All the Single Ladies (35 page)

I’m about to navigate away from the site when the familiar ping of a chat box sends my heartbeat racing.

Ben’s picture makes me catch my breath.

It’s been three weeks since I heard from him and the fact that he’s actively contacting me sends me into meltdown, particularly in the light of how popular I appear to be with
arguably the two most important people in my life: Jamie and Ellie.

I hold my breath and compose a response.

His response seems to take an age to pop up, but when it does, I feel a swell of elation. Pathetic, I know.

I smile and type back.

It’s the start of an hour and a half of unadulterated, frivolous chat in which we discuss everything from the most gorgeous woman on earth (Natalie Portman, apparently) to techniques for
unblocking drains. I don’t move from my laptop and spurn the television – unadulterated frivolousness is far more entertaining. I almost get lost in it, until I hear Jamie’s key
in the lock and rapidly but politely tell Ben that I’ve got to go.

‘How’re things?’ I ask, my heart racing as I log off.

‘Great,’ he replies, throwing down his work bag as he comes to sit beside me on the sofa with his arm behind my neck.

I pull back and take a look at him.

His suit’s so crumpled you’d think he’d had it rolled up in his glove compartment for the last three weeks, and the faint whiff of eau de Stella Artois does little to enhance
the effect. That said, I’m so grateful that he’s actually approached me for something vaguely romantic that I don’t care.

‘What about you?’ he asks.

I haven’t told Jamie about Ellie and her problems. I don’t know why; except that getting off your face as often as possible is probably not something of which he’d
disapprove.

‘Yeah – not bad. Busy day at work but—’ And before I get a chance to finish my sentence, he has his lips on mine and is kissing me with the wanton hunger – and lack
of coordination – of a man who’s clearly had at least six pints.

He’s soon on top of me, removing his suit jacket and ripping off his tie. It’s all happening so quickly that I barely know what to do with myself, so I close my eyes and attempt to
think sexy thoughts. Jamie’s running his tongue behind my ear, when the ring of my mobile interrupts us.

‘Leave it,’ he whispers furiously as he fumbles with my dressing gown.

I swallow, and glance at the phone, which is dancing as it vibrates on the coffee table. But, after three rings, temptation gets the better of me. I’ve got to know the score with Ellie.
‘I’ll only be a minute.’

‘Hi, Sam,’ says Jen in a tone I can’t quite decipher.

‘How did it go?’ I ask urgently as I refasten my dressing gown and Jamie stands up, distinctly unimpressed.

Jen pauses, clearly struggling for her words. ‘Oh Sam,’ she sighs eventually. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sure this is temporary. Honestly . . . I really am.
I—’

‘Jen, be straight with me. What did she say?’

‘Sam . . . she doesn’t want anything to do with you.’

The more that certain parts of my world are falling apart, the more I take solace in chatting with Ben. However, after a while it seems ridiculous to make contact solely via
the internet when we live so close to each other. So a week and a bit after Jen’s first attempt to get Ellie to see sense, I meet him for coffee. Then I meet him several times more in the
days that follow. He’s a breath of fresh air.

As ever, we talk about everything and nothing and, although I’m regularly assaulted by flashbacks of the night of the power cut, my overwhelming feeling is this: I’m so happy that
he’s my friend.

Everything seems easy when he’s around, and that is a very good, if increasingly rare, feeling. He occupies a corner of my life that’s constantly bright and sunny. It’s not
that I couldn’t live without him; I’m simply glad I don’t have to.

I never ask about his love life, of course, though my curiosity is all-encompassing, particularly because his female Facebook fans still seem to swoon at his every move.

Ellie is a far less controversial issue, at least between Ben and me. I’ve sounded him out repeatedly about what’s going on and he’s certain that I should be quietly
persistent. And try not to get frustrated about her behaviour, because she’s clearly not thinking straight and is on the defensive. Jen, meanwhile, attempts to chip away, gently raising the
issue of her relationship with me every time she sees Ellie. She wants to raise the issue of her drinking too, but I’ve urged her not to just yet as I know it’d be counter-productive;
Ellie would only fly off the handle at Jen too.

There’s a part of me that feels annoyed about how Ellie’s behaving. But mainly I feel desperately sorry for her. I only hope that she’ll come round: to the idea of speaking to
me and to addressing her problem.

About a week and a half after we started meeting again, Ben and I are walking along Allerton Road, having stopped for a quick drink after work.

‘Sam,’ he says, glancing at me awkwardly. ‘How are things at home? I haven’t asked you for a while.’

I look at him, more shocked at the question than I should be. ‘Er . . . pretty good, actually.’

He smiles broadly. ‘Good. Only you haven’t spoken about things with Jamie and I hoped that didn’t mean anything was wrong.’

‘God, no,’ I say quickly. ‘Everything’s good. It’ll never be perfect, but no relationship is. We’re the same people we were, with all our faults. We’re
both more conscious of them now; both keen to be considerate, I suppose.’

‘Hey, I’m pleased for you.’ He briefly puts his arm round me and squeezes. It’s a friendly gesture – nothing more – but it turns my legs to custard.

Yet I know that the goosebumps Ben gives me are nothing more than that. A quick, if pleasurable, thrill. And I’m not joking about life with Jamie. Frankly, the cooking, cleaning and
flower-purchasing frenzy he went into on his return didn’t suit him. Now we’ve settled into the routine we were in before he left and, while it isn’t exactly knee-quivering,
it’s good. Really.

‘Well, I’d better leave you to it,’ says Ben, clicking open his car.

‘Catch you soon, trouble,’ I say, smiling, as I go to leave. But he grabs me gently by the arm and pulls me towards him in a move that feels dangerously close to being more than
friendly.

‘Can I at least have a kiss on the cheek?’ he whispers. He’s trying to look as though this is a teasing, flippant comment, but his expression wavers.

‘O-of course,’ I stammer, pausing, then I stand on my tiptoes and press my hot cheek against his.

The hand he has on my arm tenses, as if he doesn’t want me to move. And I don’t move. For at least three seconds. I stand and drink in the smell of his skin and feel the heat pulsing
between us.

When I pull away, I can’t look at him. So I mutter my goodbyes and walk away. And as I turn the corner and break into a run, it’s with elation and despair running like quicksilver
through my veins.

I open the door to the house and the first thing that hits me is what a tip it is. I’d love to meet someone who disproves the apparently universal truth that men
don’t see mess like women do. Someone except Luke, that is, whose other imperfections cancel out that quality.

Jamie’s presence in the house has had a similar effect to that of a recently detonated hand grenade. He leaves later than me each morning (his isn’t the sort of job for which you
need to get in at seven to put in extra hours), and in that short period he manages to leave the place like it’s been ravaged by a teething Labrador puppy.

A sports bag has materialized in the hallway – not that Jamie plays any sport – and a mug lies on its side on the dining table, swimming in a circle of cold coffee that’s
seeped onto my direct-debit confirmation for a homeless charity. Presumably, it’s the housework fairy’s job to clean it up.

I take a deep breath. I used to nag him about this stuff. Which was something that never made me feel good, but it was an unstoppable urge that only a partial lobotomy could have prevented.
However, I’m not going to fall into that trap again, because I know where it got me last time.

So I suppress ripples of indignation as I put away the butter that’s been left out all day and wipe away the pebbledash of toast crumbs on the work surface, before traipsing upstairs with
a pile of clean laundry.

I’m putting his clothes away in his drawers when, among a tangle of underpants, I come across some travel documents and realize that they’re the ones from his flight to South
America.

Only Jamie would keep these in his underwear drawer. I shake my head and can’t help smiling as I pick them up to examine them. They’re another reminder of how close I came to losing
him . . . Suddenly, having to put away the butter seems like an infinitesimal price to pay.

I briefly flick through the documents, wondering if I should put them away – or bin them, for that matter – when I realize there are a couple of email printouts underneath.
They’re exchanges between him and Dorrie, who’s been strangely absent from our lives recently. Given that she and Jamie have known each other since they were toddlers – and both
lived in south Liverpool – they would often get together for a drink or two. That hasn’t happened for ages.

It’s only as I’m about to put them back that I read something in one of Dorrie’s emails that stops me in my tracks.

I frown and scan the page, spotting sentence after sentence that makes me prickle with unease, confusion . . . then ugly clarity.

One fact becomes clear: Jamie wasn’t going to South America by himself. He was going with Dorrie. My mind races with possible explanations, but returns to one urgent question. Why
wouldn’t he have told me that?

He and Dorrie are friends who’ve known each other for ever and whose feelings are nothing but platonic.

As I continue to read the practical details of flight times and visa requirements, I’m confronted by too many kisses, too much affection . . . and too much suggestion. While there’s
nothing that proves something untoward, there’s enough to make my skin tingle with suspicion.

I walk downstairs, clutching the emails with trembling hands, my heart hammering, and I am halfway down when I hear the shuffle of Jamie’s key in the door. I sink onto a stair and freeze,
glaring at him and feeling as if I’m having an out-of-body experience.

‘What is it?’ he asks as he walks towards me, his expression contorted with anxiety.

‘You and Dorrie.’

His face blanches.

‘You cheated on me. Didn’t you?’

Time stands still as I gaze at his face and at the bead of sweat that appears on his forehead and travels slowly down his skin. He doesn’t need to respond for me to know, without question,
what the answer is.

When Jamie and I split up, my strategy in the aftermath was to appear calm. Not to shout, scream or cry, but tell him rationally that I loved him and he was making a mistake. I
look at him now, bumbling through excuses as he attempts to explain the unexplainable, and, frankly, rationality isn’t something to which I feel particularly inclined.

Rage rises inside me while his words swirl above us, as flimsy and vacuous as bubbles bursting in the wind. I know without even hearing what he’s saying that it’s meaningless. That
doesn’t stop him trying, though.

‘Sam, it was a mistake. I know that,’ he pleads, reaching out, but I slap away his hands and storm into the living room. He follows me. ‘It hadn’t been going on for long
before I left. A few weeks. It wasn’t years or anything.’

I throw myself onto the sofa. ‘As if that matters!’ I scream, giving him everything my tonsils have got. ‘You were sleeping with her while you were living with me! That’s
all that fucking matters!’

He takes a step back as if I’ve punched him in the stomach. I’m not a big swearer, but there are times when nothing but a proper, gold-plated expletive will do.

‘Can you let me explain?’ he whimpers, perching on the edge of the sofa opposite me. ‘Please, Sam.’

I throw him such a dirty look it almost needs flushing down the toilet.

I attempt to compose my thoughts. ‘You can start by telling me if it’s still going on.’

‘Of course not,’ he leaps in. ‘Do you think I’d have come back to you if it had been?’

I throw him another filthy look. ‘Being with me didn’t stop you getting it on with her in the first place.’

He sighs and rubs his temples. ‘I know, Sam, and I’m sorry.’ He puts his head in his hands. After I don’t know how long, he looks up again and a tear drips off his chin.
‘Please let me tell you what happened. Let me explain.’

As I sit back on the sofa and cross my arms, violent outrage swims through me. ‘Try me,’ I growl.

‘Okay,’ he replies, taking a deep breath. ‘First, let me put it in context.’

‘Context?’

He hesitates. ‘Sam . . . you and I hadn’t been right for ages.’

‘What do you mean by “right”?’

‘I mean we’d been arguing, going in separate directions . . . we wanted different things. More than that, though, Sam, we’d stopped being nice to each other. Don’t you
think? We’d stopped behaving like two people in love.’

I swallow, unable to speak.

He continues. ‘Everything I did was wrong, from staying out too late with the band, to not keeping up with your impossible standards of housekeeping.’

I catch my breath. ‘Jamie, my standards of housekeeping are normal. I don’t ask for much, for God’s sake. Are you trying to say I brought this on myself?’