All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  ‘What are you wearing?’ I laugh.

  ‘Sexy, eh?’

  ‘Do you want the truth?’ I grin, dropping my keys on the sofa and walking towards him.

  ‘Come on, you love it really,’ he says, sliding his arms around my waist and kissing my neck.

  I close my eyes and try to relax. But I can’t shake the strange sensation that if I get too close, Jamie will somehow work out what happened between Ben and me. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it.

  I kiss him on the cheek and head into the kitchen. ‘So, what’s going on? Has the real Jamie been abducted by aliens?’

  He follows me and puts his hands on his hips. ‘I’ve been cooking.’

  ‘Well, it looks inspired . . .’ I reply, spotting a jar of ready-made sauce, ‘by Crosse and Blackwell.’

  ‘Aww! I’m busted! ’

  I laugh. ‘Look, I’m not complaining. This is a whole new you.’

  He throws a tea towel over his shoulder and shrugs, serious all of a sudden. ‘I just want to do everything I can to make this work, Sam. That’s all. I did everything wrong. Now I’m determined to do everything right. And I’m going to prove to you – in case there is any doubt – that you were right all along. You and I, Sam, are for ever.’

  My phone beeps and my first thought is that it’s Ben texting. I’ve heard nothing from him since the horrific events of the weekend.

  ‘Have I got five minutes before dinner to get changed?’

  ‘Take all the time you want.’

  My heart is pounding as I pick up the phone – and find a text from Jen.

  Going on another date tonight! On cloud nine!

  Chapter 64

  I’m lying in bed that night, drinking cocoa made by my boyfriend and reading a book – looking a lot like Sybil Fawlty, minus the rollers and Silk Cut.

  Jamie’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, using his old-fashioned toothbrush, which he insists is more effective than electric ones, despite overwhelming expert opinion to the contrary. When he enters the room, the handle on the bathroom door comes off in his hand. ‘Bugger,’ he shrugs, throwing it onto the floor before climbing into bed.

  It strikes me how much better he looks now he’s happy.

  ‘Our break-up could be the best thing that ever happened to us,’ I say, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Perhaps it’ll make us appreciate how much we mean to one another. I mean, look at you – cooking, buying me flowers. If I didn’t know any better I’d be suspicious.’

  He laughs. ‘It’s as simple and unexciting as this: I recognized what I’d lost.’

  I must admit, there’s a part of me that’s taking some getting used to another change in circumstances. Or maybe it’s the hint of scepticism I retain about how long this perfect version of Jamie will last. Will Stepford Jamie disappear as fast as he appeared?

  Don’t get me wrong: I wish I wasn’t thinking this. It’d be far easier to simply enjoy it. But I can’t help it. It’d be naive to not even think about our imperfections as a couple – imperfections that I can’t pretend never existed. Even though I’ve done a good job of trying over the last few months.

  If I’m entirely honest, our relationship was never this perfect. And maybe it’s the contrast between now and before that makes me realize how long I spent rose-tinting our years together, air-brushing the bumpy bits.

  But bumpy bits exist for all couples, don’t they? To pretend they don’t won’t do any of us any good. It’s with this thought that, as I turn off the light and close my eyes, I am assaulted by a vivid flashback of a time when Jamie was . . . less than nice. And he wasn’t the only one.

  It was a year ago, after he’d recently joined a band called the Bad Scientists. It was an ensemble he stayed with for only four months, until the bass player, a bin man called Ronny, ran off with the lead singer’s girlfriend, a nail technician named Charlene, who gave him significantly more than a manicure and buff.

  Before the Ronny/Charlene debacle, Jamie was convinced that the Bad Scientists were his one-way ticket to success. The fact that he’s thought that about every one of the scores of bands he’s joined over the years – and that it’s happened precisely never – was irrelevant. This time was different, and as a result he devoted as much time as possible to them.

  Don’t get the impression that this enthusiasm manifested itself in intense rehearsals, or endless creative sessions in which their self-proclaimed ‘urban lullabies’ were honed. This manifested itself in going out and getting off their faces as often and as comprehensively as possible.

  There wasn’t a single member of the band who let their modest day-job incomes get in the way of a thoroughly rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. And Jamie, as ever when he’d joined a new band, was in it for the ride.

  I say ‘as ever’ because, over time, I’d got used to his hedonistic binges. They started off as a few drinks after a gig. Then turned into a load of drinks after a gig. Then, over the course of the six years I was with him, his nights of total wipe-out became days of total wipe-out.

  Before I knew it, we’d got into a situation whereby Jamie could switch off his phone and disappear for two days, without me even contemplating phoning the police. I didn’t have a clue where he was, yet he hadn’t gone missing. I’d got used to this enough to be certain that he was in a locked-up pub or someone’s basement or apartment, where he was living the lifestyle of a member of Babyshambles, without the record deal or fan base.

  When he returned to the house, whenever that finally was, he would look as if he needed hosing down and I’d be bubbling with bad emotions. Then I had to remind myself: we’re not married; we have no kids; he’s a grown man and can do what he wants; I have no claims over him at all, so how can I disapprove? The most challenging I ever got was making the odd barbed comment that leaped off my tongue before I could stop it.

  But last June – the day before Grandma’s eightieth birthday – I said more than the odd comment. A lot more.

  Now, Grandma Laura – my dad’s mum – loved Jamie. She died of a heart attack in November, an event as sudden and as unexpected as you can ever say it is for someone her age. She’d seemed in good health and was living a full and enjoyable life right up until the day she died. And one thing’s for sure: she’d have been devastated to know that Jamie and I hadn’t lasted.

  You only had to see him in her presence to understand why she loved him so much. He flirted outrageously with her (to her utter delight, especially when it was around her nursing-home buddies) and would listen patiently to her as if she was the only woman on earth.

  The big family party Mum and Dad had organized at a hotel for her was the day after an average Bad Scientists’ gig. I could see trouble brewing when he refused to get a taxi home with me, instead saying he was having one or two beers with the band. Only he swore – under intense questioning – that he wouldn’t miss Grandma’s party for the world.

  I woke the next morning to an empty bed and a grinding knot in my stomach. After a frantic few hours of failing to reach him on his phone, I came to the conclusion that, yet again, his friends, his band and he himself had all come first. I turned up at Grandma’s party alone and overflowing with excuses.

  ‘Where’s that lovely boyfriend of yours?’ she said as I handed over her gift. ‘He asked you to marry him yet?’

  ‘Not everyone gets married these days, Grandma,’ I told her. ‘And he’s had to go away for the weekend to visit a sick relative. He was devastated not to be here.’

  When he turned up on Monday evening – having been gone since Saturday night – we had the sort of row that shatters glass.

  I’d had enough. So I screamed at him. And not just a little. I’m talking a full-blown slanging match in which I dredged the murkiest parts of my brain to produce the most cutting accusations possible, and flung every one in his direction.

  Urgh. The thought of that night makes me feel ill. Not only because of what Jamie had done, but because of how bitter I’d let myself become as
a result.

  ‘I’ll make it up to her,’ he croaked, trudging up the stairs, reeking of booze and two-day-old clothes. To be fair, he did take her a box of chocolates the following week. And it wasn’t his fault that the toffee ones dislodged one of her false teeth.

  ‘Can’t you sleep, Sam?’ says Jamie suddenly, pulling my thoughts back to the present day.

  ‘Oh I’m okay,’ I tell him. ‘A lot going on at work, that’s all.’

  He leans over and kisses me softly on my cheek. ‘Just as long as you’re not having second thoughts.’

  ‘Hey . . . we’ve had our ups and downs, haven’t we? But I’m optimistic,’ I say truthfully.

  He smiles and clutches my hand. ‘Me too, sweetheart. Me too.’

  Chapter 65

  It takes me a further two days to identify another reason why it’s not entirely easy to slip back into things with Jamie. It isn’t the fact that he’s now bought more flowers, cooked again and cleaned the toilet (even if it was with an Egyptian-cotton hand towel). It’s also not only because I’m waiting for the first crack to appear, as it surely will, sooner or later.

  It’s Ben.

  The rancid feeling that I’ve treated like him crap gets more unpleasant by the day, not least because he hasn’t responded to any texts, Facebook messages or emails. And I’ve sent a few.

  ‘I’m over the bloody moon for you,’ Lisa shrieks down the phone as I drive back to the office after a client meeting on Friday. ‘I knew he’d come good.’

  I resist the temptation to point out that she’s called him an idiot every time I’ve spoken to her for the last four months.

  ‘We’re all made up. Oh, and Dave said that if you decide to get married, his mate has just got a job as head chef of that swish hotel Marco Pierre White’s opened a restaurant in. He’ll knock a few quid off the vol-au-vents I’m sure.’

  ‘Lisa, Jamie and I aren’t going to get married,’ I frown. ‘He doesn’t want to. He’s always been clear on that.’

  ‘He’ll bow to pressure eventually,’ she giggles. ‘We ground him down on this one, didn’t we?’

  Great. Yet another thing to feel uneasy about: the idea that I’ve been the ringleader in a grand conspiracy to domesticate Jamie, a man who, three weeks ago, thought the only worthwhile use for a duster was cleaning his guitar strings.

  When I get to the office, my thoughts are back where they started, and I check my inbox to see if Ben has been in touch. A few days ago, I’d have done this with a flutter in my throat, eagerly awaiting his message. Now I’m resigned to the fact that there’s unlikely to be one.

  Except, as I log on this time, I gasp.

  Hey – sorry I haven’t been in touch. Mad busy at work. How are you?

  I respond to Ben’s email immediately.

  Good, thanks. What about you? How’s your dad’s treatment going? . . . Fancy coffee at some point? xxx

  The last part I added spontaneously – not because I thought it was a good idea, but because not doing so was suddenly not an option.

  He doesn’t respond all day. When he does, with a message I pick up in the evening on my laptop, it’s polite – and clear.

  Hi, again. Dad’s doing really well, thanks for asking (although Mum’s driving him round the twist!). Hope you’re well too. Coffee would be nice at some point, but I’ve got lots on at the moment and so perhaps we should leave it for now.

  Take care.

  Bx

  I swallow and start flicking through his Facebook profile. His adoring female fan base has been on fine form in the last twenty-four hours. And while I’m sure the ball python owned by Tabitha Byron (whoever she is) is relieved to be free of scale rot, I can’t help thinking that sending nine virtual ‘gifts’ and asking Ben to slink in her direction might be over the top.

  I close down my laptop.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asks Jamie, entering the living room.

  ‘Fine – you?’

  ‘Yeah, good. What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Oh . . . you said you were going to do something out of that recipe book you’ve discovered.’

  ‘Did I?’ he frowns. ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Let’s get a takeaway,’ I say, and I’m checking I’ve got some cash in my purse, when the phone rings. It’s Jen.

  ‘Hello, you – how’re things with Dr Dan?’ I might as well get straight to the point as I know this is what she’s phoning for.

  ‘Oh . . . I don’t know,’ she sighs.

  ‘Really? I thought things were going well?’

  ‘They were. They are. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘He seems to want to see me only once or twice a week, and no more. Do you think that’s an issue?’

  I think about this for a second. ‘Well, it depends if you’re happy about it.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. But I’m not going to tell him that.’

  ‘Oh of course – your book. Well, why don’t you suggest going out a little sooner and see what he says?’

  ‘Oh Sam,’ she tuts. ‘I couldn’t do that. I’d be breaking the rules. I might as well get a tattoo saying “bunny boiler” on my forehead.’

  ‘O-kay,’ I say sceptically. ‘Well, what’s your concern?’

  I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. ‘My concern is that he hasn’t asked me out on a Saturday-night date yet, so he could be seeing someone else in between the dates with me. Which, technically, isn’t against the rules because, until you’re engaged, seeing other people is allowed. Except, I don’t want him to. And if he is seeing someone else, it begs the question: why aren’t I his Saturday-night girl?’

  I bite my lip. ‘Do you think you might be thinking about this too much?’

  ‘Obviously. I’m me.’

  ‘How are things when you’re together?’

  ‘Amazing! Nothing less. But that’s when we’re together. I have no idea what he’s getting up to in the meantime. The thing is that I’ve got no claims over him. But no matter how cool and hard to get I am, I’m starting to like this guy. So now I want claims. Do you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘I do, Jen, I do.’

  I grab my car keys and go to leave the house, realizing my head is starting to hurt.

  One thing’s clear: love never used to be this complicated.

  Chapter 66

  ‘Back on the Lumpy Bumpy cake, I see,’ Julia smiles, sipping herbal tea as we sit at a window table in the Quarter the following Monday.

  It’s mid-afternoon; I’m between meetings and so, it appears, is everybody else. The place is busier than ever, with a bustle of coffee drinkers valiantly attempting to resist the cakes.

  ‘It’s a rare treat,’ I insist, negotiating a dollop of cream.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad to see you eating again. Skinny didn’t suit you, Sam.’

  ‘Good, because it’s not a look I have the willpower to maintain,’ I tell her.

  She laughs. ‘Well, I’m thrilled you and Jamie are back together, I really am. You deserve to be happy.’

  I take a bite of cake and glance at my watch. ‘What time have you got to be back?’

  The Quarter is round the corner from the Philharmonic Hall, where Julia is currently rehearsing for the orchestra’s forthcoming tour of China. It’s a hard life.

  ‘I’m okay for twenty minutes,’ she replies.

  ‘Did you want to tell me something?’ I ask, wondering whether I’ll need to be hospitalized if I attempt another cappuccino on top of this cake. ‘I got the impression on the phone that you did.’

  She takes a deep breath and nods, gazing into her tea. ‘Gary phoned yesterday. He got an email from my birth mother.’

  ‘Really? And?’

  ‘She’s apparently decided, after much careful deliberation . . . that it’s best if we leave things as they are.’ She looks up at me with flat eyes. ‘She doesn’t want to meet me.’

  Suddenly, my Lumpy Bumpy cake isn’t as delicious as it was.

  ‘
You’re joking,’ I reply, although I don’t know whether I’m surprised or not. I suppose I shouldn’t be; this is exactly what I feared. After all, we’re talking about a woman who gave up her baby and hasn’t made any attempt to contact her in thirty-eight years. But the approach from Gary made it feel as though there was a possibility. If he was compelled to get in touch with Julia after so long, surely her mother could be tempted too? ‘I’m really sorry, Julia,’ I say, scrutinizing her expression.

  She scrunches up her nose and shrugs. ‘Yes. Me too, actually. Ah well, nothing’s lost, I suppose.’

  ‘You must be so disappointed, though. Did she say why?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Gary was very vague . . . and clearly a bit worried about how I’d take the news.’

  I frown. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course. It’s fine, honestly.’

  However, as she sips her drink, I notice her eyes are glazed and red. And I can’t help thinking that it probably isn’t fine at all.

  My next client meeting is in Chester, where I’m coordinating a big new restaurant opening.

  I’ve left plenty of time to get there, simply because they’re a new client and there’s no faster way to make a bad impression than by turning up scarlet-faced and gasping for breath.

  The journey is going swimmingly: a rare absence of roadworks, no breakdowns in the Wallasey tunnel, a blissfully clear M53 stretching in front. Mika is on the radio, the sky’s cobalt blue, and I’m contemplating how pleasant it is to know you’re in plenty of time for a meeting . . . when something odd happens.