All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  It’s the longest yet: over six thousand words.

  The one I compose now is barely more than sixty . . . and that’s the way it will be from now on. Succinct, easy-going, polite. To the untrained eye, you’d never guess it was an email between two people who’d just experienced a devastating breakup.

  Hi Jamie,

  Hope you’re okay. I’m feeling an awful lot better – think I was in shock before. I wondered if you’d be able to pop over on Tuesday night, so I can sort out some practical matters – bills and stuff. It won’t take more than five minutes. And could you make it before 7.30 because I’m going out straight afterwards?

  Sam x

  He sends his email from his phone seconds later.

  No problem. About 6.30 then? Who are you out with? xx

  I study the two questions and compose my response.

  6.30’s fine. See you then. x

  As I’m certain Ellie would counsel, sometimes it’s better to leave them wondering.

  Chapter 12

  Despite the intensity of my feelings for Jamie soon after we’d met, my bliss never felt anything but precarious. As he joined Jen, Ellie and me on the trip, stopping in Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, I was still aware that our respective destinies were both sealed – and separate. Mine was to return home and win the job of which I’d dreamed for years. His was to continue his nomadic existence on the other side of the world.

  But with three weeks until the end of the trip, Jamie did something that stunned me: he booked a flight home to Liverpool. It was only for a couple of weeks, and to catch up with his family, whom he hadn’t seen for a year. But I couldn’t help thinking of the one thing I daren’t hope for.

  I was experiencing two urgent, aching desires that were violently opposed.

  On one hand, there was my imminent interview for a junior events executive position at a big marketing agency in Manchester.

  That job was so close I could almost feel the fabric of my slick new work suit, the one I’d splash out on with my first pay cheque. I could almost hear Donna Summer singing ‘She Works Hard for the Money’ as I strode along King Street to the office. I could taste the first sip I’d have from the water cooler and feel the chill of air-conditioning against my cheeks. I was Melanie Griffith in Working Girl. I was SJP in SATC. I was Ally McBeal and a dozen other glamorous overachievers entering a world of plush offices, takeaway cappuccinos and white wine after hours.

  What made it even more exciting was that the environment I was entering wasn’t any old office job: I was going to work in events. Which meant parties, champagne bars, travel. (What I didn’t know then was that the first few years, before I got a more senior job at BJD Productions, would involve everything from picking chewing gum off floors to manning cloakrooms – but that still wouldn’t have changed my mind.)

  Yet, on the other hand, fixated as I was about fulfilling my ambition, there was also the tornado that had entered my life in the form of Jamie. A man who made me feel like nobody else did. A man with whom I felt a bond, an intense passion, a raw need that ran so deep it was as if I’d known and loved him all my life.

  It was at the homecoming barbeque that Jen’s parents threw for her that everything changed. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine as a hot sun sparkled on our shoulders and a hog roast sizzled on the lawn to the sound of clinking glasses.

  Jen had a new boyfriend. I can’t remember who, but he was undoubtedly gorgeous, undoubtedly had muscles and undoubtedly was ‘the one’. Ellie, on the other hand, was resolutely single; this was before she and Alistair had even met, let alone had Sophie.

  ‘You and Jamie really are smitten, aren’t you?’ she marvelled as we stood outside the bathroom, in advance of the wee/gossip combo no trip to the Ladies went without. She was wearing Capri pants with polka dots, and looked like one of those Pink Ladies in Grease.

  ‘He’s amazing,’ I gushed tipsily. ‘Beyond amazing.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  A voice piped up from behind us. ‘If it means anything, I know the feeling’s mutual.’

  I’d heard a lot about Dorrie, but that day was the first time we’d met. She represented a link between Jen and Jamie – having attended ballet classes with the former when they were twelve and been friends with the latter since they’d lived next door as two-year-olds.

  I’d seen a picture of them in a paddling pool; she’d been a skinny and not overly cute child, a description that didn’t still apply. As an adult Dorrie was – is – tall, Amazonian almost, with clear olive skin and ludicrously long legs.

  ‘You know,’ she smiled broadly, ‘I’ve known Jamie a long time and I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t know what you’ve done, but he’s a gonner!’

  As darkness fell on a warm evening and the sound of laughter was replaced by an impromptu disco, Jamie and I sat on the grass in a quiet corner of the garden, spectators to a party that would be talked about for months. I can remember the lead-up to the conversation that would come to change my life . . . it was about fried eggs.

  Three nights earlier we’d spent our first night together since we’d returned to the UK; Luke had been away and he’d let us use his spare room. It was quietly spectacular: we stayed up all night, talking in between slow luxurious kisses . . . and other things.

  We slept in until twelve thirty, when I woke lazily to make breakfast. I’d hoped my culinary efforts might produce something resembling those New York breakfasts, with sumptuous French toast and orange juice so fresh the pips get stuck in your teeth.

  Sadly, I was never a master of the fry-up. So while my tomatoes, mushrooms and burnished toast were passable, my fried eggs looked as though they’d been involved in a drive-by shooting. I was about to bring the plate up to Jamie when he appeared at the door, laughing at my efforts. Then he threw his arms around me.

  ‘So you weren’t impressed with my eggs this morning,’ I giggled eight hours later.

  He grinned. ‘I was totally impressed with your eggs. No woman has ever cared enough about me before to go through an entire carton of eggs to try to get a single one right.’

  I shook my head and slapped my hand on my forehead. He peeled it away and kissed me on the lips.

  ‘You know what those eggs made me realize?’ he added.

  ‘That I’d never get a job as a chef?’

  ‘Precisely,’ he smiled, then he looked at me intensely. ‘Not only that, though, Sam. They made me realize that I’m in love with you. And that there’s no way in the world I can leave you.’

  Chapter 13

  It’s funny how different attitudes can be to the old-fashioned concept of charidee. At one end of the spectrum, you’ve got the Bob Geldofs and Annie Lennoxes of this world, those who put their heart and soul into making a difference. At the other end are the natural-born misery guts, who’d prefer to saw off their foot with a cheese knife than give their last fifty pence to a Big Issue seller.

  And somewhere in the middle you’ve got me. Although I hope I’m closer to the former than the latter . . . at least I try. Sadly, while I’ve got the conscience, what I haven’t got is the time, connections or money. So instead of rolling up my sleeves and really getting stuck in, I make the small sacrifices at my disposal. Which in reality means one pair of shoes fewer every couple of months . . . and more monthly standing orders than I could possibly reveal without giving the impression I’m an unmitigated sucker.

  It’s the source of some amusement in certain quarters.

  ‘What’s this I’ve heard about you signing up to sponsor another kid in Africa?’ cackles Lisa, Jamie’s sister, before I’ve even entered the house. I’ve popped in to see her on my way home from work, because if anyone knows the way to Jamie’s heart it’s her.

  ‘Oh that was a while ago,’ I mumble. ‘And it’s Eastern Europe.’

  ‘Foo-eee! You’re like Angelina Jolie, you are. You can’t save the world personally, you know! Aw, look – good on you. You’v
e got no kids of your own, after all. I remember those days well,’ she mutters, surveying the devastation before her.

  I consider myself relatively easy-going when it comes to housework. I’ve never been one of those women whose kitchen cupboards resemble the filing system of the British Library and whose toilet pan needs to gleam like Simon Cowell’s dental veneers. But even I feel a twitch of unease on entering Lisa and her husband Dave’s living room.

  Neither has ever been particularly house-proud, but even if they had, the number of children they’ve produced in the last ten years would have decisively put paid to any prospect of an OK! spread. The lounge looks as though a category five hurricane has swept through it. That said, the couple’s four boys and one girl have the capacity to create more havoc than most extreme weather conditions – despite being as cute as they are.

  ‘TWO SUGARS, ISN’T IT?’ she shouts from the kitchen as a three-foot plastic Tigger is torpedoed across the living room and ricochets off the patio window.

  ‘NONE THANKS, LISA,’ I yell, but I’m drowned out by four-year-old Suzuki employing enthusiastic karate moves against her little brother, Elvis.

  ‘Right – OUT!’ hollers Lisa as she appears at the doorway with two teas. ‘In the garden. Auntie Sam and I have things to discuss. And she’d prefer to do it without two demonic kids trampolining on her.’

  The children leave in a fireball of martial-arts moves, intercepted en route by their mother, who smothers each in so many kisses you’d think she hadn’t seen them for a week.

  At thirty-three, Lisa’s five years older than Jamie, but you’d never guess they were siblings. It isn’t only their physical differences that are marked (though she has a three-stone advantage on him). It’s also their personalities. She’s as naturally personable as Jamie and makes friends as easily – but, unlike him, her tastes are about as bohemian as a Marks & Spencer ready meal. Today’s outfit sums it up: jeans with a Sunday-supplement waistband and a T-shirt in an eye-watering shade of orange that precisely matches the awning on their caravan.

  Not that it matters. Particularly because, in her husband’s eyes, Lisa is the most irresistible woman on earth.

  ‘Is Dave back at work after his throat infection?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh Dave’s grand. More than grand, actually,’ she winks. ‘I’ve just had my latest special manual delivered.’ The words special manual are accompanied by exaggerated air quotes, which alone are enough to make me feel slightly queasy: I know what’s coming next.

  She checks the kids are out of sight before grabbing her handbag and producing a small hardback book which she thrusts into my hands. It’s called Ready, Steady, F***! Aphrodisiac recipes guaranteed to spice up your sex life.

  I attempt to keep my eyeballs in their sockets as I flick through the pages; they boast a selection of exotic recipes, positioned next to a selection of exotic . . . well, positions.

  ‘Baked oysters and spinach . . . hot buttered lobster . . . chocolate cognac truffles. Sounds like a lot of washing-up for a roll in the hay with your husband, Lisa,’ I smile awkwardly.

  ‘Why do you think I bought a dishwasher?’ she grins. ‘But enough about me and my libido. Let’s talk about my brother and what he’s playing at.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘He must have told you what’s happened.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ve heard about him wanting to discover himself. I’ve heard about him flying to the back of beyond to build mud huts and eat beetles for his tea. I’ve heard about him still being in love with you, apparently.’ My heart rises as she says this, but she doesn’t pause for breath. ‘And in all bloody honesty . . . I’ve never heard such bollocks.’

  I open my mouth to speak.

  ‘Sam . . . you know I love Jamie and would do anything for him. Nevertheless, he’s being a grade-one arse. If they gave prizes for being a tosser, he’d have a cupboard full. He is King Knobhead in my eyes. And I’ve told him as much.’

  I realize I’m a tad shell-shocked by this diatribe. ‘You think he’s doing the wrong thing, then?’

  ‘Wrong thing?’ she blusters, throwing up her hands. ‘Look. We know that Jamie was cut from a different cloth from you and me. He’s always been a bit different. We knew that when he was nine and he announced to Mum – on mince and chips night, no less – that he was becoming a vegan and he wanted her to make his Angel Delight out of soya milk. And, look, it’s great that he’s different. In fact, it’s lovely. It makes Jamie who he is.’

  I frown, taking this in. ‘You’re almost convincing me he’s doing the right thing, Lisa.’

  ‘I hadn’t finished,’ she says decisively. ‘What’s as important is that Jamie honestly and truly believes that he’s met the love of his life: you. And I believe that too. The whole family does.’

  I feel a swell of gratitude.

  ‘I just can’t help thinking, Sam, that while he’s entitled to never settle down, that won’t make him happy. He’s setting himself up for a life with no kids, no proper family, no ties. And I know Jamie. Ultimately, that’s not going to make him satisfied. He loves kids too much.’

  ‘But he doesn’t want kids. He’s always said that,’ I point out.

  ‘He was playing with our Suzuki yesterday and didn’t even mind when she wired up his nipples to the Operation tweezers. The boy’s a natural,’ she says, thumping her hand on the coffee table. ‘He just doesn’t realize it.’

  I suppress a smile.

  ‘At the end of the day, this big adventure isn’t going to make Jamie happier or more content,’ she adds. ‘Only you are, Sam. If only the idiot would recognize it.’

  I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. ‘So what you’re saying is that I need to let him go to South America, do what he needs to do, and then realize he misses me?’

  ‘You can’t wait around for ever,’ she says, wide-eyed. ‘We need to stop him going.’

  ‘You think that’s possible?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Sam,’ she replies firmly. ‘That’s all I can promise. I’ll do my absolute best.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘When you said, “Let’s grab a late lunch”, I thought you meant a couple of toasties at Costa Coffee,’ I tell Ellie as she orders a large glass of wine in San Carlo. The restaurant is bustling with a suited-and-booted crowd talking costs, opportunities and a host of other corporate concerns. In other words, not what Ellie and I are about to discuss.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ she replies, flicking her napkin on her lap. ‘When your friend wants to buy you lunch, don’t complain.’

  ‘How come you’re able to do lunch anyway? You haven’t broken up for the holidays yet, have you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, but I’ve spent the morning at another school for a moderating meeting. I was meant to be there all day, but it finished early.’

  ‘Right. I haven’t got long though, I warn you. I’ve got a million things to do when I get back to the office, especially as I need to leave early.’

  She pours me some water. ‘How are you feeling about seeing Jamie tonight?’

  I hesitate. ‘Fine.’ The reality is that as much as I’m desperate to see him, I’m also terrified. Which is ludicrous. This is a man in whose presence I’ve been almost every day for the last six years. Feeling nervous around him is wrong. ‘I just want to play this right,’ I add.

  She pops an olive into her mouth. ‘Well, remember: act cool. You might not be feeling cool, but act it.’

  I nod and take a sip of water to alleviate my suddenly dry mouth.

  ‘And don’t – no matter how tempted you are – start discussing your relationship. Even if he brings it up, change the subject. We don’t want you saying anything that could be interpreted as putting pressure on him. He’s got to decide things for himself. And we definitely don’t want you crying. So keep things . . . light.’

  ‘Light. I can do that,’ I say earnestly.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Sam. Remember, you’re not there to analyze. You’re there to
seduce.’

  My eyes widen. ‘You never mentioned that before.’

  ‘I don’t mean sex,’ she says dismissively. ‘At least not tonight. But, absolutely you’re seducing him. You’re making him want you. The more desperately the better.’

  I nod.

  ‘Also—’

  I groan and she smirks. ‘I was simply going to say . . . look amazing. Not that I’ve any doubt you will. You’ve lost weight, Sam. Don’t lose any more, will you?’

  ‘It’s my Belly Dance Abs Blast,’ I tell her.

  ‘What?’ she frowns.

  ‘It’s the only DVD I’ve got left. I’ve only been doing it for a couple of days and it’s phenomenal.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s presented by an instructor called Princess Karioca. The thick Glaswegian accent is hard to follow at times, but she’s my new best friend . . . despite the fact that my stomach muscles feel as though they’ve been attacked with a meat tenderizer.’

  ‘But you hate dancing,’ she points out.

  I can’t argue with that. Dance floors are, to me, dens of evil inhabited by those whose coordination needs only to match that of a penguin in the throes of a psychedelic trip to show me up. But it seems there’s an exception. ‘Not belly dancing,’ I shrug.

  She raises an eyebrow, dipping her bread in some olive oil. ‘Is that a spray tan?’

  I gasp. ‘Can you tell?’

  Knowing I was seeing Jamie today, I slipped this into my schedule yesterday after work, requesting that the coating applied was in the most subtle shade possible. Unfortunately, given that my ‘tanning technician’ was herself the colour of a teak sideboard, it’s little wonder she ignored me, instead spraying so enthusiastically that she should really be moved on to the production line of a Xsara Picasso.

  ‘I can tell – but he won’t be able to. Men have hardly got a trained eye for these things. So what are you wearing?’

  ‘Combats, Superdry shirt – the first thing I threw on,’ I wink.