‘Well,’ I shrug. ‘Jamie would do that sometimes if something was getting to him.’
He tuts. ‘It’s not a trait I’d put up with. Anyway, Sam, I need to talk to you.’
I feel my heartbeat double in speed, but it turns out that the impending revelation is absolutely nothing to do with me, Jamie or indeed anyone else but Luke.
‘I’m in love,’ he declares, like a bewildered puppy.
‘You are joking.’
‘I’m not,’ he says, grabbing a pack of gum. ‘It’s bloody terrifying.’
I scrunch up my nose. ‘Why the fear? I thought all you wanted was – and I quote – “to settle down and find someone special”.’
‘I do,’ he protests. ‘But I have no idea if she feels the same way.’
‘Have you told her you love her?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘I texted her at half past two on Saturday night, after I’d had a skin full.’
I roll my eyes. ‘How romantic. What did she say?’
‘That I was a knobhead.’
I snigger. ‘Sounds like my sort of woman.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be a good listener. The thing is, she’s friends with a woman I once went out with. Well, two, actually. So she knows about my . . . you know . . .’
‘Sordid past?’
He frowns. ‘The point is that she’s wary. Even though she has no reason to be. I’m interested in nobody but her. I haven’t looked at another woman. In all honesty, I’m worried about myself.’
‘Luke, you’ll just have to play it by ear and see how things develop. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,’ I tell him sagely, feeling like Yoda addressing Luke Skywalker.
I’m heading back to my car when a text arrives from Jamie.
Hey – what’s up? You doing anything nice this week? xx
I smile and take a deep breath. This is his fourth since last night. Which – along with Lisa and Luke’s feedback – brings me to one conclusion about the prospect of more dates with Ben: they can only be a good thing.
So when one of his emails ends with him asking me out again, I don’t hesitate to say yes.
Date number three is at the Taverna, a romantic shabby-chic place in south Liverpool. It’s perfect – except for a small point: we don’t bump into Jamie.
Date four is lunch at Tabac, an arty coffee-shop-cum-bar filled with people putting the world to rights. It’s also perfect – except we don’t bump into Jamie.
Date five is at 3345 next to the Parr Street studios, a second home to musicians and, again, perfect – except we don’t bump into Jamie.
This is despite the fact that these venues are Jamie’s favourite spots, places he’s virtually lived in for the last few years. I’m not saying I expected to see him every time, but I didn’t think once was asking too much.
Even on date six, when I casually suggest a stroll in the park and we detour past Luke’s house (whoops-a-daisy, how did that happen?), he’s nowhere to be seen.
Short of suggesting that the next date takes place in the entrance of Phones-A-Go-Go, I’m at a loss.
Still, I persevere. Although ‘persevere’ is the wrong word because seeing Ben is about as far from the definition of a chore as you could get. He is lovely. This is a conclusion I came to early on and it is reinforced every time I see him. I find it hard to stop myself from telling him this and yet I must. However, I’m conscious that keeping my thoughts a secret is not only a terrible travesty, but it must also raise questions in Ben’s mind.
Not least, why we haven’t kissed yet. On the couple of occasions he’s attempted it, I’ve pretended not to notice; instead, I peck him on the cheek and hastily move on to something else. Giving into it would be a step too far, given how badly I still want Jamie back. But it’s an odd situation, I can’t deny it, and I’m aware that it’s ultimately not sustainable.
Date seven is at a bar in the Albert Dock because I heard from Luke, who is now emailing regularly for romantic advice, that Jamie has gone to a gig tonight at the arena next door. He’s only there for the support act, who’ve apparently kept it more real than the band everyone else is there to see.
I have positioned us at an area of the bar with a panoramic view of the entrance. The prime location means I am quite prepared to live with a defective stool boasting one leg shorter than the others; it’s a fault that’s left me rocking from side to side as if I’m on a playground ride.
But Jamie has singularly failed to turn up for a pre-concert drink.
‘So what’s the deal between you and me, Samantha Brooks?’ asks Ben.
The door pushes open and someone wearing a jacket that looks like Jamie’s makes his way in. My heart loops the loop . . . until I realize he’s thirty-five years older and sporting a toupee that looks as if it crawled into place.
‘Hmm?’ I say, snapping out of it.
‘The deal. Between you and me.’ His eyes are glinting mischievously.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, sipping my drink. ‘What deal?’
He grins and crosses his arms. ‘Well, both of us presumably went on that website to find someone with whom we had . . . chemistry.’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘So have we got chemistry?’
I ponder the question. ‘I think we have. That’s a funny thing to ask, though,’ I smile, raising an eyebrow.
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s been a while since I dated, but that sort of analysis is meant to be a woman’s domain, isn’t it?’ I tease, rocking back on my stool.
‘I’ll admit it’s a new one for me. Then may I ask another question . . . if it’s not too personal?’ It might sound as though he’s going to quiz me about something deep, but it’s said so light-heartedly that I’m convinced he’s about to tell a joke.
‘Ask away!’ I whisper, grinning as I rock forward.
‘I will!’ he responds with a laugh. Then he stops laughing. The light gives Ben’s skin a warm glow and as his eyes gaze into mine it strikes me how badly I wish Jamie was here. To see a man like this looking into my eyes . . . it would’ve sealed the deal.
‘Is there a reason we haven’t kissed?’
I rock backwards on my chair leg, but so violently this time that the stool decides it’s going with me. Momentum gathers as I plunge back with Bugs Bunny eyes, squawking like a strangled flamingo.
As Ben dives forward in slow motion and grabs me by the hand, the stool clatters to the ground. Were karma on my side, I would no doubt bounce up daintily into the safety of his arms, completely retaining my dignity.
Instead, I drag him on top of me until we’re scrambling in a heap on the floor as though we’re taking part in a hideous, bastardized version of Total Wipeout. My skirt has bunched round my thighs and Ben attempts to avert his eyes. Unlike the barman. He gazes lazily at us while polishing a wine glass as if contemplating some sort of modern art installation.
‘Yet another beautiful response,’ mutters Ben, getting to his feet and helping me up. ‘I’d better give up on you, hadn’t I?’ he adds.
‘No!’ I leap in.
‘Oh Sam, I know when to throw in the towel.’ He swaps stools to give me his, clearly considering me not sufficiently responsible to be left in charge of the wobbly one.
‘Don’t throw in the towel,’ I add, panicking. ‘I mean it. The towel should stay where it is. Very much so.’
He looks serious. ‘But . . . where is the towel?’
I swallow, desperately thinking of something to say – or do.
I know there’s only one option. With adrenalin racing through my veins, I stand up slowly, brush down my skirt and tentatively move towards him until I’m so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face.
This man, who could probably have his pick of women, shows a rare flicker of vulnerability. He doesn’t move, not even an inch, while, exhilarated and terrified, my face draws towards his.
‘The towel,’ I whisper,
‘is here.’
Before our lips touch, all I can think of is the fact that this will be the first time I’ve kissed a man other than Jamie in six years – and I’ve forgotten how. I’m suddenly a teenager in a woman’s body. I’m consumed with insecurities about what to do with my tongue . . . where to put my hands . . . whether to close my eyes.
As his mouth presses against my trembling lips, those thoughts melt away. I’m instantly lost in the kiss, the sublime sensation of his tongue brushing mine, the strength in his hand as it presses against the small of my back, pulling me into him. I’m completely oblivious to onlookers. My heartbeat fills the room as his mouth explores mine. Blood rushes through my veins, leaving me tingling with feelings I’d forgotten existed.
When I eventually pull away, I am elated, reeling, a little bit overwhelmed.
‘Hey . . . okay?’ he smiles, his warm fingers wrapping around my hand.
I can only manage to nod and breathe: ‘Okay.’
And it strikes me that my quest to win back Jamie isn’t all hard work, after all.
Chapter 52
Kissing is all I’m ever going to do with Ben, but I still feel guilty. Even though I’m technically doing nothing wrong, I can’t shake the feeling of betrayal. Because, while I’m fully aware that kissing is not sex, I’d forgotten how intimate it can be. It can blow your mind if you let it, and cause sensations that I’m finding all the more intense because it has been so long since I did it with anyone but Jamie.
It’s with these thoughts uppermost in my mind that I prepare lunch at my house for Ben and myself on Saturday, although I’m still tingling from the glorious, mind-blowing kiss he gave me the second he walked in the door.
It isn’t the first time Ben’s been to the house. We ended up back here after our last date, and on that occasion, between the drinks and conversation, he methodically worked his way round the house, fixing all those bits and bobs I’ve never got round to fixing. I was torn between disbelief, gratitude and amusement.
The cabinet door is now perfect. The wonky shelf in the living room is now straight. The curtain rail I’ve been meaning to put up is secured with screws, rather than Blu-Tack. I never asked him to do this; but, since he offered, I felt as if only a masochist would say, ‘Oh don’t worry. I love the wobbly headboard that gives me concussion every time I lie down.’
Today, he’s sorting out the spotlights in the kitchen as I put together a salad.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind doing that?’ I ask, frowning, when he steps down from the ladder.
He brushes his hands and moves towards me, taking me in his arms and gently kissing my lips, sending ripples of pleasure down my spine.
‘Of course not. Why would I?’
His lips sink onto mine again, making my breath quicken and my body melt into his. While I know Ben isn’t pressurizing me to go further, desire seeps from his every pore. I have an undercurrent of concern that this can only go on so long. So I decide to introduce one or two excuses.
‘Where did you go to school, Ben? I don’t think I’ve ever asked,’ I say idly, as I prise myself away from him and toss tomatoes into the salad bowl.
‘Oh just the local comp.’
‘I went to a church school,’ I announce meaningfully. ‘A super-strict one. Strictness is a good thing in my book. It’s certainly played a big part in shaping my values.’
‘Right,’ he says casually. He’s wearing a checked shirt and jeans that make his bum look like it should be framed and hung in the National Gallery. ‘Good for you.’
I add some dressing to the salad. ‘I’m not a religious nut or anything – just old-fashioned about certain things. Very old-fashioned.’
‘I see. What sort of things?’
‘Well,’ I swallow, turning back to concentrate on the rocket leaves. ‘Mainly . . . sex.’
He coughs. ‘Sex?’
‘Mmm. Yep,’ I reply brightly.
‘I see.’ Without even looking, I can tell he’s smirking. ‘So what are you saying? You think sex is evil?’
I straighten my back and turn around, still unable to meet his eyes. ‘Not between a loving and committed couple, obviously. But I think it’s important to wait a while.’
Despite the enthusiasm with which I slip into the role of Ms Pro-Chastity, it’s not an image that those who knew me at university would recognize. I’m not saying I’ve slept with loads of people. Fewer than Ellie and Jen by a long way – though, admittedly, Jen would have the sex life of a Trappist monk if she always waited until the fifth date.
But I can’t claim that before Jamie was on the scene I had a will of iron on this front. When I met someone for whom I had the almighty hots, all it might take was four bottles of Budweiser before my determination to keep it zipped up would disappear quicker than an ice cube in a cup of Ovaltine. To listen to me now, you’d think I’d never been near a set of man bits in my life. Not that Ben needs to know the truth. He can’t.
‘Well . . . I think waiting a while’s fine too,’ Ben says, taking a sip of tea. ‘But I don’t think it makes anyone who doesn’t a bad person. As long as they’re doing it safely.’
‘Agreed. I’d never judge anyone. These are just personal choices. My personal choices.’ I turn my back on him and open a drawer to take out some cutlery.
‘So . . . how do you feel about me kissing you?’ He’s suddenly behind me with his arms round my waist, his still-hot lips tenderly making their way up the back of my neck as he presses his body against mine.
What I feel couldn’t be clearer. What I feel is this: outrageously horny.
But given that I’ve just delivered a speech that gives the impression I have a wardrobe full of chastity belts upstairs, I can hardly let him know. I turn round and let him melt into me. ‘Um . . . absolutely fine with that,’ I manage, as his mouth devours mine and I fight a growing desire for him to lift up my skirt and continue this kissing session on my inner thighs.
Fortunately, I’m saved by the bell. Well, not quite the bell – but my mobile phone, whose ringtone makes me leap out of Ben’s arms.
I pick it up and see Jamie’s number.
‘Give me a minute,’ I mumble, scurrying to the next room as I answer it. I shut the door behind me and try to sound natural. ‘Jamie, how are you?’
‘Hi! Great, thanks,’ he replies. ‘Listen, I’ll be driving past in five minutes and wanted to stop by and get some sheet music for my guitar. You haven’t thrown it away, have you?’
‘Of course not,’ I reply in a hushed tone. ‘Does it have to be now?’
I know I’d wanted Jamie to think I had a new man on the scene, but seeing him at our house is a step too far, surely? The only conclusion he’ll come to is that I’m sleeping with Ben – and given that I’ve gone to the trouble of abstaining, that’s not an impression I want to give.
‘I’m on the way to a practice session with the band and need to get some, that’s all. Why? Are you . . . busy?’ He emphasizes the word ‘busy’ to make it clear that we both know what he’s implying.
‘I am slightly . . . busy,’ I reply, deliberately vague. ‘But if you just want me to have it ready for you . . .’
‘I won’t stay.’ His voice is tinged with sulkiness and suspicion. ‘I’m only round the corner, so if you could have it ready I’d appreciate it.’
When I put down the phone, I haven’t even got time to politely keep Ben abreast of developments. I simply race upstairs to get the music – and to check my make-up is in tact.
The doorbell rings as I’m racing down and, before I can pause to think, I fling the door wide open.
Jamie’s expression is thunderous as he takes the music from my hand. ‘I won’t stop,’ he says, glancing over my shoulder. The wine Ben brought is on the table with two glasses and a bowl of olives sitting significantly next to it.
‘Probably best not,’ I tell him, biting my lip.
Tension hovers in the air before he backs away, looking distraught. For a split sec
ond, I’m not even thinking about the fact that I have another man in my kitchen, a man who’s about to demolish my salade niçoise before smooching with me for the rest of the afternoon. I only want to run after Jamie and say, ‘It’s not what you think. This is all for you! It’s you I want, for God’s sake!’
Then I remind myself that he knows where I am if he wants me. He knows all he has to do is say the word – and I’ll drop everything and be his again.
He knows all that and yet he still backs away down the path, albeit looking like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Chapter 53
‘So did Jamie not see Ben at all?’ asks Ellie, swiping a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.
We’re at a corporate networking event the following Monday at the Tate Gallery in the Albert Dock. The room is a vast white space housing modern art that’s being idly gazed upon by the top team at DLB Harrow law firm – my clients – and their clients.
The evening is going smoothly, especially since no one heard Deana complaining that my request for her to remove her Hubba Bubba amounted to a breach of her human rights.
‘No, but he knew he was there,’ I reply. ‘Ben’s car was parked outside and Jamie could see the wine and olives on the living-room table.’
‘Olives? Ooh. Dead giveaway. That must’ve hurt.’
‘Hey, go easy on that champers, will you?’ I tell her. Ellie only stopped in on her way home from a course in the city centre; I hadn’t counted on her helping herself to half the drinks list. ‘It’s not me paying.’
‘Oh don’t be such a spoilsport,’ she tuts, taking a large mouthful. ‘Anyway, I need a drink. The new class of GCSE students I’ve been assigned are an absolute nightmare. They’d drive anyone to alcoholism. Besides, I’m a valid person for DLV Barrow lawyers to network with, aren’t I? If I need a lawyer in the future they’ll be my first port of call.’
‘DLB Harrow,’ I correct her. ‘And as for you being a potential customer . . . they only deal with big multinational companies or private individuals with more spare cash than the average Russian oligarch.’
All the Single Ladies Page 20
