My Single Friend (34 page)

It is now 10 a.m. and the only conclusion I can come to is that Henry officially has a new girlfriend.

I phone Dominique, trying not to whimper when she answers. ‘I need some retail therapy,’ I announce.

‘Did you have a date last night?’ she asks.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You sound depressed.’

‘Not this time. Are you around for a shopping session or what?’

‘Sorry, hon. Justin and I are going away for the night,’ she says apologetically. ‘Nice little guest house in the Yorkshire Dales. The sort of place that used to be my idea of hell.’

‘Oh. Well, have a great time, won’t you?’

‘What is it, anyway? Can’t you fill me in over the phone?’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘How about we catch up over lunch next week?’

‘Perfect,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Have a brilliant weekend.’

‘You too, hon,’ she says.

I put down the phone and try Erin, but her mobile goes straight to messages.

‘Hi, Erin,’ I say. ‘Hope you’re okay. It’s ages since we caught up and, well, I wondered if you fancied getting together today? You know where I am, so give me a ring. Bye.’

Erin doesn’t phone back, but texts me at lunchtime instead.
Sorry Lucy, can’t make it today. Will ring u l8r!

Shopping alone is a vacuous experience. It’s not that I don’t shop by myself all the time, but today, its
raison d’être
was the company, not the purchases.

Still, I make up for the lack of company with an explosion of buying activity and, within an hour of my arrival in the city centre, I am carrying enough bags to launch my own clothing line. I might be miserable, but at least I’ll be well dressed and miserable. I battle my way back to the car park before I risk complete bankruptcy, and am about to step into the lift when I see them.

Henry and Erin.

My
Henry and
my
Erin. Together. Arm-in-arm, laughing.

All I want to do is cry.

Henry returns at eight on Sunday night and the knot in the pit of my stomach tightens. It’s been there since yesterday, constricting every time I replay the car-park scene with a nauseating clench.

‘Hi!’ I try to smile as I look up from my plate of bean-sprouts. They’re even less appetizing than usual, every grim mouthful an affront to the word ‘edible’.

‘Hi,’ he smiles, standing at the door. He looks slightly dishevelled, totally gorgeous – and utterly unobtainable.

‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ he asks.

‘Very relaxing,’ I lie.

‘Oh good,’ he replies, playing with the leather bracelet on his arm. ‘Well – I’m going to have a shower.’

‘Okay,’ I say.

He nods and backs out of the door.

‘Henry. I take it your date went well?
With Erin?
’

He freezes, taking in the last two words. His eyes dart across my face, checking out my expression. Only I’m ready for this. And when he sees the convincing look of goodwill I’ve plastered on it, he relaxes.

‘Er . . . yes.’

‘Good,’ I reply coolly.

‘You knew it was Erin, then?’

I nod, as if I’m almost surprised he had to ask the question.

‘I saw you out shopping yesterday.’ My tone is so deliberately casual it nearly dislocates my jaw. ‘Hey, I’m really happy for you.’

He straightens his back. ‘Are you?’

‘Of course,’ I reply brightly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? You’re two of my closest friends.’

‘There wasn’t anything going on until this weekend, you know,’ he tells me. ‘We weren’t hiding anything or—’

‘Henry, it’s fine,’ I interrupt. ‘Really.’

‘Well, that’s great.’ He is visibly relieved. ‘I wondered if you might feel a bit funny about it – you know, with Erin being your friend.’

‘What? No! Funny? Not at all!’

He smiles, looking genuinely touched. ‘Thanks, Luce. That means a lot.’

‘I’m enjoying being in a couple,’ announces Dominique, picking up an olive and popping it into her mouth. ‘But I miss this: we three, having lunch and talking twaddle.’

‘Twaddle?’ laughs Erin. ‘I thought we were having a deeply stimulating and important discussion.’

‘About shoes,’ I say.

‘Not just shoes,’ Dominique adds. ‘Though I don’t know why my love-life suddenly features so highly in every conversation.’

‘Yes, you do,’ says Erin. ‘We never thought we’d see the day when you’d have a Significant Other.’

‘
You
didn’t?’ Dominique cries. ‘You should hear my mother.’

‘
You told your mother
?’ I ask. God, it must be serious.

‘They haven’t met yet. I haven’t changed that much. But I thought I’d lay the foundations for . . .’ Dominique’s voice trails off.

‘For what?’

Dominique pauses. ‘Nothing – forget I said anything.’

‘As if we could,’ says Erin.

Dominique lowers her voice. ‘Okay – but don’t repeat this.’

Erin and I lean in.

‘I think he’s about to ask me to move in with him.’

‘Ohmygod!’ breathes Erin.

‘Dominique, that’s fantastic,’ I tell her. And I mean it.
I think
. The more I hear from Dominique about her and Justin, the more I’m convinced that I was imagining something untoward about him. The guy is clearly as lovestruck as she is.

‘Yeah, well, it hasn’t happened yet.’ She leans back. ‘He’s dropped a couple of hints and . . . just call it feminine intuition.’

I’m enjoying our lunch, but I’d be lying if I said things didn’t feel strange after the revelations about Erin and Henry. I’ve tried not to let it affect me, but I can’t help it.

‘How’s Henry?’ asks Dominique, as if sensing my thoughts.

‘Fine, I think. I haven’t seen him a lot lately. You’d better ask Erin.’ Erin blushes and I feel a stab of remorse.

‘He’s . . . fine,’ she replies uncomfortably.

‘Well, I’m so pleased for you,’ says Dominique, sipping her drink. ‘We were worried after your split from Gary, weren’t we, Lucy?’

I conjure up a
Stepford Wives
smile. ‘Yes.’

‘And now you’re with Henry. I can’t think of a nicer couple, can you, Lucy?’

‘No.’

‘I think your prospects are pretty good, don’t you, Lucy?’

‘Yes.’

‘And since his transformation, I—’

‘
How come you never told me?
’ The words erupt from my mouth entirely involuntarily. Dominique looks at me as if my body has been possessed.

Erin clears her throat awkwardly. ‘About me and Henry, you mean?’

I nod.

She frowns. ‘I don’t know really. I thought there wasn’t anything
to
tell at first. Nothing happened. Henry accompanied me to a couple of work events and, well, we acted like friends. We’d
always
been friends – so why would I bother telling anyone that?’

‘But you’re not just friends now, are you, hon?’ hoots Dominique, giving her a nudge. ‘From what I hear, you’re
way
beyond friendship!’

Erin’s blush deepens. ‘It’s early days. It was only this weekend that anything happened.’

‘Anything?’ laughs Dominique. ‘Lucy nearly called a search-party – Henry didn’t come home all weekend.’

From the depths of my being, I try to look happy. I suspect I look as chipper as a funeral director – but I
do
try. Erin glances at me nervously.

I get a grip on myself, saying, ‘That’s right. It’s great, Erin. Really great.’

She smiles gratefully and I feel like such a fraud I’m expecting the Serious Organized Crime Agency to burst in. Two of my best friends have found love with each other and I have to
pretend
to be happy. What a horrible person I am.

‘I’m only surprised it took you so long to make a move on him,’ continues Dominique.

Erin swallows a piece of tomato. ‘I thought about it a while ago. I realized how much I liked him soon after splitting up with Gary, but I worried about having a rebound fling with Henry. If it’d been anyone else, I wouldn’t have thought twice. Then, eventually, I realized I liked him so much that I had two choices: sit around thinking about it for ever or take a chance and go for it.’

‘Well, I for one am glad you chose the latter,’ says Dominique, ‘and I bet Henry is too.’

By the time lunch is over, despite the juicy olives and heavenly main course, I’m glad to be heading back to my desk. I need something to distract me from my feelings for Henry – and sitting here with the new woman in his life isn’t it.

We split the bill and are on our way to the door. It’s then that I see him. I gasp like an asthmatic hyena.

‘What is it?’ asks Erin, careering into my back. She freezes and I know she’s seen him too.

‘What are you two doing? Oh my God.’

I glance at Dominique. Even if I wanted to stop her from witnessing Justin using his tongue to excavate the ear of his blonde companion, I couldn’t.

I can’t work out whether she’s going to cry. But she grits her teeth, thrusts her handbag in my arms and marches over. Justin stops smooching. As he glances up and sees Dominique, he might as well be facing Godzilla.

‘Shit . . . Dominique. Look – I can explain.’

‘Can you?’

He snatches his hand away from his companion. ‘Um . . . um . . .’

‘I think the word you’re searching for is “no”,’ Dominique says.

It’s clear she doesn’t want explanations anyway. Instead, she turns to a waiter and taps him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, is that the tiramisú?’

He studies his tray. ‘Er, yes.’

‘Who’s it for?’

‘The lady in the corner.’

‘Madam?’ Dominique hollers.

Justin, his blonde, and the rest of us wonder what she’s doing.

‘Madam, so sorry about this,’ she continues politely. ‘I need to borrow your tiramisú.’

She reaches over to the tray, dips her bare hand in the bowl and scoops out some of the contents. Mascarpone and brandy-soaked sponge drip down her arm. Now we know what she’s doing. But there’s a sublime artistry about the way she smears it over Justin’s face, with the command of a Renaissance sculptor. When finished, she stands back and examines her work. Justin is entirely mute. His transformation is complete. He is
Trifle Man
.

She licks her finger. ‘That could be the most satisfying dessert I’ve ever had.’

Despite the performance, Dominique is distraught.

I can tell because, as I accompany her back to the office, she keeps threatening to kill people. Well, mainly Justin, but a couple of pedestrians who don’t dive out of the way quickly enough too.

‘Wanker!’ she hisses under her breath, marching ahead as I struggle to keep up. ‘Wanker, wanker, wanker.’

‘He’s definitely that,’ I concede breathlessly.

‘Did you see the slut he was with?’ She spins round and takes me by surprise. I only stop just in time to avoid colliding into her, only to cause a three-person pile-up.

‘I did.’ I untangle myself from somebody else’s iPod and hand it back apologetically. In fact, the woman Justin was with didn’t look like a slut. She looked perfectly respectable – and as shocked as Dominique.

‘Wanker!’ she repeats, continuing along the street. ‘Wanker, wank—’

‘Dominique,
slow down
,’ I insist eventually.

She stops and turns. Her lips are trembling, her eyes filled with tears.

‘Come here,’ I demand softly, putting my arms round her and drawing her into me.

‘Oh God, Lucy, what am I going to do?’ she sniffs.

I put my hand in my bag to find her a tissue. Unfortunately, the interior of my handbag is like a jumble sale in the Tardis. I can lay my hands on a concealer, a set of keys, a miniature bottle of Molton Brown shampoo, a box of Elastoplast, six nail files, four hair bands, twelve biros, a tube of athlete’s foot cream, a shopping list from early 2008 and a travel alarm clock. But no tissues.

I rub her arm instead.

‘I’m in love with him,’ she whispers between tears. ‘
Was
in love with him. Oh, who am I kidding . . .
am
in love with him. What am I going to do?’

I spin her round and link her arm as we continue up Castle Street.

‘What you’re going to do, Dominique, is cry,’ I tell her. ‘You’re going to call him a wanker. You’re going to hate him and love him in equal measure. You’re going to cry a bit more. Ultimately, you’re going to realize that there are men more deserving of your love.’