‘It’s what Ellie tells me every time one of my men disappears,’ Jen shrugs. ‘She’s on to something, believe me. And remember that at least you’ve got a six-year relationship under your belt. You’ve come close to being “the one”. I’ve never been anyone’s “the one”. I’ve only ever been “the one they want to shag”.’
Ellie laughs. ‘Bloody men.’
Jen grins. I suspect she can laugh about this because her relationship with the new Mr Muscles is on an upward curve. In two weeks it could be different.
‘I know I never buy it at the time, but it is right.’ She squeezes my shoulder. ‘And while my flings don’t compare to what you and Jamie had, I know you’ll come out of this absolutely fine. Stronger than ever, in fact.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply flatly. ‘It just doesn’t feel like it. Plus, I can’t help thinking that there’s still hope.’
Ellie looks sceptical. ‘Hmm.’
‘I want him back,’ I confess.
‘Hmm,’ she repeats.
‘And . . . I think part of him wants to come back.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I just . . . don’t know how to reach out to the bit of him that wants to come back – and tell the other part to sod right off.’
Ellie looks strange.
‘Why do you suddenly look less than convinced? A few days ago you were saying he’d be back like a shot.’ I get a horrible feeling that what Ellie said on the night he left wasn’t a sentiment that’s lasted. As if that was her spur-of-the-moment reaction, driven partly by an instinct to make me feel better, and after several days of sober thought she’s far less sure.
She shakes her head. ‘No, you’re right. And I’m not unconvinced,’ she replies, completely unconvincingly.
‘Well, I’m certainly not,’ adds Jen. ‘Ellie, you and I have always said that we’d never seen a couple with so much magic. I think there’s hope, no doubt about it.’
Just hearing those words sends elation running through my veins. Ellie leans forward and puts both elbows on the table. ‘Tell me again his exact words the last time you spoke.’
I recount the story in fine detail and Ellie says nothing until I’ve finished.
‘You know, in some ways it goes against all my instincts to say this,’ she begins. ‘I’ve always said that if a man wants to leave, you should let him go quietly. But maybe Jamie’s different.’
‘Go on,’ I urge.
‘Maybe some relationships are worth fighting for. Maybe yours and Jamie’s is. He’s an idiot for letting you go. I also happen to think he’ll regret it when he gets to the other side of the world and has nobody but a load of insects biting his ankles to keep him company. You know, I’m convincing myself, the more I think about it . . .’
‘Convincing yourself of what?’ I reply breathlessly.
She pauses. ‘Do you really want Jamie back, Sam?’
I look into her eyes and have no hesitation. ‘You know I do.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Then come over tomorrow morning. Not too early, obviously. It’s time we started getting practical about this.’
Chapter 10
I arrive at Ellie’s place the following day feeling as though the principal ingredient in last night’s cocktails was Jeyes Fluid. Ellie, on the other hand, doesn’t look remotely hungover.
‘Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?’ she grins, looking me up and down.
‘You are a freak of nature,’ I grunt. Her skin is only slightly duller than usual and there isn’t the hint of a dark circle under her eyes.
Unlike mine. Mine have puffed up in the manner of a bullfrog undergoing a vigorous colonic irrigation.
‘Years of practice,’ she laughs. ‘Besides, my amazing other half got up with Sophie so I could have a lie-in.’
‘He’s not all bad, is he?’ I tease, grinning at Alistair as I head to the kitchen.
‘I think you’ll find I’m a model partner and father,’ he replies, scooping up Sophie and carrying her over so she can plant an enthusiastic, if distinctly sloppy, kiss on my lips.
Ellie prepares two strong coffees before we head to the living room, while Alistair buttons Sophie into her coat to take her to the park.
‘About what we discussed last night . . .’ says Ellie, plunging onto the sofa opposite me.
I immediately suspect what’s coming. ‘Look,’ I sigh, ‘I know you’re going to tell me to forget about it . . . to forget about him. But I can’t. I want him back and I’ll always want him back.’
She frowns. ‘What makes you think I’d say that?’
I pause, slightly surprised. ‘You say it to Jen every time she’s been ditched.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Jen and her alpha males hardly compare with you and Jamie. Plus, there’s a crucial difference. Like you, like Jen, I also think, on balance, that there’s hope.’
Her words set my heart racing. ‘Really? Then what do you think I should do?’ I ask urgently. ‘I should phone him again, shouldn’t I? And it’s been a whole day since I emailed him. If only I could sit down and reason with him, get across how much I want him and need him and—’
‘Sam, stop!’ she snaps, and I nearly drop my coffee.
She takes a deep breath then says softly, ‘You’re going to do none of those things.’
I look at her blankly.
‘You’re going to win him back,’ she continues. ‘At least, you’re going to give it your best shot. But if you’re going to do that, you’ll also have to get a lot smarter about it.’
Ellie and I met when we studied English Literature at Manchester University and it was there that I became familiar with her counselling skills. Maybe it was the influence of her mum, who’d volunteered with the Samaritans for years. Whatever it was, she became the unofficial agony aunt of our halls of residence, and this was something that gave her and Alistair a lot to talk about when they met years later, because he basically did for a living what she considered a hobby. What gave Ellie’s brand of sympathy the edge, however, was the fact that it had something nobody else’s had: practicality. She wasn’t a mere shoulder on which to cry; she dissected issues methodically and gave advice that was totally constructive.
‘The most important thing you need to do, Sam, is also going to be very hard,’ she tells me. ‘You’ve got to stop being miserable.’
I screw up my nose. ‘I’ve been dumped. Aren’t I meant to be miserable?’
‘Let me rephrase that,’ she concedes. ‘You need to pretend to stop being miserable. Bawl your eyes out as much as you want in front of Jen and me, gorgeous – but nobody else. And especially not Jamie.’
‘But it wasn’t just me crying this week; Jamie was in a complete state,’ I argue. ‘Besides, is it really going to make him feel better if I sit there like an ice maiden, pretending I’m not fazed by anything?’
She leans forward on her sofa. ‘Sam, Jamie fell in love with you because you were the happy, go-getting, easy-going girl you are. You need to remind him who that girl is. That being with you is fun, not a ride on an emotional roller coaster, even if that roller coaster is one he put you on.’
‘But if you’d seen what he was like—’
‘Sam,’ she interrupts, ‘I don’t care if he’s an emotional wreck; you can’t be anything other than composed. As hard as it may be . . . don’t cry. I’m not saying this to try to make you repressed. I’m saying this to empower you.’
My bottom lip starts wobbling. ‘I don’t feel empowered. And I don’t see how going round grinning like a lunatic will change anything.’
She smiles. ‘Trust me. Besides, it could be a self-fulfilling prophecy.’
‘That I become a lunatic?’
‘I’m talking about acting happy. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First, let’s concentrate on making him think you’re doing just great without him. On showing him the amazing, happy girl he’s missing out on. He mustn’t see that he’s made you crumble because, believe me, Sam, there’s nothing less attractive than a
needy woman.’
‘You think I’ve looked needy?’ But I don’t need her to answer. ‘God, I have, haven’t I? Those emails . . . the begging . . . urgh!’
‘Forget what’s gone before,’ she says diplomatically. ‘Concentrate on the future. And for that, you need to put a lid on the emotional stuff.’
By the end of the afternoon, and copious cups of coffee later, Ellie and I have composed a plan. A brilliant, multi-layered and totally practical one; one that’s utterly focused on winning Jamie back.
The first step involves pulling myself together, not just emotionally, but physically. I’ve already lost weight in the few days he’s been gone and it’s time to make the most of it.
The second step involves manufacturing an excuse to see him again as soon as possible, an occasion I hope will be the first of many. Except that now I’m not going to cry, and I’m not going to beg him to come back. I’m going to make him want me for entirely different reasons. My modus operandi is going to change drastically – and if what I’ve got planned works, he’s not going to know what’s hit him.
The third step involves a tactic that’s worked in matters of the heart ever since the time of Henry VIII and his court. I’m going to influence those around him in the hope that they influence him. If Ellie has her way, everyone from his best friend to his sister is going to be telling him to get back with me.
And the fourth step . . . well, the fourth step I’m putting on hold. Not because I don’t think it could work – and Ellie is determined that it would – but because the thought of it sends a shiver down my spine. Going out with another man to make Jamie jealous is the last resort to end all last resorts. A step too far, and one I seriously hope I’ll never have to take.
Simply knowing that I’m actively taking measures to solve this problem makes me feel less upset. Not least because I genuinely think this could work.
‘Exactly how much coffee have you two drunk this afternoon?’ asks Alistair, picking up our cups from the table.
‘We’ve been hard at work,’ says Ellie.
‘What are you up to?’
Ellie flashes me a glance. Then, to my acute embarrassment, she starts to fill him in. She insists that he is qualified to contribute to this exercise on two levels. One: he’s a psychotherapist and understands the workings of the human mind better than most. And two: he’s a man.
He says nothing while she talks, simply looks at me with something between concern and pity.
‘So . . . what do you think about the plan, Alistair? Would Ellie’s advice get her a job in your clinic?’ I smile nervously.
He frowns. ‘There’s no doubt that it could help. It could be decisive. It could remind Jamie of what he’s missing. It could restore the status quo, exactly as you want, Sam.’
‘I can sense a but here.’
He smiles uneasily. ‘Look, I hope it works. In fact, I think it might. But sometimes you can do everything right and life still doesn’t go your way. That’s the problem with people. They can be very unpredictable.’
Chapter 11
For the first time since Jamie left, I no longer feel as though there’s a vacuum in the house. I have no idea why, but the belongings he left behind don’t seem as redundant as before. Following my afternoon with Ellie, I have a feeling that maybe the small paraphernalia of his life may just stay after all.
I pad into the bathroom and open the cabinet, then pick up Jamie’s only aftershave – a bottle of Armani I bought him last year – and hold it to my nose. It’s not quite the scent of him; it’s too sharp, without the warm undercurrents of his skin. But it still provokes a gush of thoughts, fantasies, memories.
Memories such as our holiday to Cuba, when he kissed my neck in the swimming pool as I wrapped my legs round him and forgot the rest of the world existed. Our picnic in the shadow of Speke Hall, when we got hopelessly tipsy and rolled round under an oak tree until the sun set. Or that Christmas Eve when we made blissful love under the tree . . . until the fairy lights caught my ankle and short-circuited the ground floor.
I put the aftershave back in the cabinet and the door wobbles precariously. Jamie and I have always been awful at DIY; it was one of the main things we had in common. Hence the fact that the television is strategically positioned to disguise a dodgy piece of wood flooring and the way that one end of the curtain rail is held up by Blu-Tack.
For my part, the issue is down to the chronic time poverty that’s a necessary result of my twelve-hour working days. And, all right I admit it, general incompetence. Which I hate confessing. I consider myself intelligent and capable when it comes to most other elements of my life, so why I should be so catastrophically feckless with a Black & Decker is anyone’s guess.
Jamie’s reasons are different. He’s always argued simply that life’s too short to worry about fixing broken shelves. And while I’d certainly never assume that, as a man, this domain was necessarily his, I can’t help thinking feminism left us with a raw deal on this issue: it meant he could put up his feet and watch the house crumble with a clear conscience.
I chuckle to myself as I close the cabinet door – and get the shock of my life. The face that stares back at me is a scrap heap of womanhood. My hair is dragged back in a greasy pony tail, my eyebrows are unplucked, my skin unexfoliated and my lips unmoisturized. My nails look as though they’ve been filed by something used in a prison break.
No wonder nobody tried to pull me last night. And I expected Jamie to stay with this!
I cast my mind back to Ellie’s words: about behaving as though life goes on. Looking happy . . . carefree . . . giving the impression I’m having the time of my life. And, above all, reminding him of what he’s missing. On current evidence, all he’s missing is a woman whose split ends haven’t been tended to in months and legs that could’ve been knitted from mohair.
Well, not any more. There is a gorgeous siren under this grooming catastrophe and I’m determined to unleash her.
I set about tackling the worst offences. I wax my legs, appalled by the resulting strips, which I could flog to a toupee manufacturer. I give myself a pedicure, a manicure, then apply a face mask I bought a year ago but never got round to using.
I negotiate the stairs and hallway in toe separators until I reach the living room, where I examine my iPod, scrolling through the ‘recently played’ list disapprovingly.
‘Everybody Hurts’ by REM. ‘Goodbye My Lover’ by James Blunt. ‘Teardrop’ by Massive Attack. ‘In My Life’ by the Beatles.
No wonder I’ve been depressed. If anyone came up with a compilation called ‘Now That’s What I Call Music to Slit Your Wrists To!’, this lot would be on it. I head to my study, log on to my laptop and set about deleting them one by one. It’s not easy – I love some of these songs – but it’s for the best.
However, as my iPod is purged of misery tracks, I realize that I’m barely scratching the surface of my cultural influences. Between The Bridges of Madison County and Ghost and Truly Madly Deeply, there are so many weepies in my DVD collection that I’m surprised the emotional strain didn’t lead to me being committed years ago. There are a lot of romcoms too, of course; except now isn’t the time for those either. I’m not ready yet to spend an evening watching other people falling in love.
I place anything remotely controversial in a box and hide it under the stairs, telling myself it can re-emerge when I’m good and ready. Which a part of me hopes is soon, because the only DVD left is Belly Dance Abs Blast (a Christmas present from Aunt Jill), whose wrapper remains as intact as the rolls on my stomach.
Next, I wander upstairs and open my wardrobe doors, examining its contents and assessing their ability to make me look desirable. Desirable to Jamie, that is, which is a specific ask.
If you asked most men to define a sexy outfit they’d say high heels and short skirts – something significantly more frou-frou than the average woman would opt for. Not Jamie. Jamie likes combat shorts, slouchy jeans and retro T-shirts. He likes outfi
ts so low-key that, without careful handling, they can look as though they’ve been fished out of a skip.
I’ll admit that when we first met, despite being entirely confident in my tastes, I enjoyed dressing in a way he found attractive; and, at least for a while, my wardrobe took on some distinctly grungy overtones.
It didn’t last, of course. When you’re a girl who loves high heels, minidresses and slinky black jeans, eventually not even a man will keep you out of them. Still, while ditching them now would be a travesty, needs must in the short term.
So I set about organizing my wardrobe. My favourite clothes go on one side; on the other go the clothes devoted to attracting Jamie.
And while the vintage hoodies and vest tops have previously been held in little esteem, now I love them more than anything else in here, simply because these are the clothes that are going to win Jamie back.
Look, you might think this is shallow, or that I’m not being true to myself. But there’s a loftier cause at stake – temporarily, at least – than my addiction to three-inch gladiator sandals.
Of course, there’s another big difference between the me of today and the me of six years ago: about a stone. I don’t know how or why that weight crept up on me, but it did. The legs that used to be my best asset are now distinctly blancmange-like around the top and my belly is about as hard as the questions on Family Fortunes.
I head to the fridge and survey its contents. The diet had a kick-start the day Jamie left. But while I’ve inadvertently been given a helping hand by my sheer misery, my mission to become Ms Irresistible is going to start in earnest right now.
I might be thinner but, given that until a week ago I had more orange peel on my legs than a Christmas potpourri, I’ve still got a way to go.
So I throw the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the bin, followed by the Camembert, the squirty cream, the bacon, the chocolate bites and the sausages that individually contain enough fat to see a herd of camels across the Gobi desert.
Then I head back to my laptop and call up the last email I sent to Jamie.
All the Single Ladies Page 5
