I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it. ‘There are some things you just need to get off your chest, I suppose.’
I finally feel able to speak. ‘There’s no other man. I mean . . . there’s just Jamie – and you. Plus a whole lot of complicated stuff going on in my head.’
‘What?’ He blinks.‘You mean I’m the person that’s making you think twice about marrying Jamie?’
I nod.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he mumbles. ‘I mean . . . I want you, Sam. But you’ve got to do the right thing by yourself. You’ve got to follow your heart.’
I nod again. ‘But I need you to know this, Ben . . .’
There’s so much I want to tell him that I barely know where to start. And yet it all seems so contradictory. The fact is that I think he’s the kindest, funniest, most admirable and gorgeous person I know. And he brings out the best in me too. He’s amazing.
Except, while I can think all of these things in my head, I don’t know how to say them without sounding insincere, or shallow, or I don’t know what . . . because of one other crucial matter: Jamie, and my feelings for him.
‘I need you to know . . .’
‘Sam!’ Little Sophie comes running along the hall and grabs me round the legs. I look down at her. ‘I want a lollipop. And Mummy’s too tired.’
My eyes return to Ben and I see him backing away.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he murmurs.
I nod once more, taking Sophie’s hand as she pulls me into the house.
Chapter 89
I don’t know who’s more difficult to get to bed, Sophie or her mother.
Sophie is determined that the pasta dish I’ve whipped up is a poor substitute for a lollipop. Then she becomes hell-bent on rereading The Gruffalo so many times, I’ll be chanting ‘A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood’ in my sleep tonight.
In Ellie’s case, the issue is that sometime after entering the house with Sophie following her, she fell asleep on the sofa and hasn’t moved since.
I don’t want to leave her in charge of a two-year-old, even after Sophie does get to sleep. Not because I think Ellie would do anything actively wrong, but because I’m worried about what she wouldn’t do. If Sophie woke in the middle of the night shouting for her mum, I doubt anything short of a sharp slap around the cheeks would rouse my friend.
I gaze at her on the sofa and wonder how I’m going to pick her up. They do it on the movies all the time: a quasi-fireman’s lift manoeuvre that involves an effortless sweep of the hand round someone’s back and a quick hoist up.
I take a deep breath, grip her round the waist and – grunting like a walrus in the latter stages of a difficult labour – try again to heave her up. Ellie might look petite, but all I achieve is a red face and possible hernia.
In the end, I decide to simply take off her shoes and cover her with a quilt I bring down from the spare room. I spend the next few hours sitting in front of the television – flicking through everything from Ocean’s Eleven to Famous and Fearless – and then my mobile rings. It’s Lorelei’s number.
I take the call and go through to the other room, where I gaze out of the window and watch the floodlit snow dance across the sky and fall onto the grass, creating a perfect blanket.
I barely have anything to say to Lorelei, but as ever she talks and talks. And this time she has something seriously interesting to say. So I listen. And I think. And I wonder . . .
It’s nearly midnight before I switch off the living-room lamp, my head heavy with thoughts as I curl up on the sofa opposite my friend.
I can’t sleep, obviously. I have only hours until Jamie’s plane leaves in the morning and all I can do is let my mind flash with images and words: Jamie’s ring, Ben’s eyes. And another idea, coming from the left field, that there shouldn’t even be room for in my head.
I manage a fitful sleep, one that’s broken when Ellie’s home phone rings at seven o’clock. I let it go to answer phone, but it wakes Ellie.
‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ says Alistair. ‘At least, I’ve landed at Manchester, so by the time I’ve collected my baggage I should be back in an hour or so. Can’t wait to see you both. Bye for now.’
Ellie takes in her surroundings, puzzling over why she’s on the sofa in the living room with me, instead of tucked up in bed. She looks like the worst version of Ellie in the world: she has flaky grey skin, crusty mascara and lips that are dry and peeling. You can tell it hurts to keep her eyes open; her hangover’s going to be so bad today I can almost hear her head banging from the other side of the room. Still, at least she’s in one piece.
‘I need to check on Sophie,’ she croaks, getting shakily to her feet. She stands dizzily and makes her way to the door, then creeps up the stairs. She’s gone for five minutes, reappearing in clean clothes and in the process of removing last night’s makeup with a wipe.
‘She okay?’ I ask.
‘She’s fine – just having a little lie-in. I’m sure she’ll be awake in the next half-hour or so.’
Then her hand drops and she looks at me, her shoulders slumping as her face crumples. She closes her eyes as if the weight of her own self-hatred won’t let her keep them open. I watch silently as she slides onto the sofa and puts her head in her hands.
I don’t say anything.
Honestly, I’m lost for words.
I’m furious with Ellie. Sophie is the most important person in her world and what she did last night was utterly unforgivable. Yet . . . she’s ill. My best friend is ill. Of that I have no doubt.
‘I’m so, so sorry.’ She looks at me with red, waxy eyes, and her puffy skin is wet and salty with tears. ‘I know that’s not enough. I just don’t know what else to say. Shit. I hate myself, Sam. I can’t tell you how much I hate myself.’
The tragic thing about this statement is that I don’t doubt it. Ellie has everything going for her – a great job, an amazing family, a fantastic and warm personality that makes everyone love her – yet she despises herself. And it’s little wonder, this morning. I race over to sit next to her and throw my arms around her, letting her sob into my chest while I kiss her hair.
‘Ellie,’ I whisper, lifting up her chin. ‘You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you? What happened last night . . . that can never happen again. Never.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t deserve Sophie. I don’t even know how it happened. It was meant to be only a quick drink after work, then I had another . . . and I, I lost track of time. I’m the worst mother in the world.’
‘No you’re not. Of course you’re not. You adore her and you’d do anything for her. But you don’t need me to tell you that life can’t go on like this. Not when you’re a mother. It’s not a job that’s compatible with being . . . an alcoholic.’
Her gaze drops to her hands. ‘That’s what I am, isn’t it?’
I nod. ‘But you’re not going to deal with this by yourself, Ellie. You’re going to do it with me, with Alistair . . . and with some people who know what they’re doing. Some professionals.’
‘I can’t carry on like this,’ she murmurs, her face soaked with tears. ‘I won’t carry on like this.’
‘No, honey, you won’t.’
I look up as Sophie’s call drifts down the stairs. ‘Mu-mmy!’
‘I’ll go and get her,’ says Ellie, standing up. Then she turns to me. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. For everything. I know I wasn’t there for you when you and Jamie split up again. I’ve got so much to apologize for.’
‘All I want is for you to sort yourself out.’
Ellie’s face crumples with emotion again. ‘I’m going to. I swear I’m going to.’
I stay for another hour at the house, playing with Sophie and filling Ellie in properly on what’s been happening in my life. When Alistair arrives home and flings his arms around his little girl, he can tell something’s not right immediately. But he says nothing while I’m there.
‘When are you goin
g to tell him?’ I ask, as Ellie shows me out.
‘Right now,’ she says, attempting to straighten her back. ‘So, Sam. What are you going to do?’ She kisses me on the cheek and looks at her watch. ‘If you’re going to make it to the airport to tell Jamie you want to spend the rest of your life with him, you’ve got precisely two hours in which to do it. Or are you going to track Ben down instead?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Oh . . . what the hell should I do, Ellie?’
‘I can’t decide who you’re in love with, Sam. Only you can do that.’
Chapter 90
As I stride through virgin snow towards Cressington Station it’s as if I’m having an out-of-body experience. The street is ethereally bright, with sunlight bouncing off the blanket of whiteness that swathes everything in sight.
It’s the quietest of streets and all I can hear is the crunch of my footsteps and the thunder of my heart as I break into a run, passing the Victorian mansions, cast-iron street lamps and chocolate-box church. There are minutes to go before the next train arrives, minutes before my decision is cemented. But it’s a decision I could still alter, even now.
I can always change my mind.
The words are ringing through my head as my legs get faster, my thighs burn, the sun beats on my face and I arrive, breathless, at the station entrance. I pay for a ticket and head across the iron bridge, running my fingers along its filigree patterns as if it’s a xylophone. I’m halfway when I stop.
I can always change my mind.
I put my arms on the thick iron railings and, with blurred eyes, gaze at the tracks below, my brain loaded with choices.
It’s as simple as this: I can take the train in one direction to Manchester Airport – to Jamie. Or I can take the train in the other direction to Aigburth – to Ben.
Two destinations. Two men.
Which one is it going to be, Sam?
I can always change my mind.
My breathing slows as I step back from the railings and gaze at the perfect winter blue above the horizon. At the world beyond the station, beyond the decision. I look up and think of all the people, all over the world, looking at this sky with a million tiny and monumental decisions to make, just like mine.
I lean over again and I watch silently as something falls from my hand, fluttering like an oak leaf in the wind. My ticket floats towards the tracks in slow motion, so unrushed and leisurely that it’s an age before I lose focus, and only then do I register the shuddering of the bridge. The train below me slows to a stop, and commuters file in and out before the crank of metal sets it moving again.
It’s the train to Manchester Airport. The train to Jamie. Gone.
I fill my lungs with cold air as a tiny candyfloss cloud, so perfect it barely looks real, glides across the sky and my mind rushes with possibilities.
Possibilities that, over the next ten minutes, envelop me in hope. Optimism. And something else. Freedom.
Another series of cranks passes below me, shaking the bridge and making my spine tingle. When the train stops, two people get off. Three get on. I, on the other hand, don’t move. I simply watch as it glides along the tracks, taking with it another possible destiny.
It’s the train to Aigburth. The train to Ben. Gone.
I pull up my collar as warmth spreads through me. Then I walk out of the station, smiling as light blisters through the trees.
I’ve made my choice.
It isn’t Jamie or Ben.
It’s me.
Chapter 91
Dear Facebook friends,
I am going into cyber retirement. Temporarily, at least.
I thought I ought to let you know, in case you were wondering if my profile was suspended as a result of any dubious online activity on my part. It’s all above board, I promise you.
As some of you already know, I’m starting a new job in New York next week, one to which I need to devote every last drop of my attention. And I’m afraid you’re all far too entertaining . . . and distracting. So, for the time being, adios amigos. I’ll miss you!
Sam xxx
A comment appears two minutes later from my second cousin Paige in Perth, Australia.
Sammy – mate! I’ll give ya two days!
Exactly four weeks after the day I stood at Cressington Station, I am on a plane, gazing out of the window. I’ve had twenty-eight days and a manic family Christmas since my decision. With every second that’s passed I’ve become clearer that what I’m doing is right. Even if it’s ripping me in two.
So . . . where do I start?
I put up my house for rent and, although it’s a tricky time of year, an agency found me some tenants who’ll be moving in the week after next. I sold my car, even if the money I got for that wouldn’t have paid for a couple of nice handbags. I handed in my notice and work agreed to let me go a week early. Not that they had much choice, given that Lorelei is one of their biggest clients. And if Lorelei hadn’t got me when she wanted me, there’d have been hell to pay.
It was Lorelei – or rather Kevin S. Chasen – who gave me my get-out clause. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, and one I can’t wait to experience . . . in every way but one. That one being the absence of Ben.
Despite my fear that I’m gambling with the love of a man whom I’ve come to adore and admire, a man my instincts pull me towards with an almost interstellar force, this really is the only thing to do.
And these are my reasons.
I’ve been in a relationship for over six years. But I’ve spent the last few months with my emotions being tugged in every direction – torn between one person and another.
And somewhere along the way it struck me that, before I leap into the arms of a man, as incomparably wonderful as he is, I need to get some things straight.
I need to prove what I already believe: that I don’t need another person to make me content. That being on my own isn’t that bad. That happiness – that vague and powerful notion – comes from myself, not someone else.
When I left the station that day, I phoned Lorelei and accepted the job offer as an events manager for Teen SOS’s head office in New York. Their operation is so big that they don’t outsource their events; they have people in-house. And a six-month contract covering maternity leave has recently arisen. Apparently, I’m the only woman for the job: Kevin S. Chasen is insistent.
Which means that, finally, I get to do something for charity that goes above filling out endless direct-debit forms. And I get to do it in the city I consider the best place on earth.
I take out my in-flight magazine and lean back in my seat, flicking through the pages, but not reading. Because all I can think of is Ben. Ben, who became the only contender for me in the end. The only man I wanted.
So while I’m completely sure I have to do this, it isn’t without risk or sadness. This isn’t easy. It isn’t straightforward. It definitely isn’t the happy ending I expected.
He cried as we embraced at the airport gate, but not as much as me. I’ll miss him more than I can possibly express. Even after minutes apart I can feel his absence so acutely it makes my chest ache.
I realize that we’re about to take off and remember I’ve forgotten to switch off my mobile. I retrieve it from my bag and discover four messages – from Ellie, from Jen, from Julia . . . all wishing me luck.
The fourth is from Ben.
I open it with a knot in my stomach and read the saddest and happiest words in the English language.
Samantha Brooks, I love you x
Epilogue
I’d forgotten how beautiful summer in the UK can be. How clean the air and crisp the sunshine. People thought I’d come back from America with a tan, but I’m paler than before I left, courtesy of a whirlwind six months working – largely indoors – in the heart of Manhattan.
Liverpool, the big city in which I grew up, looks quiet and small by comparison. Yet returning is about as far from an anticlimax as possible. I take the bus into the city and disembark near Hope
Street, passing Georgian houses on Rodney Street and heading down the hill.
I’m still dizzy with jet lag, in that strange twilight state where my bed is the first and last place I want to be. My heart is racing so fast I can barely control my breathing, but I’m trying to keep my cool, just like the last time I was on my way to a date here. I’m two minutes away when my phone beeps. It’s a text from Ellie.
Good luck, gorgeous. Give him a great big sloppy kiss from Jen and me. xx
I grin and put the phone back into my bag. A kiss. Now there’s a thought. One that makes my heartbeat triple in speed.
Ellie and Jen met me off the plane when I landed this morning. What struck me when I saw them was how fantastic they both looked, Ellie in particular.
She’s been sober for six months. She’s still dying for a drink, of course, and assured me on the way home that she could happily stop off for a couple of tequila slammers, despite it being ten past ten in the morning. But she’s determined to beat this problem, taking her membership of AA (not the yellow-van kind) as seriously as her pledge to take one day at a time.
Jen is still in love with Dr Dan and, I’m delighted to report, the feeling is, without question, mutual. He’s asked her to move in with him. Her reaction to this was to take three deep breaths and – brainwashed by her dating manuals – suggest that they wait a while, not rush things. So he asked her again. Five minutes later, she started choosing the curtains.
The girls drove me back to Mum and Dad’s place, where I’ll be staying until next week, when my tenants move out. It’s going to be strange moving back to the house I shared with Jamie for so many years, though if I’m honest by the end of our relationship it felt like my place, rather than ours. Even earlier, in fact – although I never admitted that. Everything from the decor to the food in the fridge was chosen by me and, months after he’d left, it didn’t feel empty without him there. It felt right. As I know it will this time. My place, my space – to do with as I want.
All the Single Ladies Page 34
