All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  I shake my head. ‘I know I’m single, but it doesn’t mean I’m available.’

  ‘Paying you a compliment, that’s all.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you. So what’s he said? And how is he? And is he still sleeping in your spare room? And—’

  ‘Wooahh, slow down,’ he replies. ‘One question at a time, please. But let me buy you a drink, first.’

  ‘I’ve already got them.’ I go to give a note to the barman.

  Luke pushes down my hand. ‘No, you don’t. Like you say, you’ve been dumped. You need to be looked after.’

  ‘Oh purleease.’ I tut while he grins and hands over a twenty. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

  ‘Who are the other two drinks for?’

  ‘Jen and Ellie. They’re over there.’

  ‘Jen’s here?’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Bring her over. It’s been a while.’

  I narrow my eyes and glare at him. ‘Do not go near my friend again. Or. I. Will. Kill. You. Is that clear?’

  ‘I was only going to say a friendly hello.’

  ‘I’ve seen where your friendly hellos lead and so has Jen. Besides, she’s happy and has a new man.’ Luke doesn’t need to know that she first set eyes on him on Tuesday, when he served her cappuccino. ‘Do me a favour and stay away, eh?’

  ‘You have such a low opinion of me, Sam,’ he tuts.

  ‘Can’t imagine why. Listen – wait here. I need to speak to you about some crucial matters.’

  ‘There aren’t many women I’d hang around waiting for at a bar, you know,’ he calls after me.

  I must be gone less than two minutes, but when I return, Luke’s already chatting to another woman. She’s ludicrously pretty, a no-less-than-five-hours-to-get-ready type, with smoky eyes and endless hair extensions that look as though they’ve been harvested from an Appaloosa pony.

  I scold myself for such mean-spirited thoughts and almost hope that the conversation I’m walking in on is about the dissertation she’s producing for her PhD.

  ‘It’s true,’ she squeaks in an accent so thick you could spread it on your toast. ‘Cheryl Cole used to be an HGV driver. She keeps it quiet these days but my dad’s been on the lorries for years and he knew her when she was only twenty-three and would stop at the same Little Chef. She couldn’t half put away a fry-up, apparently. You’d never guess, would you?’

  ‘Lynne . . . that is fascinating,’ Luke smiles in a way that would be totally convincing to her even if she wasn’t so cerebrally challenged. ‘Twenty-three? How old is she now?’

  ‘My dad reckons early fifties,’ she replies. ‘Looks good for her age, doesn’t she? It’s the eyelashes. They take years off.’

  I cough. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh hi,’ says Luke, straightening his back. ‘Where are your friends?’

  ‘They’ll be over shortly. I wanted to get you by yourself first.’

  I look at Lynne-Nice-But-Dim, hoping she takes the hint. But she’s no longer looking overly nice. In fact, she’s throwing daggers. And is patently not in the mood to move.

  ‘If I could discuss something with you privately . . .’ I add.

  Luke and I glance at Lynne but she couldn’t be less likely to leave if her hem was pinned down with tent pegs.

  ‘Well,’ I begin, regardless. ‘Jamie. Seriously, I need to know how he’s been.’

  Luke takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to say, Sam. He’s torn up about what happened. There’s no mistaking that.’

  ‘Has he mentioned me?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ he frowns. ‘He mentions you all the time.’

  ‘Do you think he misses me?’

  Luke is about to answer when Lynne-Not-Very-Nice-But-Dim yawns pointedly.

  ‘He does. Definitely. Look, let’s have a proper chat at some point, shall we? Now,’ he says, leaning into Lynne. ‘Where were we?’

  She looks as if someone’s told her tomorrow is Christmas. I’m going to have to act.

  ‘One more question, Luke,’ I continue sweetly.

  Lynne rolls her eyes so far back into her head it looks like she’s about to have a fit.

  ‘How did that chlamydia test go?’

  I’d feel guilty about this course of action if it wasn’t for two justifications: A, she was annoying, and B, I’m saving her from future heartache, so in fact I am doing her a favour. Luke doesn’t quite see it like this.

  ‘I was in there!’ he says, exasperated, after Lynne has made her excuses and left.

  ‘She was a bimbo,’ I say dismissively.

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘And I think you could do better,’ I continue.

  ‘Of course I could. But that’s not the point. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with getting yourself checked out every so often. It was clear, by the way.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ve got entirely the wrong impression of me, Samantha. Deep down, all I want is a nice girl who likes me for who I am. Someone to settle down with. Someone special.’

  ‘But, in the meantime, you’re going to get plenty of practice, eh?’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ he grins.

  ‘How’s it going, handsome?’ says Ellie, kissing Luke on the cheek. There’s a slight slur in her words that suggests she sneaked in an extra drink while I’ve been over here. ‘Broken many hearts lately?’

  Luke tuts. ‘My reputation is in tatters, I see. It’s a good job I think you’re wonderful, Ellie Sanders.’

  ‘What reputation?’ asks Jen.

  ‘Jennifer, lovely to see you,’ he says, kissing her slowly on the cheek. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Because you never phoned,’ she points out.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ he asks innocently. ‘Phone trouble. Ah, we could have been so good together too.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ she replies.

  ‘So where are we going after these drinks?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘Let me come with you,’ says Luke.

  ‘Sorry, Luke,’ Ellie replies, spinning round. ‘There are some nights that just have to be girls only.’

  Chapter 22

  The rest of the evening is a riot – and a blur. What I can confirm is that we visit lots of bars, get tipsier than intended, run out of money (at least I do, until Ellie insists on thrusting twenty quid into my hand so I can keep going; she is a woman who has never known when to stop), and – despite a brief melancholy (Jamie-induced) moment – the whole thing is unrelentingly enjoyable.

  Ellie, who has always been one of life’s party animals, is on fire tonight. Although it never ceases to amaze me how much booze she can put away, and at a rate that makes Jen and me look like amateurs. It is insane o’clock when I get home – don’t ask me for anything more specific.

  When I wake the next morning, it’s with a hangover that could justify a spell in intensive care. I stay in bed for as long as possible, then get up to shower and dress. Actually, that makes it sound like a perfunctory affair, whereas the reality is that it takes over an hour to perform the most basic ablutions. When I return to the living room, I glance at my phone and realize there’s a missed call . . . from Jamie.

  I phone back immediately.

  ‘Sam. Erm. Thanks for returning my call.’ His voice is slightly strangled, as if he’s trying to come across as relaxed but isn’t quite managing it.

  ‘No problem.’ My voice is so gravelly it sounds as though someone has taken a nail file to my tonsils. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Does something have to be up?’ he asks awkwardly. ‘I mean, we’re still friends, aren’t we? We’ll always be friends. And . . . well, I just thought I’d phone to see how you are. In a friendly sort of way.’

  ‘Well,’ I reply, torn between delight and suspicion, ‘I’m fine, Jamie. Had a great evening last night and am pottering round the house this morning. You know, the usual Sunday-morning stuff. There’s a lot less to tidy up now you’re not around.’

  As soon as t
he words are out of my mouth I panic that this sounds like a dig about Jamie’s lack of natural ability on the housework front. If you put a bottle of Cif in front of my ex-boyfriend, he’d think he was supposed to squeeze it on his chips. Nevertheless, the last thing I want is to bring that up and come across as a nag.

  ‘Oh . . . by that I just mean, you know . . . that there aren’t two of us any more. That’s all,’ I add hastily.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he laughs. ‘I’m sure it’s not just that. I know I’m not the tidiest of people. Luke keeps going mad about it. I don’t treat his cushion covers with the respect they deserve, apparently.’

  I join in with his laughter and it strikes me how good it feels to have a giggle with him again. To make the simplest human connection and remind ourselves of the bond we’d had for so many years.

  ‘Speaking of whom,’ he coughs, suddenly serious, ‘I believe you bumped into Luke last night.’

  ‘Yes. Did he mention it?’

  He pauses. ‘Hope he didn’t come on to you,’ he laughs, but it’s a different kind of laugh from before; this one is laced with a distinct note of unease. It strikes me that he’s seriously worried about this prospect. I’m about to leap in and reassure him, when something stops me.

  ‘Well, you know Luke,’ I say lightly.

  There is a stutter of silence and for a second I wonder if I’ve gone too far. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?’

  ‘Oh Jamie – Luke’s a friend, you know that,’ I say breezily, deliberately avoiding the question.

  ‘Well, good. I mean, I know I have no right to tell you who you can and can’t see . . . but, well, Luke would be difficult to cope with.’

  ‘I understand,’ I reply, though I can’t help feeling a bit miffed that he’s decided that I’m agreeing to not see Luke. He can’t have it every way; the man has dumped me.

  ‘But you’re right about seeing people,’ I continue pointedly. ‘I’ve never been one of those girls who spend their life wallowing. I was never going to sit at home weeping into my wine glass. I know I need to get out there and rebuild my life – a different life. And, you know, have fun.’

  He pauses. ‘Fun?’

  ‘Well, of course!’ I reply enthusiastically. ‘I’m not going to spend the rest of my life howling to ‘I Will Survive’, am I? I’m going to meet new people, do a bit of . . . living.’ The word sounds wonderfully provocative.

  ‘Living?’ he croaks.

  ‘Yep! I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he replies.

  ‘Hmm,’ I repeat.

  Neither of us speaks for a moment and it strikes me that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, the break in conversation feels awkward. When you’ve been with someone for six years, you learn to live with their silences. They’re not oppressive or difficult; they’re part of life. But this is one silence I feel compelled to fill.

  ‘I’d better run. I’ve got a million things to do.’

  ‘Of course. Oh . . . Sam?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I really miss you,’ he says softly. ‘I thought you ought to know.’

  Chapter 23

  So he really misses me. Great. Which does beg the question of why he’s still intending to fly off to bloody South America.

  Despite my niggling frustration, I nevertheless have a spring in my step by the time I reach Ellie’s. Well, sort of. My physical state impedes anything approaching springiness – it’s closer to a trudge. But a cheerful trudge, I’ll give it that.

  ‘You’re more upbeat because you feel you’re winning back some control,’ says Alistair, filling up the kettle as Ellie chases Sophie round the living room in an attempt to win back the mascara she swiped.

  ‘I love it when you psychoanalyse me, Alistair.’

  ‘I bet you say that to all the guys,’ he grins.

  I’d only popped over to drop off the twenty pounds I borrowed from Ellie last night; but she’d forgotten about it, presumably because several billion brain cells were obliterated by the booze she put away. An hour later, Alistair has somehow been sucked into a therapy session.

  ‘It makes sense, though. I hate that the decision to end the relationship was made for me.’ I lean forward to take a biscuit from the tin. It isn’t my first. ‘These hangover munchies are chronic,’ I mutter.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘My girlfriend claimed you hardly drank anything last night.’

  ‘I can’t speak for her, only myself,’ I say diplomatically. ‘And the only thing that would perk me up this morning is plunging my head in a vat of Red Bull.’

  ‘I’ll make you a PG Tips instead,’ he says, splashing boiling water in the cups and leaning against the work surface as he folds his arms. ‘When the end of a relationship is instigated by one party, it’s natural for the other to experience contradictory feelings. Anger, frustration, desperation. Something’s been snatched away from you, without you having any say. So as well as the loss of a person you love, you’ve also experienced a loss of power. The fact that Jamie’s insecure about the idea of Luke being around you has made you feel as though you’ve regained some of that.’

  ‘Should I be paying you by the hour for this?’ I ask.

  He smirks and finishes making the tea. ‘Consider this a freebie.’

  He hands me a cup of tea as Ellie and Sophie crash into the kitchen, giggling hysterically.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Ellie laughs, scooping up Sophie and prizing away a mascara wand, which has already been smeared all over Sophie’s face.

  ‘She’s done a better job than I was capable of this morning,’ I grin.

  Ellie kisses Sophie on the cheek before using a baby wipe to remove her efforts with the make-up.

  ‘Atty Sam, Atty Sam, I going to be a bridemaid,’ she announces.

  ‘Wow! Are you?’ I gasp.

  ‘Alistair’s sister, Cecilia, is getting married,’ Ellie adds, showering Sophie with kisses. ‘And she’s going to have the most gorgeous bridesmaid in the whole wide world.’

  ‘I going to have flowers,’ Sophie tells me proudly. ‘And posh shoes. And I go to walk down the owl.’

  ‘Oooh,’ I reply dutifully, assuming the ornithological reference was a mistake. ‘So when’s the big day?’ I ask Ellie.

  ‘In eighteen months. Which, given that she’s asked every morning this week if the wedding’s today, suddenly feels like a long way away.’

  Sophie dives into the living room and Ellie runs after her.

  ‘So, Alistair – one more question. What else can I do to make Jamie realize he shouldn’t go?’

  He frowns uncomfortably. ‘I can’t answer that, Sam. Only you and Jamie can work out between you whether you want to be together.’

  ‘But it’s not as simple as that,’ I assure him.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘Can I ask one thing?’

  I nod.

  ‘It’s perfectly natural for you to want him back, but it’s also important to stand back and take a look at your relationship as it really was. Was it quite as perfect as you remember? And . . . how can I put this? Are you one hundred per cent certain that getting back together with Jamie is the right thing for you both?’

  I feel stung by the question, unable to believe he has to ask. ‘Alistair, Jamie wasn’t perfect. I’ve never said that he was. I know he had his flaws. God, he would drive me mad on occasions. But no one is perfect. I’m certainly not. And should we be together? Absolutely. Without a doubt.’

  Chapter 24

  I have a confession. One I’d never have made to Jamie; one I rarely discuss with even my best friends, because the last thing I want is anyone feeling sorry for me. I love weddings. No, I adore them. I’m intoxicated by their glorious romanticism and dizzying extravagance.

  The reason this confession is tricky is that I’m in love with a man I know beyond a shadow of a doubt will never marry me. It’s nothing personal; he’ll never marry anyone.

  Jamie is naturally suspicious of the instit
ution of marriage, stating simply that he ‘doesn’t believe in it’, as if he’s referring to the tooth fairy. Given that his parents are still together after thirty-five years, it’s unclear why he takes such a dim view of the concept, but he’ll never change.

  Which I’m relatively relaxed about. That’s relatively. I buy the argument about it being only a bit of paper, and I am aware that almost half of marriages end in divorce. I’m equally aware that this absolute conviction is part of what makes Jamie the man he is. The man I love.

  Yet if you asked whether a tiny bit of me ever hoped he might change his mind . . . well, that’s a different matter.

  Before I met him, I’d assumed it’d be something I’d do one day.

  So when the subject first came up at his friend Bella’s wedding, about a year after we met, it did give me a bit of a jolt. It was a beautiful day and the setting for the nuptials was Liverpool’s most romantic venue: the Victorian Palm House in Sefton Park. It’s a gorgeous domed conservatory in which sunlight glitters through the glass, illuminating your eyes and warming your skin.

  The bride looked unbelievable. She’d lost three stones via a combination of Slimming World and pole-dancing lessons, a pastime she’d embraced so enthusiastically that she’d had a ‘pole’ installed in their soon-to-be marital home. It was slap bang in the middle of their living room so she could practise gyrating without moving from the telly. Curious elderly relatives were simply informed that it was a Grand Designs-style architectural feature, and no one seemed to question why it was the only semi in the street to boast one.

  All was as it should be at a wedding. There was champagne, tipsy mothers-in-law, flirty bridesmaids, a nervous groom, one distant relative in a too-slutty dress, a pushy photographer and the optimum level of high jinks from the ushers.

  ‘What a lovely day,’ I sighed as Jamie and I went for a walk, taking a break from proceedings.