All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  At least . . . for about an hour I think I’m back in business. But it turns out to be a fleeting sensation because, after abandoning my lengthy drafts and going with a ‘Good, thanks – and u?’, no response is forthcoming.

  And after sixty torturous minutes this is too much to bear, so I dig out draft four.

  Jamie, have been thinking about you and me and the reason 4 your decision. I know we weren’t perfect and there are a million things I’d do differently. But if you’d give me another chance then I am absolutely certain I could make u realize that staying here and with me isn’t such a terrible option. I know u need to be true to yourself and I know

  I am halfway through the sentence when the phone beeps again and I inadvertently delete the tome that’s taken me fifteen minutes to compose.

  Bit low actually. I miss you.

  My heart does a backflip as I continue reading.

  Maybe we could have another chat some time.

  Great idea – when? x I reply eagerly.

  He texts back straight away.

  Shall I give you a shout next week?

  I frown, disappointed not to have pinned him down to an exact day, and I am about to fire off my ‘No probs’ reply when a kind of romantic madness grips me. I add a kiss, followed by six more. I gaze at the phone after I’ve sent it, longing for him to send back some kisses.

  That’s all I want. A small but significant gesture.

  But they never arrive. Which sends me into a whirlwind of analysis about the reasons for the lack of them: he feels nothing for me any longer? Or: he doesn’t want to get my hopes up? Or: he’s trying to suppress his feelings? Or the wackiest theory of all – which comes from Alistair, who I bump into in Tesco later that night: he’s a bloke, so it never occurred to him to send some and it is no big deal. And this measly interpretation from a psychotherapist!

  I’m aware that all this thinking about the situation is no good for me. It’d be no good for anyone. I’m convinced Stephen Hawking thinks less than this. Besides which, nothing remotely productive seems to come of it.

  Chapter 19

  The Liverpool Lawn Tennis Masters has become one of the big dates in the city’s lively sporting and social calendar. It’s a four-day extravaganza in the third week of July and BJD Productions have been commissioned to help organize it for the first time.

  The part we’re looking after is corporate hospitality – and very important it is too, given the profit involved. However, with cash comes responsibility, and it’s therefore essential that every detail is right.

  ‘Deana, could you give me a hand?’ I puff, attempting to screw a wobbly leg back onto one of the tables while on my hands and knees, my new Reiss skirt hoisted round my thighs.

  The fact that neither Deana nor Natalie was born overburdened with a sense of urgency is painfully evident this morning. While I’ve been here since six, zipping round like a blue bottle whose wings are on fire, my assistants rolled in an hour ago and have barely moved, except to check on their eyelashes.

  ‘Deana?’ I repeat.

  I look up, but she’s deep in conversation with Natalie, who is indignant about something.

  ‘DEANA!’

  She looks at me and screws up her nose like someone’s shoved a dirty sock under it. ‘What?’

  ‘Can you help me, please?’ I ask as evenly as possible.

  Despite the wobbly table leg, I’m pleased with the marquee: it seats four hundred and is gloriously positioned in the heart of the park, surrounded by hydrangea and blue mist, which look particularly stunning given that the sun has made an appearance.

  Inside is an English country garden theme, with peonies and delphiniums on the tables and ivy across the doorway. My client’s pleased too, judging by the feedback; though, admittedly, no one’s sampled Deana and Natalie’s unique brand of customer service yet.

  ‘Did we have to wear these crap uniforms?’ Deana pouts as she finally turns her attention to my request.

  I rarely use the terrible twosome at events, preferring to keep them apart when inflicting them on members of the public. But we are short on staff so it’s all hands to the pump.

  ‘I’m afraid you did,’ I reply firmly, twisting the leg so frantically I nearly sprain my wrist.

  ‘I don’t see what harm it woulda done for us to get a bit tarted up. Did Piers authorize this? I mean, look at this jacket. It’s –’ she pauses to search for the precise adjective, like a sommelier describing fine wine – ‘shite.’

  The uniform to which she refers consists of cream trousers, flat shoes and a tailored jacket with pistachio stripes. Not green, you understand. Pistachio. Which may or may not be one of the factors that gave the manufacturers carte blanche to charge an arm and a leg. Not that they’re not worth it; in spite of Deana’s damning verdict, they’re perfect for this event. And even with the overdone fake tan, overdone fake nails and overdone fake eyelashes, she and Natalie look the part.

  ‘I look like I should be selling bloody ice creams,’ shrieks Natalie. It’s how they sound that I need to work on.

  Deana and I heave the table back into place. ‘Now, ladies,’ I begin, thinking a little pep talk might generate some enthusiasm, ‘I really appreciate the effort you’re both putting in today. I’ll make sure head office knows all about it in your next personal development reviews.’

  They gaze at me with lobotomy eyes as if wondering why they would give a toss about their next personal development reviews.

  I continue, unperturbed: ‘I need you both to remember what I said about smiling, and being aware of the guests’ needs. If I’m called away to another area it’s you two who’ll make sure the champagne isn’t running low and everyone’s happy. I know I can count on you.’

  Deana raises an eyebrow as if to say: ‘What gave you that impression?’

  ‘And if you do a good job I’ll give you both the next set of VIP tickets I get hold of for a new bar opening.’

  ‘Oooooh,’ they reply, perking up.

  As the guests arrive, two hours before the sporting action begins, my tempo steps up a gear. Between checking on the catering, answering queries from the groundsmen and trying to persuade the sporting VIPs to strike a variety of naff poses for the local press, it’s non-stop.

  Fortunately, everyone seems to be having a fantastic time, and as dessert is served I begin to relax – always a bad sign.

  ‘Ewwwwww,’ I overhear Deana exclaim to Natalie.

  My ears prick up. ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It was a mistake having this in a park,’ tuts Natalie, as if she has any expertise in event coordination beyond purchasing the office paper clips.

  ‘What is it?’ I repeat.

  Natalie purses her lips. ‘Poo.’

  ‘Look,’ I say, starting to get annoyed. ‘We’re in the middle of this event now. Please stop complaining about your uniforms.’

  Natalie looks baffled. ‘Warraya on about?’

  I frown. ‘Warra— What are you on about?’

  ‘There’s a big dog poo near the entrance. I saw it when I nipped out for a ciggie,’ Deana informs me matter-of-factly.

  I start to hyperventilate – and not only at the thought of Deana standing at the entrance with a fag hanging out of her mouth. ‘This place was supposed to have been cleared and inspected this morning. Did you get rid of it?’

  Their faces nearly implode. ‘Ewwwwww. You are joking,’ splutters Natalie.

  I’ve always lived by the motto that says if you want something done, do it yourself; but right now it’s never sounded more hideous.

  I scuttle between tables and out of the marquee, heading for the kitchens, where I elbow my way through catering staff until I locate the head chef, who furnishes me with the closest thing to a poop-a-scoop bag we can find: the ziplock bags he uses to keep the Camembert fresh.

  The non-corporate spectators are starting to arrive, so I know I’ve got to be subtle. But as I hover at the entrance, hoping that, in the process of
locating the offending article, I don’t impale it on the heel of my Kurt Geigers, I can’t help thinking that subtlety is a luxury I can’t afford.

  When the passers-by peter out, I scan the ground with the stealth of a Serengeti lioness, and as I pinpoint the item in question, my stomach turns over. I check for observers before stooping down, grimacing as I carefully attempt to negotiate it into the bag. I’ve seen Auntie Jill do this with her dog Dyson’s offerings and the entire process takes milliseconds. She simply whips a blue bag from her pocket and deftly swipes the item away.

  Deftness is not the term you’d use to describe my manoeuvre. I don’t know if it’s that Auntie Jill has more experience, or if it’s the speed I attempt to employ – but I’m hit by a bout of cack-handedness that leaves me muttering expletives and so red in the face that it’s clear my blood vessels are sizzling.

  Eventually, I have the item in the bag in preparation for a sprint to the bins. But, as I spring triumphantly to my feet and attempt to zoom in on my destination, something blocks my view. A two-piece suit. A very nice two-piece suit, now you mention it.

  ‘Hello. Are you one of the organizers?’ The voice is deep and confident. I look up and hear myself gulp in the manner of a character from the Beano. He’s about six foot two and broad-shouldered, with tanned skin, pre-Raphaelite lips and twinkling sable eyes that could get a woman into trouble with one look.

  ‘Erm . . . that would be me,’ I reply coolly.

  ‘I’m on table three and wondered if we could order some more wine, please. I asked one of the staff members in the striped jackets – but that was twenty minutes ago.’

  I smile with what I hope is warm professionalism. ‘No problem at all, sir. I’ll have some sent over right away.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he replies and goes to walk away. Then he turns back. ‘Oh, and could you point me in the direction of the toilets?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say chirpily, pointing to the Portaloos.

  I realize my mistake even before the bag of doggie detritus leaves my hand. He realizes my mistake as it takes flight in a spectacular arch I’m confident will be unmatched by any of the volleys on centre court this afternoon.

  And we both watch, dumbfounded, as my fresh haul of bagged-up canine poo flies through the air . . . taking an age to land . . . directly on the top of my handcrafted table plan – where it perches, intact, on a decorative lily of the valley border.

  I take a deep breath and turn to my guest as if this was completely intentional and meticulously planned, a see-through ziplock bag full of dog dirt being precisely what I’d envisaged as the finishing touch to my marquee design.

  ‘Right,’ I smile brightly, clapping my hands. ‘That wine will be right over.’

  Chapter 20

  I’m finally relieved of tennis tournament duties at seven thirty on Saturday evening. Anything I haven’t sorted now can be picked up on Monday morning. I know that what I should do is go home, run a relaxing bath and do nothing but chill. But, since I’ve been single, spending Saturday night alone has become inconceivable.

  It’s not that I used to spend every Saturday gallivanting with Jamie. If his band was playing, I’d be lucky to see him at all during the weekend. And there have been plenty of Saturday nights when I did nothing more exciting than devour a box of Maltesers in front of X Factor. But now the thought of staying in, listening to a series of tuneless renditions of Whitney Houston ballads is too much to bear.

  Not that I have a choice. Jen’s new love interest – the waiter from the Quarter – was only available for an afternoon-coffee date today as he’s working tonight. And Ellie’s about as likely to spend Saturday night at home with a Horlicks as she is to circumnavigate the globe in roller skates.

  ‘Doesn’t your man ever want you to spend Saturday night with him?’ I ask as I meet her and Jen at the Shipping Forecast on Slater Street. More low-key than the other bars in this part of town, it’s full of musos and thoughtful types who spend too much time twiddling with their guitar strings.

  ‘I cooked a romantic dinner last night,’ she says indignantly. ‘Mind you, he had bought me flowers out of the blue last week, so he deserved it.’

  ‘That’s so sweet,’ says Jen.

  ‘I know,’ shrugs Ellie. ‘I don’t take it for granted.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ I point out. ‘No man has ever bought me flowers.’

  ‘Really?’ they both say in unison.

  ‘Oh come on – it’s not Jamie’s style. He’s romantic, don’t get me wrong . . . just, in other ways. So what did you cook?’ I ask Ellie.

  ‘Paella followed by home-made profiteroles. I can be a domestic goddess when I want. Turned into a late one, actually. You know when you eat too much, drink too much and end up dancing round the kitchen to your old CDs? Oh . . .’ She suddenly realizes that this ode to being a couple might not be what I want to hear. ‘Sorry, Sam.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply dismissively. ‘I don’t expect people to tiptoe around. It’s not as if anyone’s died. Besides, hopefully Jamie and I will do a bit of kitchen dancing again one day. Not that we ever liked the same music. He nearly put his head in the oven one day when I put on Michael Bublé.’

  ‘You don’t look like a woman who’s spent the day nursing a hangover,’ says Jen, giving Ellie the once-over. Ellie looks sensational in a short All Saints dress, sky-high heels and piled-up hair.

  She almost outshines Jen. Only ‘almost’ because every man in the room has singularly failed to remove his eyes from our friend’s legs. Unfortunately for them, she’s smitten again. Despite having met the man in question only four days ago.

  ‘How’s the waiter shaping up?’ I ask.

  ‘Adam. And he’s perfect. I never normally go for younger men, but maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong all these years. He’s very intelligent. The waiter’s job is only a stopgap.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘He’s not sure yet. He’s got such charisma. He’s so funny and sweet and has . . .’

  ‘Muscles, we know,’ Ellie finishes for her. ‘I knew the second I saw them that he didn’t stand a chance with you around.’

  ‘Am I that predictable?’ she laughs. ‘Anyway, what made you choose here, Sam?’

  I shift in my seat and sip my Cuba Libre. ‘I thought it’d make a change.’

  The look on their faces tells me I’m fooling no one. The truth is that I’m here because this is one of Jamie’s favourite places. Not that we ever came together; this was reserved for nights out with his band. At least, the start of nights out with his band. I never used to ask where they ended up on the basis that what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

  It’s never been my type of place, in all honesty – until now. Now it has my full attention and no mistake. My eyes have been glued to the door since we arrived, despite the fact that nobody interesting has walked in. By which I mean Jamie hasn’t walked in.

  ‘Well, Sam, you’re looking exceptionally good at the moment,’ Ellie tells me. ‘Being single suits you.’

  ‘Very funny. I’ve lost a bit of weight, that’s all,’ I tell her, but I know that my slimmed-down thighs and bum are but the start of my transformation.

  I now spend my life imagining that there’s a possibility of bumping into Jamie and – in contrast to my normal state of being – make sure I’m looking as good as physically possible at all times. Which is exhausting. But for the first time since I can remember, the effort I put into my appearance pays dividends. As we’re shunted from bar to bar by Ellie, who can’t bear to stay in one place for more than two martinis, I become aware that I’m attracting an above-average amount of attention, something that continues as I order drinks in the Hard Days Night Hotel.

  I can sense somebody gazing at me from the other end of the bar. I don’t look, at least not properly; I simply flash a half glance his way. But I can tell from just that that he’s attractive. I can sense it. I can smell it. It’s in his alpha-male swagger as he approaches, puts hi
s elbow on the bar and leans in.

  ‘Bloody hell you’re looking hot, Sam.’

  I spin round, startled, and come face to face with Luke – Jamie’s best friend. With the possible exception of bumping into the man himself, I couldn’t be more excited. But for a very different reason than Luke is used to.

  Chapter 21

  I haven’t seen Luke since the break-up, and the issue that’s uppermost in my mind is how to quiz him about the emotional state of my ex-boyfriend. Which probably makes this the first time in Luke’s life that a woman in a bar isn’t fixated on him.

  The term ‘red-blooded male’ was invented for him. No female fails to fall for his charms, the least of which are his muscular frame and killer smile. Did you spot the mention of muscles? Obviously, Jen’s been there; she was swept up in a three-week whirlwind of his irrepressible magnetism and lust that left no room for argument.

  If ever a relationship was doomed to failure, it was theirs. By the time she was musing about the colour of bridesmaids’ dresses, he’d moved on to his neighbour’s cousin, Heidi, a zoologist from Sweden, with whom he was more than happy to give his animal instincts a whirl.

  The fact that Luke is so likeable is a source of constant inner turmoil for me and my sense of sisterhood. Frankly, I should disown him. But I can’t – even if justifying my affection for him is increasingly challenging.

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’ he asks, looking me up and down with a grin.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Could you make that sound less like you think I looked like a compost heap beforehand?’

  He tuts. ‘Oh Sam, the only thing in my garden I’d compare you with is an English rose. Lovely, fragrant . . .’ he shrugs, ‘slightly thorny at times.’

  I suppress a smile. ‘Gee, thanks. I have a right to be thorny, anyway. I’ve been dumped.’

  His expression changes and he looks serious all of a sudden. It’s quite unnerving; the Luke I know is as shallow as a leaky paddling pool. ‘If it means anything, I’ve tried to tell him he’s making a mistake. And not just because you look fabulous,’ he winks, pulling himself together.