My Single Friend (24 page)

‘Is it?’ Henry starts scanning the emergency exits.

‘Yes!’ Dominique cries. ‘If you think Rachel’s impressed so far, wait till you see her reaction to your piano-playing. Come
on
– let’s step up a gear on your reinvention. Don’t let Lucy and me down.’

Henry looks at me and his shoulders sag. We both know he stands no chance of escape.

Henry and I glare at the piano as Dominique disappears to ask someone to turn off the music.

‘What are you going to play?’ I ask, feeling nervous for him.

‘Christ, I don’t know,’ he hisses. ‘I can’t see Vivaldi going down well here.’

‘What about “Chasing Cars”? I love it when you play that – especially the plinky plonky bit in the middle. And you know all the words.’

‘You want me to
sing
? Lucy, are you insane?’

‘Well, you’ve got a lovely voice.’ I read his expression. ‘But, no, you’re probably right.’

‘Come on, Henry!’ Dominique appears again and drags him up to the piano stool, before stepping down to rejoin Rachel and me.

Rachel and Dominique are clapping their hands in excitement, but the rest of the bar is oblivious. Reluctantly, he takes off his jacket and slings it on the piano, loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves. I recognize a flash of the old Henry. The
real
old Henry, who would panic when a woman spoke to him, even if it was only to ask for directions.

He takes a deep breath, briefly closes his eyes and makes a convincing stab at composure. When he opens them, he looks at me and smiles. I smile back, hoping I look supportive, instead of paralysed with terror for him.

He puts his hands on the keys of the piano.

And he plays . . .

I recognize the opening bars of the Oasis song immediately, though the version most people know starts with crashing guitars. Henry’s performance of ‘She’s Electric’ is loud and proud, full of attitude. The bar is noisier than ever but he demands to be listened to. It’s impossible to relegate it to background music. You have to stop and take it in. Take
him
in.

With increasing numbers noticing, Henry, immersed in the music, does something that amazes me. He leans into the microphone and he sings.

‘She’s electric . . .’

I’ve heard Henry’s voice hundreds of times. He sings when he’s playing the piano at home. He sings in the shower. He sings when he’s making toast in the morning. Yet, tonight, his voice is stunning – gloriously rough and rousing, a sublime accompaniment to the boldness of his piano. I can hardly take my eyes off him.

‘. . . A family full of eccentrics . . .’

‘I think I’m in love,’ swoons Rachel, as her legs visibly go weak.

Dominique grabs me by the arm. ‘This is un-bloody-believable!’ she giggles.

‘He’s always been pretty good—’

‘Lucy,’ she interrupts. ‘Look at everyone.’ I scan the room. ‘Check out the girls.’

It’s a surreal sight. Henry is surrounded by men and women – okay, mainly women – dancing and clapping, lapping up his performance.

I push to the front to get a proper look. The man I see is one who’s instantly familiar, yet not familiar at all. It’s Henry,
my
Henry, but someone completely different at the same time.

He’s relaxed now, thoroughly enjoying himself and aware of his effect on the crowd. My eyes absorb the contours of his face as he sings with intensity and pleasure. They follow the flex of his bicep as his fingers strike the keyboard, dominating it utterly. They skim over his sensuous neck, his smooth, tanned Adam’s apple . . .

Oh God, what’s going on? Why am I thinking weird things about Henry?
About Henry!

I find my heart racing and blood rushing to my face. I’m only glad Paul isn’t here to see it. That’s a point – where
is
Paul? And do I care?

I lift up my head and feel my stomach lurch as my gaze lands on Henry’s mouth. For a reason I can’t fathom I find myself wondering what it must be like to kiss him. Not like before, like friends. But to run my tongue against his, to taste the wetness of his mouth, to gently bite his soft, full lips . . .

‘Are you all right, Lucy?’ asks Dominique, grabbing my elbow.

‘No,’ I reply.

‘What’s up?’

The song reaches a crescendo and the bar erupts into rapturous applause. Henry seeks out my face in the crowd. As his eyes meet mine, I feel my crotch flood with warmth and am assaulted by an image in my mind: of me unzipping Henry’s trousers and frantically wrapping my legs around him as I groan with pleasure. It’s one of those horrendous mucky dreams about someone totally inappropriate – except I’m awake.

I feel faint.

I turn to Dominique and say huskily, ‘Nothing’s up. Nothing except . . .’

‘What?’

‘Dom, I think I fancy Henry.’

Dominique scrunches up her nose. ‘What did you say you fancy? I couldn’t hear you over the noise.’

I stare at her, unable to repeat the words, let alone believe them. ‘I fancy . . .’ My voice trails off.

She looks at me in bewilderment. ‘What – a dance? A drink?’

I nod, snapping out of my daze. ‘Yep. I fancy a drink.’

‘Well, it’s my round,’ she says, pulling her purse from her bag. ‘You’d better wait here in case people start throwing their knickers on stage.’

As Dominique heads for the bar, I find myself wandering away to look for Paul. I spend twenty minutes scouring the venue, desperate to reinstate order in my twisted mind.

I fancy Paul, not Henry. Paul, not Henry. Paul, not Henry.

The more I say it, the more convinced I am and the better I feel.

Unfortunately, the improvement in my psychological well-being is temporary. It becomes clear that Paul has gone the way of Captain Oates – he’s abandoned us and disappeared to God knows where. I feel a flash of panic that he saw me watching Henry and somehow worked out that I was fantasizing about ripping off his clothes.

In a daze, I locate my coat and tell Dominique apologetically that I’ve decided against another drink and am going home, despite her protestations. By this time, Henry has done three more numbers and appears to have a fan base comparable to Westlife’s.

I’m about to head for the door when, with applause still ringing through the bar, I feel a tap on the shoulder and spin round. It’s Henry.

‘Are you going, Lucy? Wait, I’ll get my jacket.’

‘You don’t need to.’ My words are cut short as Henry is leaped on by a stunning redhead. If her neckline plunged any lower it’d be subterranean.

‘That was
amazing
,’ she raves, her hand brushing the hairs on his arms. ‘Where did you learn to—’

‘Henry,’ interrupts another voice. It’s Rachel, clearly determined not to be gazumped by another glamorous pretender. But she’s got more competition than she bargained for.

‘Hey, I didn’t catch your name, but I work here,’ says a man. He’s gorgeous, tanned and immaculately dressed. ‘Can I give you my card?’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’d want to do this professionally,’ laughs Henry, overwhelmed by the attention.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he purrs. ‘I just thought you might like my number.’

Great. So now Henry’s not just irresistible to women, he’s a gay icon too. I’ve seen enough.

‘I’m going. You’ve got a key, haven’t you?’ Before he has the chance to answer, I charge to the door and onto the street. After the heat of the bar, it’s freezing. It is also entirely bereft of taxis.

Predictably, I’m still there twenty minutes later, bordering on hypothermia, when I finally manage to find one. I’m warmer by the time I get home, but still race to pull on my pyjamas and cocoon myself in bed, craving its cosy familiarity. I stare at the ceiling – my only option, given that when I close my eyes my head starts whirling so violently, it’s as if my brain is on a spin cycle.

What the hell is going on?

I get flashbacks of Henry in the bar, the unrecognizable, unconscionably sexy Henry. The Henry that makes me think disturbingly rude, primal thoughts. The Henry I never knew existed until tonight.

I force my eyes closed, but it takes ages for me to drop off. Even then, sleep is fitful, with strange dreams barging in uninvited. Some of them are about Henry. I’d rather not repeat the details.

I wake suddenly to the slam of the front door and scramble around my bedside table to locate my alarm clock. I press its light and peer at the face. It is twelve minutes past three.

I pull the duvet over my shoulders and am about to drift off again when I hear someone’s voice. It’s Rachel. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but there is enough giggling and whooping to tell she’s mightily happy.

Next, I hear the door to Henry’s room open and shut and Rachel’s giggling disappear as she – clearly – ends up in the place where she’s wanted to be all day. Henry’s bed.

I close my eyes again and take a deep breath.

So, he’s done it.
Project Henry
is an unqualified success. He looks amazing. He got the girl. And he could have had at least ten others, judging by tonight.

I should be congratulating myself on a job well done.

So why do I feel like screaming into my pillow?

Rachel stays all of Sunday and I spend the day bumping into her and Henry and exchanging awkward pleasantries. I keep expecting her to leave, but she doesn’t. By Monday morning, I’m desperate to get out of the house so head off to work at seven-twenty. I have my bag over my shoulder and my hand on the door knob when Rachel emerges from Henry’s room wearing one of his new T-shirts – and a flush on her neck.

‘Hi again.’ All of a sudden she looks shy, which is odd from someone who’s had no compunction about her orgasmic groans reverberating through the walls for over twenty-four hours.

‘Hi, Rachel,’ I smile. ‘Good weekend?’

She giggles. ‘You could say that.’

I’m at my desk by eight and spend the first hour trying to sort through the mountain of emails I didn’t manage to look at on Friday. At eight forty-five, I can hear Roger approaching the double doors from the corridor; I’d recognize his laugh anywhere. He’s chatting to someone as the doors open.

‘Hi, Roger!’ I beam, as he steps into the office.

He stops laughing. ‘Morning, Lucy.’

Drew glides in behind him with an obsequious grin. ‘Catch you later, Rog,’ he says, touching his arm. ‘Don’t let that birdie go to your head, will you?’

Drew sits at his desk and continues grinning. His teeth are so white it hurts to look at them.

‘And how was your weekend, Lucy?’ he asks, firing up his computer.

‘Wonderful, thank you. I had a fabulous time at the Grand National and—’

‘I played golf with Roger,’ he declares, and leans back to wait for a response.

I pause. ‘Oh. That’s nice. You had good weather for it.’

‘It was great spending quality time with the boss. It’s one thing getting on well at work, but sometimes you need to kick back and enjoy the company of your colleagues – don’t you think? That’s what Roger said when he suggested I joined him for a round.’

‘Where did you play?’

‘Roger’s club. He’s going to put me forward as a member. I feel quite honoured.’

I feel a stab of envy. Roger has never invited me to play golf. Okay, my experience of the game amounts to one round on an Ancient Rome-themed circuit one wet Easter holiday when I was seven, but that’s not the point. Roger’s supposed to be
my
mentor. How
could
he play golf with Drew? I feel like an abandoned wife.

Things have never been the same after the business awards. It’s hard to put my finger on how; Roger hasn’t done or said anything specific, but he’s been cool and distant in a way that’s entirely new to me. And I hate it.

A shadow descends on the desk and when I look up, it’s Roger.

‘I’ve got a cracking lead for a new client here,’ he says, holding a pile of papers. ‘A big firm of accountants is looking to outsource its PR. I need a brilliant proposal.’

I smile, relieved. I’m overflowing with work at the moment, but I’d relish winning a big new client to remind Roger what I can do. ‘Hand them over,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Dominique and I will work our usual charms.’

Roger frowns. ‘Actually, Lucy, I want Drew to handle this one. I think it fits his skill-set more.’

As Drew takes the papers, he catches my eye and winks. I suddenly feel so very depressed.

The
Rachel Weekend
as it’s become known by me, Dominique and Erin turns out to be just the start.

The new Henry has been unleashed.

The weekend after the
Rachel Weekend
, he has a date with a restaurant hostess called Jasmine. It lasts for several days. The Saturday after that, there’s a date with a gym teacher called Diane. She only lasts one night, but then he’s back with Rachel. But only on the Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. By Saturday, a financial analyst called Wendy pops up out of nowhere. She stays until Monday, when Rachel appears again. But only for one night, because he’s back with Jasmine the following evening, while I’m left to fight off phone calls from all the others. And so it goes on.