All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  I shift away and try to concentrate on my wrap. But I become aware of him focusing on my mouth as I take a bite, honing in on my parted lips like I’m starring in one of those old Flake adverts. It isn’t quite the same with pieces of chicken teriyaki.

  ‘So tell me about you,’ Juan breathes.

  I put down my wrap. He hasn’t touched his.

  ‘Um . . . like I said when we spoke, I’m an events coordinator and I live in Allerton.’

  ‘You’ve just split from your boyfriend,’ he says. I nod. ‘Broken heart?’

  ‘Oh I’m all right,’ I shrug.

  ‘You must miss . . . human touch, though. Am I right?’ He’s so close now I can feel his breath on my face – and realize the same must be true for him. I wish I’d passed on the onion relish.

  ‘I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it . . .’

  ‘Until now?’ he says and puts his hand on my leg, squeezing my flesh.

  I freeze and glare at it as several facts whirr through my mind.

  We are in Subway. It is lunchtime. We met – I glance at my watch – twelve minutes ago. Yet this stranger has his hand on my thigh. Who the hell do I think I am . . . Belle de flipping Jour?

  Yet, ridiculously, I don’t remove it. In fact, I don’t move at all. Because – and I return to my original point – he is gorgeous. As sexy as hell. Or maybe I’m just in shock. I can’t decide which.

  ‘You know what?’ he says, moving in closer. ‘I wanted to kiss you the second you walked through the door.’

  ‘Did you?’ I squeak.

  ‘In fact, I wanted to do a lot more.’

  I’m swallowing, my mind and blood swirling, when I am distracted by a voice I recognize instantly.

  ‘Look, babes, when I said I wanted salad, I didn’t mean three poxy bits of cucumber. I want the works: lettuce, pickles, tomatoes, the lot. Oh soz, love – I’ve got Sydney on the line.’ Lorelei Beer is at the front of the queue and I’ve never felt more relieved to see anyone in my life.

  ‘There’s someone over there I need to go and speak to,’ I babble, grabbing my bag and abandoning my wrap.

  ‘What?’ asks Juan incredulously. ‘You’re leaving? What am I supposed to do with this?’

  He points at his crotch to display a bulge that is admittedly magnificent but also – given it’s now only thirteen minutes since we met – inappropriate to a frankly terrifying degree.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ I smile, darting out of the door before Lorelei spots me.

  Chapter 41

  ‘Is that what they call one of those “intimate encounters”?’ muses Ellie, when I phone her on the way home that night.

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘Well, if I was single I’m not sure I’d complain about being propositioned by a tall Michael Bublé with a zip-straining bulge in his pants.’

  ‘It was very sleazy,’ I reply disapprovingly.

  ‘But you stayed?’

  ‘Only for thirteen minutes,’ I clarify.

  Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about what went on today, and what’s been happening to me lately. Since I’ve been single, I’ve started to experience a variety of, well, stirrings. Ones that never happened in the latter days of being a couple. My libido, twisted creature that it is, has decided to kick-start itself at the exact time when I can do nothing about it.

  ‘Imagine what might have happened if you’d stuck around for twenty,’ she sniggers. ‘So who’s next?’

  ‘This is the problem. It was supposed to be the vet – Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger – but I cancelled. At least, I tried to cancel. I requested a read receipt on the email I sent him, asking if we could rearrange, but he hasn’t even read it.’

  ‘So you’re going to stand him up?’

  ‘Oh I can’t, can I?’ I sigh. ‘He might be a minger but he doesn’t deserve that. I’m going to have to go. I might need you to phone me twenty minutes into the date with a fake emergency, though.’

  As it turns out, the issue with this date is not that Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger is in fact a minger. The issue is that he stands me up. The bloody cheek. He’s the one who’s undoubtedly a minger, for God’s sake!

  I come to the realization that this is what’s happened when – after fifteen minutes, a packet of pork scratchings and several tours of the pub – there is still nobody here that fits his description.

  His description being that he’d be wearing jeans, carrying a copy of The Times (corny but effective) and wearing a dark blue T-shirt. Nobody here comes close. Not the two women in the corner still in their Tesco uniforms, not the large group of students next to the loos, and not the elderly gentleman who hasn’t removed his hat or mac. I briefly wonder whether the dark blue T-shirt might be under the mac but decide not to investigate, and give the whole evening up as a bad job.

  As I get home twenty minutes later and pop my M&S meal in the microwave, I can sense my hope about this strategy disintegrating. So far, I’ve had one OCD victim, one pervert (who, admittedly, I fancied), and one who stood me up. If I don’t deserve a medal, I at least deserve a refund.

  I finish my dinner and log on to the laptop to see if there are any other hot prospects – though it’s with a very heavy heart.

  As soon as I enter the website, however, I’m surprised to see that there is a response from Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger.

  Sam,

  Very relieved to receive your email at the last minute. My neighbour Mildred’s cat got run over and I had to step in and help. She’s lived on her own for the last three years (Mildred, not the cat) and was in pieces – she adores the thing. Fortunately, we’ve managed to save her. The point is that I’d been planning to leave a message for you at the pub, but thankfully got this in time. So . . . result all round. Anyway, I enjoyed chatting the other night and would still really like to meet. (Though we need to exchange mobile numbers this time!) I’ll get round to the pix tomorrow.

  Promise.

  Ben x

  Chapter 42

  I’d love to say the dates with Kyle, the video-conferencing salesman, and Phil, the mechanic, are any better.

  They’re not. It’s not that they’re disastrous, only that neither Kyle nor Phil is my cup of tea. Kyle is a little too talkative (I said about three words during the whole date); Phil a little too opinionated (on everything from immigration to breast implants).

  Still, my experiences so far have led me to one conclusion about online dating: despite me finding nobody I’d be able to realistically present as a gorgeous new boyfriend, I have no doubt about why it works for so many people.

  There are definitely women out there who are future soul mates for Juan, Kyle, Phil – and even Jonathan, God love him, though I suspect he’s more likely to meet her on his next stint in the Priory.

  Having said all that, my optimism for other women – including Jen, who so far has been on two dates (with the same person), prompting Ellie to have another round of ‘the talk’ with her – hasn’t materialized into anything for me.

  So, on Friday night, as I log on to the website to check if I’ve had any winks lately, it’s without much hope. I flick back and forth between the dating site and Jamie’s Facebook page, on to which I’ve drifted so many times lately that even I recognize my behaviour as unhealthy. It’s not as if I don’t know what he looks like.

  But, despite telling myself that moping over pictures of the two of us in New York and Ibiza is helping nobody, I can’t stop myself. Particularly when there are updates on his page, such as the one I stumble across tonight:

  Jamie Moyes is friends with Natasha Waterfield-Jones

  ‘Who the hell is Natasha Waterfield-Jones?’ I splutter, scrutinizing her picture. She’s exceptionally pretty and exceptionally thin – two reasons to despise her immediately.

  Moreover, she’s got that look – that slightly grungy bohemian look – that I never quite mastered convincingly, but which I know Jamie adores. My mind swirls with
possibilities before I eventually phone Ellie.

  ‘So? She could be anyone.’

  ‘But she’s gorgeous!’ I whimper.

  ‘So are you!’ she argues. ‘Oh Sam . . . Seriously, you can’t get your knickers in a twist over stuff like this. Chances are, she’s absolutely nobody – she’ll be someone who’s recently started at work or someone he knows from way back. Whatever you do don’t quiz him about it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I tell her. ‘I might feel like a Facebook stalker, but I’m not going to act like one.’

  ‘Put her out of your mind. I’m serious. This is a red herring.’

  She’s right, of course. I know she’s right. And, given we’re not even together, Jamie arguably wouldn’t be doing anything wrong even if she wasn’t. The thought kills me.

  Sulkily, I drag myself away from Facebook and back to my email inbox, where a new one has landed from Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger. It has the subject matter ‘As promised x’ and when I click on the link it takes me to his dating website profile, onto which he has tonight posted several photos.

  I take them in with wide eyes and note that they represent two major surprises. First, Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger is, in fact, no minger. Far from it. And secondly, we have met before. I only wish I hadn’t been holding a bag full of dog poo at the time.

  Chapter 43

  After last Saturday night I can’t even consider staying in, so I’ve arranged to head to Ellie’s for a glass or two of wine, or, knowing her, bottles. But in the middle of the afternoon, I get a text from Julia.

  What are you up to tonight?

  It’s rare for her to randomly enquire about my movements so I phone her.

  ‘Why is sending you a text so suspicious?’ she asks.

  ‘I didn’t say it was suspicious – I said it was unusual, for you.’

  She doesn’t reply.

  ‘Well, come on . . . put me out of my misery,’ I tell her.

  ‘Okay. I invited Mum and Dad over for dinner tonight. I want to discuss Gary with them.’

  ‘Let me guess. You’ve made enough beef casserole for me too?’

  ‘The recipe serves four,’ she says sheepishly. ‘And it’s lemon sole. Plus, I’ve made that raspberry cheesecake you love.’

  ‘What makes you think that me being there will make the situation any better? Besides, I think you’re making more of this than you need to.’

  ‘Sam, I’d be really grateful if you could come, that’s all. You could help diffuse the situation . . . if there is a situation.’

  ‘Fine,’ I sigh. ‘But I need to be at Ellie’s by nine thirty at the latest.’

  Julia lives in an elegant apartment in a converted nineteenth-century villa in Cressington Park – and very lucky she is too.

  The park, a leafy oasis overlooking the river, is set in a perfectly preserved conservation area that still features ornate street lamps and a Brief Encounter-style railway station. The first mansions were built in the 1840s, with fine iron balconies, beautifully proportioned windows and stucco details. And although Liverpool’s fortunes have seen dramatic highs and lows since, these buildings have remained as pristine and robust as ever.

  ‘Come in! You’re the first here.’ She holds open the huge oak door and takes my proffered wine, glancing at the label. ‘Nice choice – it’ll go brilliantly with the fish.’

  I don’t tell her that I only chose that bottle because it had a fiver off at Tesco.

  The only possible criticism of Julia’s apartment is that the kitchen is small. But it’s an insignificant blemish as the rest of the place is as gorgeous inside as the setting outside; it’s all stripped floors and leaded windows, with interesting paintings and knick-knacks she’s picked up on her tours with the orchestra.

  Music is at the heart of this home, from the cello, which sits next to the piano, to the floor-to-ceiling CDs. Julia puts on Alison Krauss, before we head through to the kitchen, where I eat olives and watch redundantly as she simmers sauces and chops vegetables.

  My own cooking techniques are more fluid. If I’m rustling up anything more complicated than an omelette, I look like Animal from Sesame Street, with arms and ingredients everywhere. There are no spillages, conflagrations and strange burning smells when Julia’s in charge. She works so effortlessly she’d make Nigella look like a school dinner lady on her first day, and has everything totally under control by the time Mum and Dad arrive.

  Mum is understatedly glam in Levis and a purple chiffon shirt, her usually unruly hair done up in a loose chignon. Dad’s in his favourite jumper, a maroon cashmere number offsetting the ubiquitous cotton shirt and plain blue tie. The jumper is V-neck. He thinks round-necks make him look like an anarchist.

  ‘What’s new in your life, daughter number two?’ asks Mum. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’

  I shift in my seat as thoughts of my four dates flick through my mind. ‘It’s been quiet really, Mum.’

  ‘I saw you in the city centre the other day,’ Dad pipes up while he’s examining a dish of purple sprouting broccoli as if it’s something that grew on Jupiter.

  ‘Why didn’t you say hello?’ I ask.

  ‘I was on my way to a meeting. Besides, you were with someone.’

  I stiffen. ‘Where was I?’ I ask casually, hoping he doesn’t say Subway. It’s one thing being almost seduced by a stranger, but quite another having your father witness it.

  ‘That bar in Victoria Street. You were going in.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asks Mum, her antennae as effective as anything NATO has. ‘Have you got another man? Frank, you never told me.’

  ‘Apologies, dear. I know you like to keep abreast of my every movement.’

  She returns her attention to me. ‘Tell all.’

  ‘I do not have a new man,’ I say, as my cheeks inflame to a vivid shade of ketchup.

  She frowns. ‘Well, why not? You should be moving on.’

  ‘And you think another man is the answer? I thought they were all bastards?’ I point out.

  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re no good for anything. And a woman your age has some needs, doesn’t she?’ she says meaningfully.

  ‘I don’t want to continue this conversation,’ I splutter, heading to the hob to stir a sauce.

  Julia removes the spoon from my hand. ‘Dinner’s about to be served. Why don’t you all go and sit down?’

  This is the first family meal we’ve had in ages. Mum doesn’t give up on the issue of Jamie, of course, although at least it’s interwoven with other subjects, including her Remington Fuzz Away, Colonel Gadaffi and The Office which, after watching her first-ever episode on UK Gold, she thinks is both highly entertaining . . . and real. Nobody bothers explaining, not least because we’re quickly diverted by her next bombshell: one of her patients at the Women’s Hospital yesterday had been Vagazzled.

  ‘I’m all for celebrating the vagina, but in all my years as a midwife I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Mum says. ‘She was nine centimetres dilated and looked like a disco ball.’

  Dad nearly chokes on a boiled potato. ‘There’s nothing I love more than a detailed gynaecological discussion when I’m midway through my main course.’ Mum flashes him a look. ‘Do carry on, dear,’ he adds.

  She turns to Julia and me. ‘Imagine if Grandma Milly was still alive,’ she continues.

  I can’t help but snigger. ‘Given that Grandma Milly thought you were going to burn in hell for getting your ears pierced, it’s probably not a bad thing she never lived to see the existence of the Vagazzle.’

  Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, Samantha, you don’t know how lucky you are to have grown up surrounded by tolerance.’

  She jokes about it now, but as a slightly rebellious and bohemian teenager, my mum had a hard time being raised in such tyrannically old-fashioned conditions.

  And when Mum and Dad turned up with an adopted baby who wasn’t white, Grandma Milly, who died the year I was born, nearly had heart failure. Fortun
ately, nobody could resist Julia’s charms even when she was a baby and Grandma ended up adoring her, a fact she underlined by leaving her all her jewellery when she passed away ten years later.

  By nine o’clock, we’ve had the starter, the main course, and are tucking into the cheesecake, when it strikes me that not a word has yet been said about Gary. I glance at my watch then glare at Julia. She catches my eye – fully aware of the meaning behind my look – but drops her gaze.

  ‘Well, this has been lovely,’ I say, staring at my watch. ‘It’s a shame I’m going to have to dart off in fifteen minutes.’

  Julia bites her lip.

  ‘Have you got a date?’ Mum asks excitedly.

  ‘Only with Ellie, Jen and some Pringles.’ I look at Julia again. She says nothing.

  ‘That doesn’t sound much good. On a Saturday night too.’

  I sigh. ‘How has my love life managed to dominate conversation – apart from the woman who had her lady bits done up like a Beaverbrooks display?’

  Mum shrugs. ‘You’ve had a lot going on in your life.’

  I look at Julia again, my eyes drilling into her. Enough’s enough. ‘I’m not the only one. Am I, Julia?’

  ‘Oh?’ says Mum, turning to her. The second she looks at Julia, the penny drops. ‘Oh.’

  Julia swallows and goes to stand up. ‘I’ll clear away these dishes, then . . .’

  ‘Julia’s got something to tell you,’ I announce. This might be unfair, but we’ll be here until midnight otherwise. And she has to tell them.

  Julia sits again, a dirty plate in either hand. ‘I . . . I met my birth father.’

  Mum says nothing. She doesn’t even gasp.

  It’s my father who speaks first. ‘And how is Gary?’

  Chapter 44

  Mum frowns at Dad, then turns back to Julia, before clearing her throat. ‘Your biological father has been in touch with us too,’ she confesses. ‘He wanted to explain to us why he’d chosen to make contact with you. I think it’s about more than just the article. You know about his niece dying?’