All the Single Ladies (27 page)

Slowing my steps, I continue to guide the trolley and Ben along the aisle.

‘Is this what you were after?’ Ben asks, holding up a Scholl packet.

‘Er . . . possibly. Let me just have a look over here,’ I say, spinning us round as if in a dodgem car and heading back to see if Jamie’s in the next aisle.

As I hurtle past bread makers and slow cookers, breaking into a sweat, I panic that he’s given us the slip. That he’s
never
going to see me with Ben. Another wasted
opportunity!

A dozen imaginary scenarios burst into my mind . . . visions of what I could be doing if only Jamie could see us. Ben could be pecking me gently on the cheek beside the broccoli. Smooching at
the eggs. Kissing my hand as I choose a baguette.

Hang on a minute . . .

The second those thoughts hit my frontal cortex, another engulfs me. What if kissing isn’t enough? I mean, what’s a kiss? A kiss is nothing. A kiss is meaningless! Ben and I have
been kissing non-stop for the past few weeks and what I feel for him cannot be compared with what I feel for Jamie.

What the hell can I do if he spots us together? What can I do that’s going to make a real impression? With fire in my chest, I grab Ben by the hand and thrust the trolley forward, whizzing
past other shoppers and darting up aisles like I’m on
Top Gear
.

‘Sam . . . what’s the rush? You’ve just spent fifteen minutes totally immobile in the books section,’ Ben points out, bewildered.

‘I’m really hungry all of a sudden,’ I reply cheerily, heading back to the toiletries to make a last check. But, as I whisk my trolley round the corner, my plan goes awry.
Significantly.

I can’t work out whether it’s the sound or the impact that registers first. As my trolley rams violently into Jamie’s gut, we come to a catastrophic halt, our food is involved
in a multi-item pile-up, and my ex-boyfriend emits the sort of noise that a vomiting shire horse would make.

‘Jamie!’ I gasp. ‘Are you all right?’ I fling the trolley away – sending it flying across the aisle – and dive towards him. ‘I’m so sorry,’
I say, putting my arm around his back.

He straightens up. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m . . . I’m . . . Who’s this?’

He looks Ben up and down. Ben smiles, unfazed.

‘I’m Ben. Pleased to meet you,’ he replies, holding out his hand for Jamie to shake.

Jamie stares at it for an uncomfortable second, clearly considering not taking up his offer. Eventually, he relents and grabs Ben’s fingers, shaking them with a conspicuous lack of
enthusiasm before he turns to me.

‘How’re things?’ he asks flatly.

‘Fine. I . . .’ Then I look back at Ben and remember my concern only a few seconds ago. Not only am I not even kissing – the act I was worried wouldn’t make enough
impression – I’m huddled next to my
ex
-boyfriend instead of my current one. I untangle myself from Jamie and edge back to Ben.

‘I’m . . . fine,’ I smile and, locking my eyes with Jamie, I defiantly lift up my arm and place it around Ben’s shoulder.

But I’d forgotten how tall he is and I am immediately aware of how stiff and odd it looks – like a young child attempting to befriend a big kid in the playground. Not that that
matters. All that matters is Jamie’s reaction. And Jamie’s reaction is . . . utterly underwhelming.

I grit my teeth, unable to believe how unmoved he is. I remove my arm and return it to my side, feeling ridiculous.

‘Right, well, I’m in a rush. Catch you soon, Sam,’ Jamie says.

‘Yep,’ I croak as he heads up the aisle to examine the back of some Lemsips.

I’m ready to explode with frustration. My mind is filled with the thought that I’ve blown it. I’ve singularly failed to provoke any emotional reaction whatsoever by anything I
did with Ben. Not that I did much.

Cursing under my breath, I’m about to scuttle away and take Ben with me, when Jamie glances over again. Then I spot something on the shelf in front of me – and I’m hit by a
moment of pure inspiration.

‘Hmm,’ I murmur, picking up a bumper pack of Durex and giving it the once-over, then demonstratively flinging it in the trolley. I glance up . . . and realize Jamie wasn’t
looking. Bugger.

With my eyes firmly on my ex-boyfriend, I grab the next thing I see on the shelf: a bottle of lubricant called Play. Jamie looks over. I slowly hold it over the trolley, making absolutely sure
it’s in full view, and chuck it in. Then I realize they have them in three other flavours. So I pick up a strawberry one and throw that in.

I don’t even need to look up at Jamie now to realize I have his attention. His jaw is trailing so far on the floor it’s virtually gathering dust, and my sense of empowerment is
intoxicating. Addictive.

So addictive that I pick up a banana-flavoured lube, a kiwi-flavoured one, a few more condoms and then – the pièce de résistance – something called a Durex Play
Vibrations, which is without question the raunchiest item I have ever seen stocked in Tesco.

‘That’s all, darling,’ I say sweetly, standing on my tiptoes to kiss Ben briefly on the mouth. ‘For now,’ I wink.

Then I push the trolley past Jamie, slowly enough for him to get a full view of my mammoth stash of exotic contraceptive devices and rainbow-coloured bottles of lubrication. As I sail past, his
cheeks are green.

But I pretend not to notice; instead, I march straight to the checkout – where Ben’s hand appears on my arm.

‘What is it?’ I ask, glancing up.

He looks almost stunned. I say almost because . . . there’s something else there too.

‘What was all that about?’

It is anger.

I open my mouth, but don’t know what to say.

‘Sam?’ he says, furious.

‘I . . . I just . . . thought I’d stock up,’ I reply weakly.

He crosses his arms. ‘So . . . a woman who doesn’t believe in sex unless it’s in a “loving and committed relationship” suddenly thinks it’s a good idea to
fill her shopping trolley full of –’ he picks up the vibrating ring between two fingers – ‘these?’

‘They’re for my . . . cousin,’ I say, flustered. ‘She does a lot of . . . um . . . shagging. In her spare time.’

He looks at me blankly. ‘Your cousin,’ he repeats.

I swallow.

‘Sam,’ he says calmly. ‘What complete rubbish.’

‘I can explain,’ I say, blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘I can definitely explain. I’m sure I can.’

He pauses and waits for me to come up with something brilliant. Except I can’t come up with something brilliant. I can’t come up with anything.

So he turns and marches away. I’ve never seen someone more determined to get away from me in my life.

The next few days are a strange time, and not in a good way. Having spent for ever brooding over Jamie, I now find myself with an additional worry – one that actually
makes me feel worse.

At least with Jamie I could take the moral high ground. I could tell myself that I’d been rejected through no fault of my own. The hollow feeling in my stomach now isn’t caused by
rejection, but by all-encompassing guilt.

I might never have envisaged Ben as a real boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t end up liking him. A lot. It’s taken until now to make me realize something I’d
become blind to because of my obsession with getting Jamie back: I’ve used Ben – with a total disregard for his feelings.

Hurting him was the last thing I’d wanted. Yet I can’t deny how deliberate and calculated I’ve been. And in being so, I didn’t stop for a second to think about the
implications.

‘I take it you’ve tried to contact him?’ Jen asks as she sits on my sofa sipping tea, her long legs propped up on the arm. She’s stopped by after work on Sunday to drop
off the
Inbetweeners
DVD she borrowed months ago.

‘Several times,’ I reply. ‘I’ve had only one text back, saying “Don’t worry about it”.’

‘That’s worrying,’ she frowns. ‘What about Jamie?’

‘Jamie’s done nothing but text and email. He wrote me a massive one yesterday telling me how tortured he is, how it crippled him to see me with “that man”, how he
doesn’t know what to do, how he still loves me. Basically, he’s driving me insane. He might say all this . . . but has he come back? No.’

‘So are you going back on the dating website?’

‘I signed up for three months,’ I reply grimly. ‘But I’ve had it with the making-him-jealous strategy. I won’t be logging on again in the near future.’

‘Oh but you should! You never know what might happen,’ she insists.

‘I haven’t been very inspired by the others,’ I tell her.

‘Maybe you’re not looking hard enough. Come on, let’s log on again.’

It turns out my inbox is straining under the weight of unread emails and ‘winks’, most of which come either from Saudi Arabia or from people who look like they spend their spare time
organizing hamster-baiting rings.

Reluctantly, I open the first email. It’s from somebody called CaringGent4U. He’s five foot five, fifty-one and has no picture, which, frankly, is the best thing about his
profile.

I groan and open the next one, from someone called MrLoveRocket.

‘That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever read,’ I mutter.

Jen sniggers.

‘Why are you so upbeat?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘I didn’t think you were seeing anybody.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t. I’m not. But I . . . I fancy somebody. It’s almost as enjoyable.’

My eyes widen. ‘And?’

‘He’s a doctor who’s just started in our paediatrics department. He’s thirty-seven and has eyes to die for and a bum to die for and—’

‘Muscles?’ I venture.

She pauses and looks into the middle distance. ‘Actually –’ she frowns – ‘I’m not sure he has got muscles.’ She shakes her head. ‘The point is
that he’s lovely. And we’ve been for coffee. And he’s asked for my number.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s absolutely bloody well killing me not texting him to ask him out!’ she screams.

I sit back in shock. ‘Why haven’t you?’

‘I’ve been reading Ellie’s book,’ she says earnestly.

‘Ah . . . the dating book.’

‘It’s called
Make Him Fall for You
.’ Not quite the title Ellie had remembered. ‘It says that asking a guy out, or even texting, or in any way coming on strong, is
against the rules. Which I hate. I can’t even tell you how much I hate it. But . . . well, he does seem interested.’

Under normal circumstances I’d argue that that was outdated nonsense, but this is Jen we’re talking about. She needs all the encouragement I can give to follow this strategy.

‘Well, good girl,’ I reply, standing up. ‘Do you want another cup of tea? Stay for dinner, if you like.’

‘No . . . I’d better be off. I swore I’d go to the gym tonight. Thanks, anyway.’

As I see her out and shut the front door, I notice Ben’s scarf hanging next to my coat. I hadn’t realized he’d even left it. I pick it up and hold it to my nose as my mind
floods with an image of him kissing me that sends heat rushing through my body. I think of his face in the supermarket and how angry and hurt he looked. When I think of how hurt he looked it makes
me feel sick. He showed me nothing but kindness and affection and how did I repay him? Urgh!

I take a deep breath and snuggle my cheek next to his scarf, breathing in his smell. Then I close my eyes, noticing as I do how hot and sore they suddenly feel.

Julia phones a few days later to invite me to lunch with her and Gary at the weekend. I tell her I’d have loved to, but I have to work so can’t make it.

‘Anyway, wouldn’t you like to spend time with him on your own?’ I ask.

‘Well . . . I sort of . . . have,’ she confesses. ‘He’s been over a few times. It’s been fascinating. Lovely, actually.’

‘Things are obviously going well, then?’

‘They are,’ she says, almost surprising herself. ‘He’s a fantastic person. And I was totally right about the fact that knowing him doesn’t change how I feel towards
Mum and Dad.’

‘I never thought it would. Though I’m not sure Mum’s convinced yet. Not that she’s mentioned it lately.’

‘No,’ she says solemnly. ‘She’s said nothing to me either. And I must admit I’m avoiding the issue.’

I sigh. ‘I don’t think you can, Julia.’

‘I know. The thing is, the more I see Gary, the more intrigued I am about my birth mother.’

‘What’s he told you about her?’

‘Not much. He’s mysterious. The only thing I have worked out is that she lives in Wales. Or has some sort of Welsh connection – I’m not sure which. Anyway, knowing so
little is difficult to deal with because he’s been so open about himself. God knows what he’s hiding,’ she laughs.

‘Do you think he’s hiding something?’ I ask.

‘He’s respecting the wishes of my mother, that’s all,’ she says. ‘As he said, meeting me has to be her decision, not his – or even mine. It’s bloody
frustrating, though, like an unsolved mystery. The idea that I may never know who my own flesh and blood is . . . Well, it’s suddenly become difficult to deal with.’

‘It never bothered you before,’ I point out.

‘I know!’ she replies, then hesitates. ‘Which is why I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing.’

I frown. ‘What have you done?’

‘Written to her – via Gary,’ she says quietly. ‘He knows where she lives and has agreed to forward my letter to her. I’ve told her I’d like to meet
her.’