dungeon.’
‘It was only a question,’ she says innocently.
He smiles. ‘I’ve had plenty of nights out with the rugby squad after matches. But if you mean, is this the first time I’ve circulated with the express intention of leaving on the arm of a female, I’d have to say yes. It’s not as if I haven’t wanted to do so before, it’s just—’
‘Let me get this straight: you go out with a rugby team regularly and you’ve never misbehaved?’
‘And as you know,’ he continues, ignoring her, ‘Lucy and I also go out together a lot.’
‘Perhaps that’s why you haven’t had much action,’ she replies. ‘Rule number – what are we up to? – don’t stick like glue to another female. Anyway, here we are.’
The taxi pulls into the Albert Dock and we step onto the cobblestones. The dock looks beautiful at this time of night, the lights from the bars and restaurants shimmering on the water as they start to come alive.
The bar we choose is far busier than usual, though I have no idea why. It also seems to have attracted so many glamorous women you’d think Paris Fashion Week had relocated here.
I try to read Henry’s expression and find myself taking in his appearance. Dominique was right. He does look hot. Which is amazing. Unfeasible. Odd, if the truth be told.
His old features are still there – blue eyes, full mouth, tiny scar from the football stud that impaled his chin when he was a teenager. But perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to compute how drastically different he looks with a few simple tweaks.
I’d hoped when we embarked on this makeover that we’d be able to turn my old, lovable Henry into something approaching passable. But he’s beyond passable.
‘What are you smiling at?’ asks Henry.
‘Me? Oh nothing.’ I snap out of my daze. ‘Who’d like a drink?’
Chapter 19
Dominique’s attention to Project Henry dwindles within twenty minutes. Not through any lack of commitment, she’s keen to point out, but because a six-foot-three-inch Johnny Depp lookalike walks in and – well, we can’t say she didn’t warn us.
Instructing Henry to ‘watch and learn’, she sashays across the room in her skyscraper heels and touches Johnny D on the elbow in a way that couldn’t be sexier if she had an NVQ from the Moulin Rouge.
Dominique cares not that he is ensconced in conversation with a group of eight. She cares not that, as she tosses her hair bewitchingly, she almost knocks someone’s gin and tonic out of their hand. She cares even less that, as she introduces herself, the women around him glare at her so intensely you can almost see daggers.
Within seconds, she’s deep in conversation with the best-looking man in the room – and he’s lapping her up.
Henry shakes his head in amazement. ‘If that’s the standard I’m working to, I might as well give up now.’
‘There are lap dancers who’ve yet to reach Dominique’s standard of brazenness,’ I reassure him. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time. Is there anyone you like the look of?’
Henry leans back on the bar, surveying the room. ‘There are lots of attractive women, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘Who do you fancy?’
‘It’s difficult to say. Surely fancying someone is about so much more than what they look like.’
‘You’ve got to start somewhere.’
‘I know. Only, what if I choose someone who’s physically attractive then spend the next half-hour talking to them, only to discover they’re dull? Or stupid? Or a white supremacist?’
‘Welcome to my world. You’ll never find anyone unless you give them a try. Now, who do you think is good-looking?’
‘Ummm . . . her?’ He points to a woman with soft br
own curls and a plunging top.
‘She is,’ agrees Erin. ‘But I heard her saying in the ladies that she’s here on a hen night – she’s the bride.’
‘Even Dominique might agree that’s ambitious,’ Henry says.
‘What about her?’ I point to a stylish redhead at the bar.
‘Isn’t she out of my league?’ he frowns.
‘No,’ I reply truthfully. ‘But if you want to try someone else, how about her?’
‘She looks . . . loud.’
I am about to object, when the woman in question roars with laughter and slaps her friend on the back as if trying to dislodge something from her windpipe.
‘What about over there?’ Erin points. ‘She’s with a friend. I’m sure they won’t mind you going over to chat.’
‘Perfect,’ I decide. ‘What do you think, Henry?’
The reality of what he’s about to do hits him and colour drains from his face.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Hmmm?’ he says distractedly.
‘Do you need to sit down?’ asks Erin.
‘I . . . um . . . er . . .’
‘How about some water?’ I’m getting concerned now.
‘I’m fine,’ Henry insists, taking a deep breath. ‘And I’m going to do this.’ He knocks back his bottle of beer, slams it on the bar and strides off decisively.
Then he stops and turns round, heading back to us. ‘But I need another beer first.’
Erin and I nod. ‘Fair enough,’ she says.
Henry buys his beer, rolls back his shoulders and finally looks ready for action.
‘Before I do this,’ he turns to me, ‘can I ask you something?’
‘Anything.’
‘Could you two go somewhere else?’
Erin and I exchange looks.
‘And not watch?’ he spells out.
My heart sinks. ‘Don’t you want us to assess your technique? I think it might help to have our feedba—’
‘No, Lucy,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t want you to assess my technique. As grateful as I am for everything you’ve done, having you assess my technique is about as appealing as watching my parents have sex.’
‘You feel quite strongly, then.’
‘I do.’
‘Of course we won’t watch,’ says Erin decisively. ‘We’ll tuck ourselves away in one of the booths. Henry, you don’t have to worry about a thing.’
‘Good,’ he nods. ‘Well, here goes.’
‘Great!’ I say, waiting for him to move.
‘There’s a free booth over there,’ he tells us.
‘Okay, we’ll head for that one,’ I grin, still waiting for him to move.
‘Go on then,’ he says.
‘You go on then!’ I reply.
‘Oh, Lucy . . . just bugger off, will you? I can’t do this with you watching.’
‘Fine, fine,’ I mutter, as Erin and I head for the free booth. ‘God, he’s a spoilsport sometimes.’
Chapter 20
‘This is killing me,’ I say. ‘We can’t hide here all night. Go to the toilet again – go on.’
‘I’ve been twice in the last hour and each time was a nightmare,’ replies Erin. ‘Why is it so busy in here? It’s normally quite civilized.’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it’s pay day. Oh, come on, Erin. Do it for Henry.’
She frowns. ‘If I go again, people will think I’ve got a bladder complaint.’
‘Do you think I’d get away with going again?’ I ask.
‘I doubt it, if Henry spotted you the last three times, like you suspect. We should let nature take its course. He’s still over there, so he must be doing something right.’
‘We think he’s still over there,’ I clarify. ‘He could have gone anywhere in the last three minutes.’
‘Pop up your head again, if you must.’
‘Okay,’ I nod.
I clamber onto my hands and knees and spin round on my seat in preparation for my latest reconnaissance mission. I have this down to a fine art now. Pop up head; identify subject; zoom in to establish latest state of play; pop head down. From start to finish it takes about one and a half seconds. If I haven’t managed to get a proper look I repeat the exercise.
I like to think that I look like a Bond girl, preferably one of those sexy Russian double agents. Except of course I’m not from Vladivostock, or in the box of an Austrian opera house trying to assassinate someone. Instead, I’m on my hands and knees on the seat of a pub, trying to clock how successful my friend’s chat-up lines are. Apart from that, the similarities are uncanny.
I count to three and pop up my head, scanning the room stealthily, before popping it down again.
‘Did you get a look?’ asks Erin.
‘No, I think he’s moved, the crafty devil. Let me try again.’
My head emerges from behind the booth, I survey the scene from left to right, then dip again.
‘Definitely moved,’ I huff. ‘That should be against the rules.’
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ asks a voice.
I scramble round, fixing my top, until I am upright and staring at someone who appears quite cross.
‘I’m the manager,’ he announces. ‘Our staff have noticed you’ve been behaving oddly for the last hour or so.’
‘Oddly?’ I repeat indignantly, as my face turns crimson. ‘Not at all. I was looking out for my friend.’
‘I’m sure,’ he smiles, clearly unconvinced. ‘Only, Mr McAfee is a long-standing celebrity client of ours, and when he’s here, we like to make life as comfortable for him as possible.’
I scrunch up my nose. ‘Who’s Mr McAfee?’
He raises an eyebrow in irritation. ‘I think we both know, madam, that you’re very aware of who Tom McAfee is.’
I think for a second. Tom McAfee, the Australian Supermodel, has been seen in the city several times in the last couple of days in advance of a big football match this weekend. As a well-known Liverpool Football Club supporter, it’s not the first time he’s been here, but he’s so unfeasibly glamorous that he attracts attention everywhere he goes.
‘Tom McAfee’s here?’ I scrunch up my nose.
He throws me a look as if to say I must think he was born yesterday. ‘Over there, madam.’ He indicates a booth right in front of where Henry was standing.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Erin, getting out her lipstick. ‘I wondered why it was so busy.’
‘Only, for your information, we don’t tolerate stalkers in this establishment,’ continues the manager.
‘Stalkers?’ I yelp.
‘We work hard at making well-known figures feel as relaxed as possible.’
‘I, well, I . . .’ I bluster, outraged. ‘That must be very nice for them. But I promise you I’m not a stalker.’
He purses his lips.
‘The only celebrity I’ve even been within three feet of was Björn Borg – and that was to get his autograph for my mum’s birthday,’ I tell him furiously.
‘I see.’ He doesn’t appear to be buying this.
‘That in itself was enough to put me off stalking anyone. I explained to his bodyguard that I didn’t trip up the woman in front on purpose – she fell. After queuing for forty minutes, what was I supposed to do? Personally drive her to Casualty? Or take advantage of the situation and ask Björn to scribble on my napkin? The only thing—’
‘Is everything all right, Lucy?’ Henry is standing next to the manager, looking perplexed.
‘Henry!’ I leap out of my seat. ‘This is my friend,’ I say to the manager, ‘the one I was looking for.’ I fling my arm around Henry possessively with a triumphant grin. ‘The one I mentioned.’
He turns to Henry and looks him up and down. ‘I see.’
‘Can I help you with anything?’ asks Henry coolly.
‘No,’ says the manager cautiously. ‘No, everything’s fine. Enjoy your evening.’ He throws me a look and marches away.
‘What was all that about?’ asks
Henry.
‘No idea,’ I say innocently. ‘It’s no wonder people complain about civil liberties, honestly.’
‘Where’s Dominique?’ he says.
‘Still chatting to Johnny Depp over there,’ I reply. ‘Now, spill the beans: did you get that girl’s number?’
Henry shifts in his seat. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What do you mean, not exactly?’
‘I mean . . . no.’
‘Did you not get on?’ asks Erin.
‘We got on very well,’ he tells us. ‘Fantastically well. Norah was a lovely woman, absolutely lovely. And Tracy, her friend, was lovely too.’
‘Well, if Norah wouldn’t do, couldn’t you have got Tracy’s number instead?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Henry tells me decisively.
‘Why not?’ I demand.
‘Look, it was good practice. I enjoyed talking to them. They were interesting people. Norah recently returned from Canada and—’
‘Henry, I don’t care if she recently returned from another galaxy. If you got on so well, why didn’t you ask for her number? She could have been your first date.’
‘She couldn’t,’ he argues.
‘But, she could!’
‘No, she couldn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they were gay.’
‘Gay?’ Erin and I exchange looks.
‘Henry,’ I frown, ‘you’re telling me that on the first night we take you to try out your flirting techniques, on the night we unleash you onto the female population of this city with the express intention of getting you together with one of them . . . you spend half of the evening chatting up a lesbian couple.’
‘Not chatting up. Well, I started off trying to chat them up, but when they told me their circumstances, it became less of a chatting up and more of a . . . chat.’
‘Why didn’t you leave so we could find someone heterosexual?’ I feel exasperated.
‘It would have been rude. And they were nice.’
Erin sees the funny side and starts laughing. ‘Oh Henry. What on earth are we going to do with you?’
I roll my eyes and Henry spots me.
‘I had a feeling you wouldn’t be impressed,’ he says.
My Single Friend Page 9
