My Single Friend (23 page)

‘Two hundred quid and we haven’t even had the big race yet.’ Paul’s eyes are sparkling with glee. ‘Not bad, eh?’

‘You were obviously right about those ears,’ I smile.

He winks. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’

‘Do you fancy going back to the others yet?’ I ask, more in hope than expectation.

‘Why not? Let’s see if any of them have done better than me.’

By the time we reach the others, it’s apparent that the bottle of champagne was a mere apéritif. There’s been plenty to celebrate in our absence.

‘Lucy!’ cries Rachel, her eyes almost popping out of her head. ‘You won’t believe this.’

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Henry’s
brilliant
at this,’ she gushes. ‘He’s backed two winners and had another placed.’

‘You’re kidding? That’s fantastic, Henry. Have you won much?’

‘Well, a bit,’ he shrugs. ‘I won’t be retiring to Bora Bora because I didn’t put on much in the first place. I’m only doing this for fun.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I say sceptically.

He grins. ‘Admittedly, it’s more fun when you’re winning.’

‘Right, Henry,’ says Dominique, her arm still so tightly around Justin’s waist I’m convinced she hasn’t moved it in the two hours since I last saw her. ‘What are you backing for the big race? Because whatever you’re backing, I’m backing.’

‘Oh God, the pressure,’ he laughs.

‘You want to go for
Mister Misery
,’ says Paul. ‘There’s no such thing as a dead cert in the National – but it’s the closest thing to it.’

‘Great horse,’ agrees Henry.

‘Is that what you’re going for?’ asks Dominique.

‘No, I’m going for
River Runs Thru It.’

‘Is that a good one?’ I ask.

‘Well, statistically, it’s got everything going for it: it apparently loves dry conditions like today
and
the weights have been favourable. Plus, I can’t resist the literary reference. I love Norman Maclean.’

‘I have no idea who Norman Maclean is,’ shrugs Dominique, ‘but you seem to know what you’re doing, so it’s good enough for me.’

‘Bollocks,’ says Paul. ‘I saw it in the parade ring earlier and it was so laid back it looked like it’d been smoking pot all morning.’

Henry chuckles. ‘Well, I’m not going to bet my car on it in case you’re right.’

‘I’m telling you
, Mister Misery
– that’s the winner,’ insists Paul.

In the event, we all back at least two horses: I go for
Ebony and Ivory
for no other reason than I used to like the old song. I also quietly put five pounds on
River Runs Thru It
.

By the start of the race, the atmosphere is electric. You can feel anticipation charging through the air as 70,000 people gather round the course and in the stands to watch the horses get ready for the off. This is a race that – like millions of others – I’ve watched on TV for as long as I can remember. But being next to the finish line is an altogether different experience. You can smell the adrenalin, feel the excitement and, as the sun streams across the course, you can almost hear everybody’s heart beat faster.

Paul puts his arm round me and flicks his sunglasses onto his face. Then the starter’s gun fires, the horses pound away and the crowd lets out an almighty roar.

I don’t know how long the four-and-a-half-mile race takes, but it seems to go very quickly. Horses fall and groans of disappointment echo through the crowd. Others drop back, their hopes of greatness over for this year at least. As the remaining horses reach the final stretch, the entire crowd seems to hold its breath.

To my amazement – for the first time
ever
– both of my horses appear to be serious contenders.
River Runs Thru It
is giving a steady run in fourth place, while
Ebony and Ivory
is fighting for a place at the front with
Mister Misery
.

The voice of the BBC commentator becomes so animated he sounds as if he’s been inhaling helium, and as the horses belt to the finishing line, it is almost too much to bear. The crowd is roaring and jumping, and as the horses battle each other with literally metres to go, I have to remind myself to breathe. With seconds before the finish,
Mister Misery
looks certain to win; only a miracle would change the outcome now.

But in the last few seconds, a miracle does occur.
River Runs Thru It
summons a surge of energy so impressive it’s as if someone has injected him with Red Bull.

He belts towards the finish, past
Ebony and Ivory
and nose-to-nose with
Mister Misery
. As the two of them cross the line, there is a hum in the crowd as everyone looks round, bewildered. Who won?

‘The winner is . . .
River Runs Thru It
,’ confirms the commentator as an earsplitting cheer surges through the racecourse. ‘Followed by
Mister Misery
in second,
Ebony and Ivory
in third and
Forrest Rule
in fourth.’

‘Bastard,’ mutters Paul, shaking his head.

It’s not clear if he’s referring to his horse or Henry.

The rest of the afternoon is as close to the definition of pure enjoyment as you can get. We laugh, drink and cheer our way through the final two races before stepping on a packed but merry train to the city centre. No one cares when their toes are pulverized by wobbly stilettos or their hat falls off and ends up looking as if it’s been through a car wash. We ought to stop drinking and go home to a cup of cocoa, but the city’s nightlife is too seductive.

As the train pulls into a station to let a couple off, I glance at Dominique and Justin. Their arms are wrapped round a pole – and each other – with their eyes locked in mutual adoration. Dominique catches me looking at her. ‘You okay?’ she mouths.

I nod and smile. As Justin pulls her tighter, I know I don’t have to ask her the same.

Rachel, meanwhile, is resting her head drunkenly on Henry’s shoulder two seats away from where Paul and I are sitting, holding hands. I can’t see Henry’s face as a woman wearing a hat the size of a Notting Hill Carnival headdress is blocking his way. But from Rachel’s expression, I’d say her pheromones were doing overtime.

‘What’s the plan when we get to Liverpool?’ asks Carl, resting his arm on the back of the seat behind Erin. It is clear that Carl is keener on Erin than she is on him, only she’s too nice to give anything but the subtlest brush-off. As she registers his arm, she bends forward to pick up her bag, rustling round in it then checking her mobile for non-existent messages.

‘Everywhere will be packed,’ I say.

‘Let’s go to Mathew Street,’ suggests Paul.

I’m sceptical. ‘Have you seen how mobbed Mathew Street is after the Grand National? Last time I tried it I spent a week dreaming I was being transported to France for slaughter.’

‘Everywhere will be mobbed,’ Paul states.

‘Yes, but Lucy’s right,’ says Dominique. ‘Mathew Street’s in another league on nights like tonight.’

‘How about that piano bar off Victoria Street?’ Henry says suddenly. ‘Dominique, don’t you know the owners?’

‘Brilliant!’ exclaims Erin.

‘I can’t stand it in there,’ mutters Paul.

I smile at him uncertainly. ‘At least we know we’ll get in.’

Before he has a chance to protest, Dominique is on her mobile, organizing the rest of the night.

An hour later, we’ve bypassed the queue, thanks to Dominique’s efforts. The place is almost unrecognizable: what’s normally a low-key piano bar is heaving with people fresh from the races – though given that the party started for most of them before noon, perhaps ‘fresh’ isn’t the right word.

As Henry takes my wine and passes it to me, I am struck by the look on the barmaid’s face. It’s remarkably similar to Rachel’s. She fancies Henry – it couldn’t be clearer.

‘Take one for yourself,’ he smiles, as he hands over a couple of notes.

Her hand lingers and her eyes, flashing and flirtatious, meet his. She’s gorgeous. Dressed in a black wraparound shirt and with long, caramel-coloured hair against creamy skin, she is the sort of woman whose sole experience of zits is to walk past the tubes of Clearasil in Boots.

Yet, here she is, making blatant eyes at Henry.
Unbelievable
.

As she returns with his change and hands it back with an amorous smile, something else strikes me that’s also unbelievable. Henry’s smiling back, holding her gaze.

Christ, he’s flirting.

After what feels like an age, he turns to me. ‘Have you had a good day?’

I snap out of my trance. ‘I have. Though not as good as you. When did you become such an expert at horse racing?’

‘Never,’ he assures me. ‘It’s pure luck.’

‘Well, Lady Luck was obviously looking at you with generous eyes today. Although I don’t think that’s the only lady looking at you at the moment.’

‘What? Oh, let me get that for you . . .’

A passing race-goer has dropped her handbag. Henry bends down to pick it up. As she takes the bag, she registers his face and pauses.

‘Oh, thanks.’ She smiles coyly.

‘A pleasure.’ Henry smiles back.

The woman flicks back her chestnut curls with an enticing pout.

‘Thanks for the drink, Henry,’ interrupts a voice, which turns out to be Rachel’s. With her eyes drilling into those of Handbag Woman, whom she immediately recognizes as a pretender to her role, she flings her arm round his waist. She’s trying her best to look casual – but I suspect she wishes that Henry could be electronically tagged.

The evening passes so quickly, it’s as if someone has pressed fast forward. Our day out began at eleven-thirty but, before I know it, it’s one in the morning and we’re still going strong. I’ve perked up since earlier in the evening when, before we ordered bar snacks to refuel, my body was begging for mercy. Now I have a second wind and feel as if I could carry on until dawn.

‘Dominique talks a lot about you,’ Justin tells me as he takes a slug of beer. Dominique and the others are chatting to one of her work contacts so it’s the first time I’ve spoken to him alone. So far, we’ve talked horse racing, my (permanently-lapsed) gym membership and whether cocktails are only for girls (he thinks so, unless you’re in the Bahamas).

‘She talks a fair bit about you too,’ I reply.

‘She’s a nice girl,’ he says.

I scrutinize his expression. ‘Nice’ isn’t quite the adjective I was looking for. Dominique is as close to being serious about this bloke as she’s ever been, so I was expecting something more effusive. ‘Devastatingly wonderful’ would do. ‘The woman of my dreams’ at a push. ‘Nice’? No.

‘Of course,
you’re
a nice girl, too,’ he smirks.

I smile uneasily.

‘Hello, Lover,’ says Dominique, appearing from nowhere. He leans into her and kisses her slowly on the lips. When they part, she turns to me and grins. ‘God, I’m a lucky girl, aren’t I?’

Rachel has successfully kept Henry to herself for the last hour and when I catch up with them, she’s in a giggly mood.

‘Is Henry a good flatmate?’ she grins.

‘Oh, he’s a nightmare,’ I say. ‘Don’t let his easygoing charm deceive you, Rachel. He’s very challenging when he wants to be.’

‘Thank you, Lucy,’ laughs Henry.

‘I’m joking,’ I add. ‘He’s great really. Ridiculously great. The closest Henry has come to anti-social behaviour is playing his piano too loud.’

Rachel goes into meltdown again. ‘You play the piano? I
love
the piano.’

I’m starting to think that if I told Rachel that Henry unblocked drains in his spare time, she’d
love
that too. Still, I can’t complain: this is the precise effect we’d hoped for with
Project Henry
. I just never expected it to be so successful.

‘Are you any good? Oh, I bet you are,’ she continues.

‘I’m okay,’ says Henry modestly. ‘Relatively competent, no more than that.’

‘Relatively competent?’ I smirk. ‘Relative to whom? Liberace?’

‘Oh Henry, they’ve got a piano here,’ gushes Rachel.

‘Have they?’ He suddenly looks nervous.

‘Come on, why don’t you give us a tune?’ she beams.

‘Oh, I c-couldn’t,’ Henry stutters. ‘I mean, there’s music playing already.’

Rachel looks disappointed. ‘Are you sure I can’t twist your arm?’

‘Quite sure,’ he says.

Rachel smiles but her disappointment is obvious – that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. ‘Will you excuse me while I go to the ladies?’ she says.

As she disappears to the other side of the bar, Dominique appears from nowhere. ‘Did I hear Rachel trying to persuade Henry to play the piano?’

‘Yes,’ says Henry, ‘but I was about to tell her that doing something as geeky as that would do nothing for my—’

‘There’s nothing geeky about being able to play an instrument,’ interrupts Dominique. ‘Some of the least likely sex symbols in the world owe their appeal to music. Look at Mick Jagger. Liam Gallagher. Steven Tyler. If they were behind the counter at the Co-op, no one would give them a second look. On stage, it’s a different matter.’