All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  Except, by now, it’s not odd. It’s frustratingly familiar. The clang, the long, slow squeak and, to complete the medley, a symphony of jangling that sounds like a demented primate playing the triangle.

  ‘You are joking,’ I splutter, as if attempting to reason with this vehicle has ever got me anywhere.

  As my steering wheel judders, I slow down, flick on the hazard lights and drive my spluttering car up the next slip road. There, I find a spot to park and resign myself to another wait for my knight in shining yellow van. The nice lady at the call centre promises me someone will be here within the hour, but it’s still too long for me to stick with my meeting and I’m forced to phone and make my excuses. Then I sit and wait as cars whizz past, presumably commandeered by drivers who aren’t going to be late for their appointments.

  Despite the plethora of zippy disco tunes on the radio, sitting at the side of the road waiting to be rescued has become one of my least favourite pastimes. I pull my phone from my handbag and log on to Facebook for distraction.

  There’s a status update from Lisa, saying she has ‘just had an amazing bath’ – one of her more scintillating ones – and a succession of bewildering and increasingly irate exchanges about football between various male friends.

  I flick to Ben’s page and start looking through his photos.

  There’s one of him at a pavement cafe in Sydney, tanned and smiling, biceps resplendent as he drinks espresso, followed by a succession of others from a holiday in Greece, and one with his mum and sister, Kate, at a barbeque.

  I’m about to switch radio stations, when the opening bars of a song start . . . and stop me in my tracks. It’s Goldfrapp.

  A flashback of Ben kissing the naked skin on the small of my back floods into my head and I close my eyes, submitting to the pleasure of the memory. Half of my brain is telling me to stop thinking sweet-dirty thoughts about a man I’m no longer supposed to fancy.

  The other half is recalling that convenient advice I read in Cosmopolitan when I was fifteen: fantasy and reality are two separate things, so you should never worry about who you fantasize over, be it Johnny Depp, your old geography teacher . . . Or Ben.

  Except . . . it does matter, doesn’t it?

  It matters that I’m reclining on my car seat, as I sit in a road just off the M53, feeling distinctly fruity about the memory of my former lover doing a variety of unmentionable things to me at three-thirty in the morning.

  My eyes ping open. Come on now – I’ve got to get a grip. Not least because I don’t want the AA man wondering if the cause of my flush is something to do with his high-vis trousers.

  I drum my fingers on the window ledge, wondering how much longer I’m going to have to spend here. Then I flick on to Facebook again, this time determined to keep away from Ben’s page. My good intentions last just seconds: I’d never logged off and a wall post I hadn’t noticed leaps off the screen and virtually hits me on the nose. The message is written by a woman in her early twenties with a cleavage that takes up half her profile picture.

  Hey . . . enjoyed getting to know you the other night. Stay in touch xxx

  I am gasping for air when I phone Ellie and she answers.

  ‘Bloody Facebook,’ she mutters when I’ve filled her in. ‘I had Jen on the phone last night complaining that Dr Dan has been adding as friends a mass of women whose status describes them as “single and interested in men”.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ I say.

  She tuts. ‘The point I’m making is that digital spying is not a good thing.’

  ‘I wasn’t spying; it was all there in front of me. Look, I wasn’t after a philosophical debate . . . I was just phoning to ask what you thought. Does that message sound as if they’re romantically attached or not?’

  ‘Sam,’ she says, sounding slightly exasperated. ‘What does it matter? You’re back with Jamie. Which, as you’ve been telling me and everybody else since July, is exactly where you want to be.’

  ‘I know – and it is. I’m interested, that’s all.’

  She pauses for a second. ‘Why, Sam? Are your feelings for Ben more than you’ve been letting on?’

  I open my mouth to protest, but something stops me answering. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, as a yellow van pulls up behind me. Not for the first time, it’s a sight I’m very glad to see.

  Chapter 67

  Despite six hours having passed, my little fantasy in the car plagues me for the rest of the day. Which is a worry.

  ‘You’re going to have to bite the bullet and get rid of that car, Sam,’ Jamie tells me as I stir the pasta.

  Jamie’s foray into the culinary world turned out to be temporary, as predicted. I’m not entirely upset about this because, frankly, we’ve exhausted every flavour of Chicken Tonight and – although he declared it his own special twist on a classic – I’m afraid it just doesn’t go all that well with mince. Even less well than it went with tinned crab.

  ‘I know. It’s beyond a joke now,’ I mutter, forcing non-sexy thoughts into my mind. It’s surprisingly difficult, given that we’re talking about the condition of my vehicle.

  I take the pasta off the boil and am tipping it into a colander when I feel Jamie come up behind me. He kisses the nape of my neck and I pause, my eyes glazing over. I spin round and, seeing he’s about to walk away to get a beer from the fridge, I grab his T-shirt and pull him back to me.

  ‘Wha—’ he says, as I close my mouth over his, taken over by an overwhelming urge to find an outlet for the funny feelings I’ve been having all day.

  We kiss passionately as Jamie puts his hand up my top and runs his tongue down my neck. I’m in a whirlwind of lust, focusing on none of my surroundings, only the feel of hungry lips on my skin. Encouraged – and clearly a bit surprised – by my enthusiasm, Jamie lifts me up so my legs are wrapped around him. It’s incredibly sexy, yet I must admit I’m slightly worried he’s going to drop me.

  But I can’t think about that for too long. Instead, I think about kisses, lust, strange fluttery feelings. Jamie staggers across the kitchen as our kissing intensifies, then lifts my behind onto the work surface in a move reminiscent of Nine and a Half Weeks.

  At least, he attempts to. In the event, he misjudges our position and plants both bum cheeks on the still-hot ring on which I’ve recently boiled 500 grams of tagliatelle.

  ‘Arrrghhh!’

  A flicker of self-satisfaction crosses his face and it’s evident he thinks I’m in the throes of the world’s most spectacular orgasm.

  ‘My bum!’ I squawk, making it clear that my outburst is not due to sexual ecstasy, but the fact that my buttocks may have been branded.

  ‘Oh God . . . Are you okay?’ he gasps as I scramble to the floor.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, breathless, checking the damage and realizing my yell was more from shock. ‘I think so. Thank God it was off, though. I’m not sure how I’d have explained the burn in A&E otherwise.’

  ‘Shit. Sorry.’

  ‘Hey, it’s okay. Where were we?’

  I kiss him again and am soon back in the zone. We end up on the sofa, my skin tingling as we undress. Yet my need is suddenly so urgent that kisses aren’t enough, even when he’s looking at me as if I’m a woman possessed. I grab him and pull him into me, submitting to the pleasure totally.

  ‘Oh . . . Ben,’ I murmur.

  He freezes and glares at me. ‘WHAT?’

  I attempt to pull him back. ‘What do you mean, what?’ I smile. ‘I want you. Simple as that.’

  His face is thunderous. ‘You called me Ben.’

  The blood in my veins turns to ash as I stare at him, replaying the last ten seconds.

  ‘I don’t think I did,’ I laugh, feeling my cheeks inflame to a colour that matches my buttocks.

  ‘You did, Sam,’ he says, standing up. I can almost see steam tickling his ear hair. ‘You bloody did.’

  He grabs his clothes, and puts them back on, piece by piece.

  ‘I d-didn’t say
“Ben”,’ I stammer, standing in the doorway, never having felt more naked in my life. ‘It was “when” . . . as in when are you going to come? That’s what I meant. I thought I’d ask for an update as to how close you were to . . . you know. That’s all. Honestly.’

  He glares at me as I pick up my clothes and clutch them to my chest.

  He eats dinner in silence; I pick at my pasta, and, with a hammering heart, curse myself, my libido and my horribly vivid imagination.

  Chapter 68

  When Jen walks through the doors at Palm Sugar, every head in the place turns. Which is quite an achievement, given that the bar is wall-to-wall glitz and packed with women who are glamorous, beautiful and have an approach to fashion that’s about as understated as Lady GaGa’s.

  Jen’s wearing a short, sexy, Kirsty Doyle dress that makes her legs appear so long and toned you’d have to look closely to check they’re real. And plenty of men are looking closely, believe me.

  ‘Shall we do cocktails?’ says Ellie, already at the bar. She looks fabulous tonight too, in a green satin dress and high-heeled laceups. ‘I fancy a French martini; what about you two?’

  As the bar tender sets about mixing our drinks, we sit on stools at the bar and Jen fills us in on the latest with Dr Dan, in advance of his arrival.

  Yes, you heard that right. After enough hype to fill an edition of Heat magazine, we’re going to meet the man himself, before he and Jen head off for dinner.

  She still hasn’t had a Saturday night out with him, of course, but this is Friday, which amounts to the same thing. Plus, the fact that he’s agreed to meet her friends – however briefly – is a big step forward, without doubt.

  ‘I’m falling for him. It’s as simple as that,’ Jen says, sipping her drink. ‘I know I’ve said that before but it’s never been like this. I mean it.’

  The worrying thing is that I think she does.

  ‘And the feeling definitely isn’t mutual?’ asks Ellie, with some trepidation because we’re both aware of Jen’s tendency to err on the side of blind optimism.

  She sighs. ‘He talks about wanting to meet “the one” – someone he feels passionately enough about to want to settle down and get married to and have dozens of babies with. When he says it, it’s with an “oh if only she’d walk through the door right now” sigh. And I’m thinking: “Why the hell can’t I be her? Where do I fit into all of this?”’

  I frown and put my hand on hers. Ellie and I are seriously starting to have our doubts about Dr Dan.

  ‘The fact is,’ she continues, ‘that I know exactly where I fit in: I’m just someone to have sex with. He doesn’t love me, or show any prospect of falling in love with me. It’s so depressing.’

  ‘Hello, Jen.’

  The voice is smooth and deep and when we turn round we are confronted by a well-dressed, conventionally attractive but by no means stunning man in his mid-thirties. With no muscles.

  ‘Oh hi, there,’ Jen says, suddenly flustered simply to be in Dr Dan’s presence. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  He kisses her on the cheek and smiles widely. ‘You look stunning.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says self-consciously. ‘Let me introduce you to my friends. This is Ellie and this is Sam.’

  He shakes our hands. ‘Lovely to meet you. Jen’s told me lots about you both.’

  ‘I dread to think,’ says Ellie. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘No, let me – I insist,’ he says.

  Two hours later – an hour and a half after they were due to go off on their own – I must admit I’m finding it difficult not to like Dan. He’s totally affable, unassuming and completely relaxed in our company. There’s something else too.

  He clearly does like Jen. A lot. And it’s about more than sex, whatever she thinks. When she’s speaking, there’s a sparkle in his eyes that is unmistakable.

  ‘Jen’s an amazing doctor, you know,’ he tells Ellie and me. ‘Seriously. She’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Oh stop it – you’ll make me blush,’ Jen laughs.

  He grins and pinches her playfully on the waist. ‘Do you really want me to stop?’

  ‘Well, obviously not!’

  ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ he laughs.

  This is the other thing: these two are good together. They bounce off each other, bantering like old friends.

  When they finally head to dinner, Ellie turns to me and hiccups. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘What – that you’re drunk already?’

  She rolls her eyes and slumps against the bar, tutting. ‘I hope you’re not about to lecture me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s—’

  ‘Up?’ I grin.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs.

  ‘You mean that he’s lovely?’ I ask seriously.

  ‘Yes! How frustrating. You and I are really meant to disapprove of this guy because, from the way things have been going, Jen says he can’t like her as much as she likes him. Except . . . well, tonight I got the impression that he did.’

  ‘I agree,’ I reply. ‘I can definitely see what she sees in him.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she shrugs. ‘Still, no matter how charming, funny and all-round nice he seems, I’m afraid if he messes our Jen around, he’s had it.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I say, clinking her glass.

  ‘You know what I hope, though?’ says Ellie, putting her elbow on the bar. ‘I hope he does like her as much as she likes him. He just doesn’t realize it yet.’

  Chapter 69

  It’s when we’re at our fourth bar that Ellie tells me she’d been planning to go on a detox this week. Only it didn’t really happen. She didn’t need to tell me that last bit, given that I’ve already witnessed her bleeding dry the alcoholic reserves of the city.

  ‘I’m going to do it next week instead,’ she tells me, hiccuping. ‘Or maybe the week after. Sometime in the very near future, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s a good idea. If a little . . . out of character,’ I say, as we head out of the bar and onto the floodlit terrace of Chavasse Park.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she says, hiccuping again and linking my arm. ‘Besides, if I’m going all Gillian McKeith I at least want to go out with a bang.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage it,’ I tell her.

  When we reach the Albert Dock, Ellie proceeds to drink like there is no tomorrow, ordering cocktail after cocktail, chasers and then – at this, I glare at her incredulously – a bottle of champagne, which she splashes into glasses, looking like the demon child of Patsy from Absolutely Fabulous.

  ‘Ellie . . . you must have spent a fortune,’ I say, watching her swaying from side to side. I’m feeling distinctly woozy myself, though I haven’t put away even a fraction of the booze she has.

  ‘It’s only money!’ she grins. She winks at a bar man then perches flirtatiously on a stool. He smiles back. ‘Hello, gorgeous!’ she slurs.

  ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing?!’ I frown, grabbing her by the arm.

  She wrestles away from me. ‘I know! Can’t I have a bit of fun? Anyway, I’d never do anything. I love my Ali more than life itself.’

  At that, she goes from being high on life to being close to tears.

  ‘I really do love my Ali, Sam,’ she says, her lip trembling as she throws her arm around me. ‘And I love you too.’ All of sudden she loses her balance and almost slips off the stool, while her head wobbles so violently I’m convinced it’s going to drop off.

  I rush round and take her weight, lifting her up and helping her to stagger in the direction of the sofas, where she’ll be able to sit down less perilously. But it’s like a doctors’ waiting room during a flu epidemic: there isn’t a seat to be had.

  ‘Can I . . . er, really sorry, but can we sit down for a minute? My friend isn’t well.’ A group of guys step out of the way and help me plonk her down on the sofa. Her head flops to the side . . . and she st
arts snoring.

  ‘Ellie! Ellie – come on, wake up.’ I begin to feel as if I’m starring in one of those ITV2 documentaries about binge drinking and am wondering when the paramedic is going to turn up and someone’s going to show me their boobs.

  ‘Ellie – seriously,’ I add urgently. But she’s out cold. At least, I think she is. Until she hiccups again and a large blob of vomit spews from her mouth and dribbles down her chin onto her dress. I grab a tissue from my bag and wipe it away before anyone can see it. I’m about to try to dispose of the tissue, when something makes me pause and look at her. Really look at her.

  It’s a sight that makes my stomach twist.

  What I see is a woman who’s gone beyond being the life and soul of the party. Someone I’ve seen in this sort of state way too often. Someone who, without me even noticing it, has crossed a line.

  I don’t know when she did it, but there’s suddenly no doubt at all that she has. My best friend is in trouble. It’s a fact that, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve probably known for a long time. And I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do to help her.

  Chapter 70

  Jamie is in a sulk when I wake the next morning. I can tell without even looking at him. Not that he’s been in a good mood at all since Sofagate, when I allegedly called out Ben’s name during sex. I can’t blame him, of course, and I’m cursing myself, even if the story I’m sticking to is that I didn’t actually do it.

  I genuinely don’t know if I did or not, but it doesn’t matter: Jamie is not a happy man. I’ve spent every moment in his presence panicking about this, although I hope he’ll snap out of it sooner or later. He roots around on the dressing table for his keys and I pull the duvet over me, pretending to be asleep.

  ‘You woke me up when you came in last night,’ he announces. ‘I’ve got work this morning.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

  ‘It was nearly three o’clock,’ he adds, and I hear the clatter of keys as he finally locates them. ‘And you used to complain about me coming in late.’