All the Single Ladies (32 page)

‘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.’

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.

I respond to Ben’s email immediately.

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.

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.

‘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.

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.

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.

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.