All the Single Ladies (20 page)

‘Hmmph,’ I say out loud, and am glad, given the fishwifely overtones, that nobody is around to hear. If I’m in suffering alone on a Saturday night, so should
he be. Isn’t he supposed to be tortured?

I tell myself to be reasonable. It isn’t as if I haven’t been out on a bender every Saturday since he left. And the idea that Jamie would wallow in the break-up in quiet solitude was
never likely as long as his musician chums were around – along with an endless supply of alcohol and God knows what else. But what the hell? He’s undoubtedly suffering emotionally from
this break-up so it’s only natural for him to seek solace in a few nights out. I compose another text wishing him ‘a great night’, add a kiss and wait for a response. None is
forthcoming.

So at 10.45 p.m., I turn off my phone, return to my laptop and open up the pages of each of the guys I’d listed as a ‘favourite’. Then I start composing emails. To each and
every one of them.

‘You’ve set up how many dates?’ Jen asks, when I meet her and Ellie for a quick sandwich on Monday.

‘Five,’ I reply matter-of-factly.

‘Five, Sam? Five?’ Ellie splutters into her cappuccino. We’re back at the Quarter. And I’ve passed again on the Lumpy Bumpy cake. Not because I’ve lost my appetite;
it’s more because my willpower has had an unexpected boost with the prospect of five blokes being lined up over the next week. ‘What happened to the woman who was unconvinced by online
dating?’

‘I decided to open my mind,’ I shrug.

Ellie sits back, smiles and crosses her arms. ‘Well, good. This is the right thing to do. So tell us all about them.’

I fill them in on the five men I spent the rest of Saturday night and most of Sunday settling on. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy. Ohnosiree. It was unbelievably time consuming and
I’m absolutely certain that if I didn’t have the looming deadline of Jamie’s flight into the sunset, there’s no way I’d have put in the hours I did this weekend.

Despite there being 427 eligible men within a twenty-mile radius of Liverpool, after extensive research involving chatting, befriending, scrutinizing on Facebook, followed by a short telephone
conversation with a couple, you might find it surprising that only these five were suitable. You might even come to the conclusion that I was being fussy.

Not so. In many cases – many more than my ego was ready for, actually – it was they who were being fussy.

I have had more knock-backs than I was ever prepared for, including several from men who emailed to say they were about to leave the site as they’d just got engaged. The cheek.

At least they had the decency to lie.

One came right out and said that at twenty-eight I was too old as he was looking for someone with whom to procreate. Apparently, once we’d got to know each other then perhaps moved in
together, then got married, at least three years would have elapsed. That would make me thirty-one – six years older than the average woman at the peak of her fertility.

I responded with one line: ‘No problem, you old romantic.’

So that leaves us with Phil, a thirty-three-year-old mechanic; Jonathan, a twenty-five-year-old accountant; Kyle, a thirty-one-year-old salesman specializing in video-conferencing solutions
(whatever they are); Ben, a thirty-year-old vet; and Juan, a twenty-nine-year-old social worker originally from Barcelona.

‘Nice work,’ grins Ellie.

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Jen. ‘Did you say Kyle? A video-something salesman? He asked me out yesterday.’

‘The swine!’ I gasp, outraged. ‘Really? He told me when we got chatting that he hadn’t had any luck on the website.’

‘I cannot believe that,’ says Jen, shaking her head.

‘Before you both get too indignant, may I remind you, Sam, that you’ve lined up five of ’em, and Jen, you were talking about at least two when I spoke to you last
night.’

‘It’s three, actually,’ Jen sniffs. ‘I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket.’

‘I’m sure Kyle feels the same way,’ says Ellie.

‘Well, I’m happy to let Kyle off if he proves suitable to requirements,’ I tell them both.

Ellie narrows her eyes. ‘Sam,’ she says with a note of disapproval in her voice, ‘when I suggested you went out and had yourself a fling – found yourself a boyfriend, or
whatever – I did it because I genuinely thought it’d be good for you to realize that there’s a whole world of men out there. I didn’t just suggest it so you could go posing
round the city with some good-looking bloke on the off-chance you might bump into Jamie.’

I throw her a cheeky smile. ‘Heaven forbid.’

She tuts. ‘Well, be careful. Where have you arranged to meet these people?’

‘Different places. First one’s after work tonight, in the Living Room. I know the bar staff there so will feel safe meeting a stranger. The rest I’m meeting at a variety of
bars and restaurants. In three cases I’m meeting them at lunchtime, again so I can make my excuses and leave early if necessary.’

‘Who is the best-looking?’ Jen asks.

‘Hmm . . . Juan, I think. Though Ben could be a surprise call.’

‘Why?’ asks Ellie.

‘He’s the only one I’m meeting who hasn’t got a picture,’ I tell them.

‘WHAT?’ they splutter, as if I’d just announced he hasn’t got a head.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

‘You are not serious. You’re meeting someone with no picture?’ asks Jen.

‘He sounded lovely,’ I tell them.

‘Sam,’ Ellie begins, exasperated. ‘There’s only one thing that will be guaranteed about this date: he’ll be pig ugly.’

‘Don’t be so shallow,’ I say, pretending I couldn’t care less if he looked like Shrek’s wartier cousin. ‘Besides, I’m sure he won’t be. He said he
hadn’t got round to putting up any pictures yet.’

Ellie and Jen both shake their heads in despair.

‘Look, he was very nice and I’m certain it’ll be a success. I have every confidence,’ I insist, sipping my fizzy water while I try to think of a bloody good excuse to get
out of the date.

I’m torn between: A, my dog has died and I’m too grief-stricken to think about going on a date (he’s a vet, so this one’s bound to appeal); B, my boiler
has broken down and the only time it can be fixed is the time I’m meant to be meeting him; and C, I have developed an unspecified fungal infection.

I opt for B. I mean, that’s fair enough. It might be August but the nights are definitely getting chillier.

When I get back to my desk, I surreptitiously log on to the website, after checking carefully that Natalie and Deana are hard at work with their heads in their magazines. I compose a quick email
to Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger (as he’s become known), asking if we could rearrange the date we’d made for the night after tomorrow – adding casually that it’d be
lovely if he got round to adding some photos to the site in the meantime.

The rest of the afternoon is a whirlwind – not helped by one particular email. It’s from the agent of Liverpool FC’s hottest new striker, a twenty-four-year-old who’s
just signed from AC Milan and is featured in this month’s Italian
Vogue
. This is a man who, under normal circumstances, I’d be very happy to hear from. The problem is that
he’s written to tell me I have competition for the night of Teen SOS’s centenary party. On Wednesday 30 November, the MTV EMAs, the European Music Video Awards, are being held at the
Echo Arena Liverpool. Which means I’m stuffed. Because it will be bursting at the seams with A-listers – none of whom are likely to want to forfeit their ticket to spend the evening on
the other side of town with me, Lorelei and Kevin S. Chasen – no matter how good my canapés.

I have yet to break it to Lorelei, largely because I cannot get a word in edgeways.

‘These canapés you’ve proposed,’ she thunders, her South Wales lilt a long way from the dulcet tones of Catherine Zeta-Jones.

‘Yes?’

‘They’re a frigging rip-off, my lovely. Twelve pounds ninety-five a head for a couple of vol-au-vents? Were the goats that made the goats-cheese tartlets reared in the penthouse
suite at Claridge’s or something?’

‘Well,’ I reply calmly, ‘we use this catering firm all the time and the feedback we’ve had is that they’re excellent value for money. Plus, I know from experience
that the food is—’

‘If you use them all the time I’ll expect a discount. A good one too. We are a charity, after all. Now, where are we up to with Coleen?’ she demands, so loudly I’m
convinced those on the seventh floor of this office must be able to hear.

I take a deep breath. ‘I spoke to Coleen’s agent again yesterday and she’s keen to come, but apparently one of the catalogues she models for may want her to fly to Dubai that
week. But it’s only a maybe. We won’t know until a week beforehand.’ This is all true. I omit to mention that, once Coleen finds out about the EMAs, no one could blame her for
finding our event as enticing as a shindig at Pontins.

‘A week?’ she booms. ‘A frigging week? In which case, my love, with all respect, you need to get someone bigger than Coleen. As a standby.’

‘Actually, I need to talk to you about the issue of the celebrity guest list.’

Trying to keep my voice steady, I fill her in on the EMAs and the implications of the clash.

She pauses at the end. ‘So, basically, your job just got a bit tougher. So what? Like I said, we need a standby.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Did you have anyone in mind?’

‘You’re the expert. Oh soz, luvvie – I’ve got Tokyo on the other line. Sort it for me, babes, won’t you? Otherwise your company’s arse is on the line and your
own personal bum cheeks will be held responsible.’

She slams down the phone.

I take a sip of tea. ‘Anyone got a number for Nicole Kidman?’ I mutter sarcastically. ‘Because my client thinks I should be able to get her here with no budget, no staff and a
mid-priced canapé menu that she still wants a discount on.’

‘Ooh,’ says Natalie, looking up from her
OK!
for the first time in an hour. ‘I don’t mind working that night if she’s going.’

‘Who?’

‘Nicole Kidman. I’ve always thought me ’n’ her would really hit it off.’

Despite the fact that I have arranged only an after-work drink with Jonathan, the accountant, I am outrageously nervous. Which is ridiculous, given that I’m not remotely
interested in him as a real boyfriend – just as a decoy to make Jamie get his act together.

However, dating isn’t something I’ve done a lot of. Not ever. I have stumbled from relationship to relationship, meeting people at university, or through friends, or – in the
case of Jamie – on holiday. I’ve never been one of those people, like Jen or Samantha from
Sex and the City
, who go on dates for dates’ sake. So I’m feeling a little
green about the whole thing.

Although I’ve tarted myself up in the work lavatories for forty-five minutes before I left, I am still desperately early, so loiter around the corner from the Living Room in order to time
my entrance to perfection. I plan to be four minutes late. Jen insisted that it should be at least seven, and Ellie ten, but I’ve gone with my instincts.

I’m about to head in when I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder and spin round to see . . . Jonathan the accountant. Except it isn’t Jonathan the accountant.

This Jonathan is a mutant version of the god-like creature on the dating website; this is a shadow of the gorgeous hunk depicted in the single arty, black and white picture.

In that, his skin was baby’s-bum smooth, his cheekbones were defined and masculine, and his eyes so sparkly they looked capable of blinding you with one look. On a slightly drizzly week
night beside a bus stop in Victoria Street, the reality – the pimpled, gap-toothed, wonky-grinned reality – is somewhat different.

‘It’s Sam, isn’t it?’ he asks, in a voice so squeaky it makes David Beckham sound like James Earl Jones.

The date is not a success, despite my valiant attempts. We find a seat and I tell myself firmly that this could work. It really could. He’s not that bad-looking in the
darkest corner of the bar. And he’s pleasant enough, if a little anxious.

‘Have you been on many dates through the website?’ I ask.

‘A few,’ he confesses, biting his thumbnail. ‘But they’ve never worked out.’

‘Oh that’s a shame.’

‘I say too much. Or give away too much. I have a tendency to put people off relatively early on.’

‘Right.’

‘I have this obsessive-compulsive disorder, you see, and I think that’s part of it. Plus, my therapist says that I’m looking for someone to love me for who I am, warts and all,
which is why I’m so quick to tell people about that. And my breakdowns. Both of them. Even though I’m totally over all that now and am feeling positive and upbeat. Though I don’t
think I’ll ever be off the drugs, but as my other therapist says – she’s the one based at the day clinic rather than the hospital itself – we think nothing of turning to
chemical help when we’ve got a cough and a cold. This is just the same.’

‘I see,’ I say.

‘You don’t mind me mentioning this, do you? I do feel as if we made some sort of connection when we chatted online . . . don’t you?’

‘Erm . . . I suppose so.’

‘That’s the beauty of the internet, I think. You can really get to know someone before you meet them. You can decide if it’s going to be a waste of time or not. I knew it
wouldn’t be with you,’ he says, sucking the straw in his pina colada.

I forgot to mention that. He’s onto his third already and we’ve been here only fifteen minutes. He’s devoured the first two and eaten both chunks of pineapple and both morello
cherries, though he did offer the latter to me. I declined and stuck to Diet Coke so I can drive home.

‘Can I put your mind at rest about something?’ he asks.

‘Of course. What?’

‘The age difference. You’re three years older than me.’

‘Oh I hadn’t really thought about—’

‘I always go for older women.’

‘Really? Why is that?’

He frowns. ‘Younger women are so . . . unbelievably . . . what’s the word?’