Read All the Single Ladies Online

Authors: Jane Costello

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction

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BOOK: All the Single Ladies
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He frowns. ‘There’s no doubt that it could help. It could be decisive. It could remind Jamie of what he’s missing. It could restore the status quo, exactly as you want,
Sam.’

‘I can sense a but here.’

He smiles uneasily. ‘Look, I hope it works. In fact, I think it might. But sometimes you can do everything right and life still doesn’t go your way. That’s the problem with
people. They can be very unpredictable.’

Chapter 11

For the first time since Jamie left, I no longer feel as though there’s a vacuum in the house. I have no idea why, but the belongings he left behind don’t seem as
redundant as before. Following my afternoon with Ellie, I have a feeling that maybe the small paraphernalia of his life may just stay after all.

I pad into the bathroom and open the cabinet, then pick up Jamie’s only aftershave – a bottle of Armani I bought him last year – and hold it to my nose. It’s not quite
the scent of him; it’s too sharp, without the warm undercurrents of his skin. But it still provokes a gush of thoughts, fantasies, memories.

Memories such as our holiday to Cuba, when he kissed my neck in the swimming pool as I wrapped my legs round him and forgot the rest of the world existed. Our picnic in the shadow of Speke Hall,
when we got hopelessly tipsy and rolled round under an oak tree until the sun set. Or that Christmas Eve when we made blissful love under the tree . . . until the fairy lights caught my ankle and
short-circuited the ground floor.

I put the aftershave back in the cabinet and the door wobbles precariously. Jamie and I have always been awful at DIY; it was one of the main things we had in common. Hence the fact that the
television is strategically positioned to disguise a dodgy piece of wood flooring and the way that one end of the curtain rail is held up by Blu-Tack.

For my part, the issue is down to the chronic time poverty that’s a necessary result of my twelve-hour working days. And, all right I admit it, general incompetence. Which I hate
confessing. I consider myself intelligent and capable when it comes to most other elements of my life, so why I should be so catastrophically feckless with a Black & Decker is anyone’s
guess.

Jamie’s reasons are different. He’s always argued simply that life’s too short to worry about fixing broken shelves. And while I’d certainly never assume that, as a man,
this domain was necessarily his, I can’t help thinking feminism left us with a raw deal on this issue: it meant he could put up his feet and watch the house crumble with a clear
conscience.

I chuckle to myself as I close the cabinet door – and get the shock of my life. The face that stares back at me is a scrap heap of womanhood. My hair is dragged back in a greasy pony tail,
my eyebrows are unplucked, my skin unexfoliated and my lips unmoisturized. My nails look as though they’ve been filed by something used in a prison break.

No wonder nobody tried to pull me last night. And I expected Jamie to stay with this!

I cast my mind back to Ellie’s words: about behaving as though life goes on. Looking happy . . . carefree . . . giving the impression I’m having the time of my life. And, above all,
reminding him of what he’s missing. On current evidence, all he’s missing is a woman whose split ends haven’t been tended to in months and legs that could’ve been knitted
from mohair.

Well, not any more. There is a gorgeous siren under this grooming catastrophe and I’m determined to unleash her.

I set about tackling the worst offences. I wax my legs, appalled by the resulting strips, which I could flog to a toupee manufacturer. I give myself a pedicure, a manicure, then apply a face
mask I bought a year ago but never got round to using.

I negotiate the stairs and hallway in toe separators until I reach the living room, where I examine my iPod, scrolling through the ‘recently played’ list disapprovingly.

‘Everybody Hurts’ by REM. ‘Goodbye My Lover’ by James Blunt. ‘Teardrop’ by Massive Attack. ‘In My Life’ by the Beatles.

No wonder I’ve been depressed. If anyone came up with a compilation called ‘Now That’s What I Call Music to Slit Your Wrists To!’, this lot would be on it. I head to my
study, log on to my laptop and set about deleting them one by one. It’s not easy – I love some of these songs – but it’s for the best.

However, as my iPod is purged of misery tracks, I realize that I’m barely scratching the surface of my cultural influences. Between
The Bridges of Madison County
and
Ghost
and
Truly Madly Deeply
, there are so many weepies in my DVD collection that I’m surprised the emotional strain didn’t lead to me being committed years ago. There are a lot of
romcoms too, of course; except now isn’t the time for those either. I’m not ready yet to spend an evening watching other people falling in love.

I place anything remotely controversial in a box and hide it under the stairs, telling myself it can re-emerge when I’m good and ready. Which a part of me hopes is soon, because the only
DVD left is
Belly Dance Abs Blast
(a Christmas present from Aunt Jill), whose wrapper remains as intact as the rolls on my stomach.

Next, I wander upstairs and open my wardrobe doors, examining its contents and assessing their ability to make me look desirable. Desirable to Jamie, that is, which is a specific ask.

If you asked most men to define a sexy outfit they’d say high heels and short skirts – something significantly more frou-frou than the average woman would opt for. Not Jamie. Jamie
likes combat shorts, slouchy jeans and retro T-shirts. He likes outfits so low-key that, without careful handling, they can look as though they’ve been fished out of a skip.

I’ll admit that when we first met, despite being entirely confident in my tastes, I enjoyed dressing in a way he found attractive; and, at least for a while, my wardrobe took on some
distinctly grungy overtones.

It didn’t last, of course. When you’re a girl who loves high heels, minidresses and slinky black jeans, eventually not even a man will keep you out of them. Still, while ditching
them now would be a travesty, needs must in the short term.

So I set about organizing my wardrobe. My favourite clothes go on one side; on the other go the clothes devoted to attracting Jamie.

And while the vintage hoodies and vest tops have previously been held in little esteem, now I love them more than anything else in here, simply because these are the clothes that are going to
win Jamie back.

Look, you might think this is shallow, or that I’m not being true to myself. But there’s a loftier cause at stake – temporarily, at least – than my addiction to
three-inch gladiator sandals.

Of course, there’s another big difference between the me of today and the me of six years ago: about a stone. I don’t know how or why that weight crept up on me, but it did. The legs
that used to be my best asset are now distinctly blancmange-like around the top and my belly is about as hard as the questions on
Family Fortunes
.

I head to the fridge and survey its contents. The diet had a kick-start the day Jamie left. But while I’ve inadvertently been given a helping hand by my sheer misery, my mission to become
Ms Irresistible is going to start in earnest right now.

I might be thinner but, given that until a week ago I had more orange peel on my legs than a Christmas potpourri, I’ve still got a way to go.

So I throw the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the bin, followed by the Camembert, the squirty cream, the bacon, the chocolate bites and the sausages that individually contain enough fat to
see a herd of camels across the Gobi desert.

Then I head back to my laptop and call up the last email I sent to Jamie.

It’s the longest yet: over six thousand words.

The one I compose now is barely more than sixty . . . and that’s the way it will be from now on. Succinct, easy-going, polite. To the untrained eye, you’d never guess it was an email
between two people who’d just experienced a devastating breakup.

Hi Jamie,

Hope you’re okay. I’m feeling an awful lot better – think I was in shock before. I wondered if you’d be able to pop over on
Tuesday night, so I can sort out some practical matters – bills and stuff. It won’t take more than five minutes. And could you make it before 7.30 because I’m going out
straight afterwards?

Sam x

He sends his email from his phone seconds later.

No problem. About 6.30 then? Who are you out with? xx

I study the two questions and compose my response.

6.30’s fine. See you then. x

As I’m certain Ellie would counsel, sometimes it’s better to leave them wondering.

Chapter 12

Despite the intensity of my feelings for Jamie soon after we’d met, my bliss never felt anything but precarious. As he joined Jen, Ellie and me on the trip, stopping in
Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, I was still aware that our respective destinies were both sealed – and separate. Mine was to return home and win the job of which I’d dreamed for years. His
was to continue his nomadic existence on the other side of the world.

But with three weeks until the end of the trip, Jamie did something that stunned me: he booked a flight home to Liverpool. It was only for a couple of weeks, and to catch up with his family,
whom he hadn’t seen for a year. But I couldn’t help thinking of the one thing I daren’t hope for.

I was experiencing two urgent, aching desires that were violently opposed.

On one hand, there was my imminent interview for a junior events executive position at a big marketing agency in Manchester.

That job was so close I could almost feel the fabric of my slick new work suit, the one I’d splash out on with my first pay cheque. I could almost hear Donna Summer singing ‘She
Works Hard for the Money’ as I strode along King Street to the office. I could taste the first sip I’d have from the water cooler and feel the chill of air-conditioning against my
cheeks. I was Melanie Griffith in
Working Girl
. I was SJP in
SATC
. I was Ally McBeal and a dozen other glamorous overachievers entering a world of plush offices, takeaway cappuccinos
and white wine after hours.

What made it even more exciting was that the environment I was entering wasn’t any old office job: I was going to work in events. Which meant parties, champagne bars, travel. (What I
didn’t know then was that the first few years, before I got a more senior job at BJD Productions, would involve everything from picking chewing gum off floors to manning cloakrooms –
but that still wouldn’t have changed my mind.)

Yet, on the other hand, fixated as I was about fulfilling my ambition, there was also the tornado that had entered my life in the form of Jamie. A man who made me feel like nobody else did. A
man with whom I felt a bond, an intense passion, a raw need that ran so deep it was as if I’d known and loved him all my life.

It was at the homecoming barbeque that Jen’s parents threw for her that everything changed. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine as a hot sun sparkled on our shoulders and a hog
roast sizzled on the lawn to the sound of clinking glasses.

Jen had a new boyfriend. I can’t remember who, but he was undoubtedly gorgeous, undoubtedly had muscles and undoubtedly was ‘the one’. Ellie, on the other hand, was resolutely
single; this was before she and Alistair had even met, let alone had Sophie.

‘You and Jamie really are smitten, aren’t you?’ she marvelled as we stood outside the bathroom, in advance of the wee/gossip combo no trip to the Ladies went without. She was
wearing Capri pants with polka dots, and looked like one of those Pink Ladies in
Grease
.

‘He’s amazing,’ I gushed tipsily. ‘Beyond amazing.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

A voice piped up from behind us. ‘If it means anything, I know the feeling’s mutual.’

I’d heard a lot about Dorrie, but that day was the first time we’d met. She represented a link between Jen and Jamie – having attended ballet classes with the former when they
were twelve and been friends with the latter since they’d lived next door as two-year-olds.

I’d seen a picture of them in a paddling pool; she’d been a skinny and not overly cute child, a description that didn’t still apply. As an adult Dorrie was – is –
tall, Amazonian almost, with clear olive skin and ludicrously long legs.

‘You know,’ she smiled broadly, ‘I’ve known Jamie a long time and I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t know what you’ve done, but he’s a
gonner!’

As darkness fell on a warm evening and the sound of laughter was replaced by an impromptu disco, Jamie and I sat on the grass in a quiet corner of the garden, spectators to a party that would be
talked about for months. I can remember the lead-up to the conversation that would come to change my life . . . it was about fried eggs.

Three nights earlier we’d spent our first night together since we’d returned to the UK; Luke had been away and he’d let us use his spare room. It was quietly spectacular: we
stayed up all night, talking in between slow luxurious kisses . . . and other things.

We slept in until twelve thirty, when I woke lazily to make breakfast. I’d hoped my culinary efforts might produce something resembling those New York breakfasts, with sumptuous French
toast and orange juice so fresh the pips get stuck in your teeth.

Sadly, I was never a master of the fry-up. So while my tomatoes, mushrooms and burnished toast were passable, my fried eggs looked as though they’d been involved in a drive-by shooting. I
was about to bring the plate up to Jamie when he appeared at the door, laughing at my efforts. Then he threw his arms around me.

‘So you weren’t impressed with my eggs this morning,’ I giggled eight hours later.

He grinned. ‘I was totally impressed with your eggs. No woman has ever cared enough about me before to go through an entire carton of eggs to try to get a single one right.’

I shook my head and slapped my hand on my forehead. He peeled it away and kissed me on the lips.

BOOK: All the Single Ladies
6.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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