All the Single Ladies (41 page)

Just as I’m thinking the world has finally lost its grip on reality, I’m jolted by the faint ping of a chat box.

Ben’s name prompts a sharp intake of breath. I swallow and set about responding in a manner that I hope is pleasant but cool.

I pause, waiting for him to continue writing. I’m about to give up and write something myself when another line appears.

My heart does a backflip.

With my fingers hovering over the keyboard, I wonder if I should just leave it at that. But something compels me not to. Something compels me to expand.

I hesitate, considering whether to tell him. For a reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel the need to spill my heart. Exactly as I did so many other times, before I screwed things up
between the two of us.

Even as I write the sentence, it surprises me. However, the second it’s on the screen, the second it’s out there, the more comfortable I feel about the idea. There’s a silence.
A long one.

There’s another silence.

I hit return and bite my nail. Am I really telling Ben this because I want a friendly heart to heart? Or is it because I want him to leap in and tell me he’s the man for me instead?

As I type the response, I can’t help dwelling on how much I mean that. On how much I’d love to see him. Next week. Tomorrow. Now.

But, as I hit return and glance at the picture of Jamie and me on the mantelpiece, I know that never seeing Ben again would be the best thing for all of us.

Perhaps it’s that thought that makes me flick to his profile page before I can reason with myself not to. The first entry leaps out and almost bites me on the nose.

Deana has been promoted. And her best pal, Natalie, couldn’t be happier for her.

‘I can’t believe you’re leaving me in this shit-hole,’ she sulks, sticking out her lip as if it requires medical attention.

‘It was an offer I couldn’t refuse,’ Deana says smugly.

The offer, incidentally, is to be Piers’s new right-hand woman. As well as a move to Manchester, it involves a healthy pay rise, something she’s failed to stop gloating about all
morning.

While her promotion is thoroughly undeserved, the idea of Piers experiencing Deana in action – or inaction – fills me with a sense that all is right with the world again. I’ll
give him half a day before her jiggling cleavage loses its novelty value and he has to address the subject of her waxing her legs at her desk.

In the meantime, I’m tasked with finding her replacement. I have already had a brief conversation with Anna, the work-experience girl – who was so shocked and pleased to hear from me
she actually managed to talk.

If she can keep that up – and combine it with her extreme conscientiousness – she’ll be running the company by next September.

The rest of the morning is relatively quiet until, just before lunchtime, a massive bouquet of flowers arrives and Deana leaps up.

‘Oooh! I don’t believe it!’ she hoots. ‘Well, they took their time, but bloody hell, it was worth the wait! I thought they were going to be the sort of blokes who shagged
and ran, didn’t you, Natalie?’

‘Is it for you or me?’ says Natalie breathlessly, acrylic nails clashing as they fumble with the tag.

They read the label and turn to each other in disgust. ‘Bloody hell,’ exclaims Deana. ‘Sam, they’re for you.’

I glance up and it strikes me that Jamie has surpassed himself today. Except, as I open the envelope, I realize they’re not from Jamie.

Obviously, I forget to give Lorelei a ring. The only ring I can focus on all day as the clock inches closer to 11.45 a.m. tomorrow is Jamie’s ring.

All I’ve got to do is leap up from this desk, jump in my car and drive to Luke’s house for that ring – and the man I’ve spent most of my adult life adoring – to be
mine.

Yet a weird force of gravity keeps my backside firmly on my seat. I can’t move. I can’t do anything. As the office buzzes with Christmas cheer and discussions about the most
effective form of nail glue, all I can do is sit here tinkering with paperclips, opening emails and not reading them . . . and logging on to Ben’s Facebook page to read those words over and
over again: Ben Moran is single.

I tell myself that they change nothing. That I can’t let a status update alter the course of my entire future happiness.

The clock ticks on, hour by hour, and I consider phoning people for advice. Even if Mum and Dad hadn’t left this morning for a Warner Leisure break, this isn’t something I feel able
to discuss with them. Julia is in London and while Jen would have some views, I’m sure, I don’t really want them, for some reason. The only person I could even consider talking to about
this is Ellie and when I phone her mobile it goes straight to her voicemail.

At three o’clock my phone rings and I examine the number flashing on the screen. It’s Jamie. But as my finger hovers over the keypad, I can’t bring myself to answer it. The
phone rings off and he leaves a message, his voice sounding urgent and wobbly.

‘It’s me. Sam . . . can you phone me? Sam, I don’t know what else to say. I’m all ready to go but I’m torn in two here because all I want is to come home and be
with you. I want you to walk through this door and tell me you want to get married to me and that you’ll forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, but for all the reasons you tried to
persuade me to change my mind . . . think about changing yours too. Please.’

It’s not the only voicemail I get. About an hour later, Luke phones and leaves a message.

‘Two things, Sam. First, Jamie really loves you. Really. I know he’s been a prat but the guy’s paying for it, I swear. The other thing I wanted to tell you is that I’m
back with Gemma. I dressed up as Richard Gere in
An Officer and a Gentleman
this morning and marched into her office. I shoved my hat on her head and picked her up in my arms. Then I told
her – in front of everyone – that I was in love with her. She told me I was a knobhead. Then she told me that she loves me too,’ he laughs. ‘I can’t believe it, Sam.
She gave me a second chance. I honestly, truly think you should consider doing that with Jamie too.’

My mobile rings repeatedly over the course of the next couple of hours – all calls from Jamie. But I can’t bring myself to answer. I can’t bring myself to do anything but work,
or at least pretend to.

By six o’clock I find myself in the centre of an open-plan room, with only the cleaners for company.

‘Working late again, love?’ asks one, as I stand and move my chair for her to vacuum underneath it – a task she approaches with such vigour she must have biceps like Mr
Incredible under that apron.

‘Afraid so,’ I reply.

She has candyfloss hair in a strange shade of peach and when she smiles she reveals two missing teeth on the bottom row. ‘You work as late as it takes, sweetheart. Take my advice: keep
your head buried in that t’internet.’

‘I shouldn’t be long,’ I tell her.

She pauses and switches off her vacuum cleaner. ‘Me, I put getting married and having kids before trying to get a career.’

‘That’s not such a bad thing,’ I offer.

She rolls her eyes and snorts. ‘Look where it’s got me, girly. Oh don’t get me wrong: I love my kids. But if I had my time again, I’d do things differently.’

I smile. ‘How?’

‘Put myself before any bloke,’ she laughs. ‘What a cynic, eh!’

As she heads off to vacuum up half the contents of Deana’s desk – including two packs of eyelashes – my phone rings again. This time I know I’ve got to face Jamie. I want
to face Jamie. Not least because I’ve got one hell of a lot to say.

‘Is that Miss Brooks?’

I’m jolted by a clipped voice that I don’t recognize. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Margaret Finnegan from Little Stars Nursery.’

I frown. That’s where Sophie goes when Ellie’s at work.

‘I’m sorry to bother you but . . . well, nobody has come to pick up Sophie.’

‘What?’

‘The nursery closes at five forty-five and we’ve tried over and over again to get in touch with her parents but we can’t reach either of them.’

‘Alistair’s in Germany,’ I reply.

‘It was Ms Sanders who dropped her off this morning. We’ve phoned repeatedly but there’s no answer. There is only one other person with authorization to pick her up, and
that’s you.’

A chill runs down my spine. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ I reply, instantly free of the inaction that’s gripped me all day.

Margaret Finnegan politely told me to take my time. By that, she presumably meant twenty minutes would be reasonable. What she probably didn’t count on was the chain of
events that subsequently unfolds; I sure as hell didn’t.

I race out of the building, across to the car park on the other side of the road and into my driver’s seat, where I proceed to start up the car and rocket to the exit. I turn onto the road
that will take me across the city centre, repeatedly trying to reach Ellie on my hands-free while my mind whirrs with macabre visions of Sophie, destitute and alone on the steps of the nursery,
like a Dickensian orphan.

I can tell there’s something wrong with the car before I even get to Smithdown Road, but purposefully ignore the judders and cranks and the fact that – even though my accelerator
foot is on the floor – my vehicle is no longer inclined to go faster than twenty miles an hour.

By the time I’ve turned down Ullet Road and am crawling past Princes Park, it becomes all too apparent that my automotive problems are haunting me again. With the beeps of rankled drivers
ringing in my ears, the car moves in a stop-start fashion, until the stop-start becomes . . . a stop.

‘Oh shit! Oh buggery flipping hell,’ I cry, slamming my hands on the steering wheel.

I leap out of the car and attempt to push it to the kerb, managing to move it about an inch. Then I pick up my mobile . . . but who the hell do I phone? My immediate family are all miles away.
Jamie’s sold his car and Jen’s at work – although, admittedly, she occasionally has her phone on. I ring her and it goes straight to voicemail. So does Luke’s. Could I phone
Ben? Should I? I decide that Sophie’s needs are greater than my romantic torment, and dial his number. It goes to messages.

‘Oh GODDDDDD!’ Then I realize it’s recording. ‘Sorry. Ben, I need your help. I’m on Princes Road and I’ve broken down and I need to pick up Sophie, quickly.
If you happen to get this can you give me a ring? I might manage to get a taxi, of course, but . . . oh . . . it’s just – it’d be great if you could phone.’

I frantically ring the nursery and leave an apologetic message on their answer machine then, with traffic whizzing past, I step into the road and stick out my hand for what I think is a taxi;
but it turns out to be a road gritter.

‘Oh God . . . what am I going to do?’ I whine, trudging along the road and turning back to look for taxis. After five minutes I realize that drastic measures are required. I take a
deep breath and stick out my thumb, thinking of how Sophie is relying on me.

About ten seconds later, a white van with one flickering headlight slows to a crawl. I lean in and am poised to ask the driver if he can take me to Woolton, when I get a good look at his face.
It takes me a second to recognize him; when I do, both our eyes widen. It’s ‘Cunninglinguist’ from the dating website. He grins and winks at me.

‘Oh . . . it’s okay,’ I insist, stumbling backwards as I shake my head. He shrugs and speeds off, leaving my wool-blend trousers caked in more mud than the Dead Sea. I break
into a run; the nursery is miles away but by now I’m convinced running is the only option. Every so often, I look back but the thumb I’ve got stuck out is resulting in no offers
whatsoever.

My veins flood with panic when I realize another car has slowed down.

I’m already regretting this whole idea: anyone who stops to pick up a lone female in the dark has got to be dodgy in the very best case – and an axe murderer in the worst. And
I’m not going to be much good to Sophie if I’ve been chopped up into little pieces and hidden in bin bags across the city.