The Single Girl’s To-Do List

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘Have fun on your date.’ Em waved her hand around randomly, her eyes trained on the X Factor auditions repeat. She was certainly doing her best to fill the Sky Plus box up with as many anti-Simon shows as humanly possible.

  ‘I hate you both.’ I let myself out with a huff. ‘I’m going, aren’t I?’

  ‘And you’re going to be late,’ Matthew pointed out. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I’ll leave condoms by the bed,’ Em called.

  Turning on my ballet flats, I stomped out and slammed the door. As much as you can stomp in ballet flats. Which it turned out was quite a lot if you really put your heart and soul into it.

  Predictably, the bus was late, meaning I only just made it to the yoga class in time. Asher, sitting up at the front of the room, gave me a relieved smile and a wave as I dashed in, clumsily unrolling my mat and clobbering two other students round the head with my foam blocks. Thank god I hadn’t picked up the wooden ones.

  ‘Good evening everyone,’ Asher began. I sat cross-legged and tried to look as serene as possible. Out of his tux, Asher was still very cute, although I sort of missed his geeky glasses. Hopefully they’d be reinstated for drinks. His yoga outfit was thankfully not made of Spandex. Perhaps he was the one? Perhaps we’d end up living on an ashram with our beautiful bendy children Clover and Paxo. Hang on, that was the stuffing.

  ‘Shall we start tonight’s practice with three ohms and quiet the voice in our mind?’ Asher called out to the class in a disturbingly calm voice. Maybe he could tell I was considering naming our first-born child after a Christmas dinner table staple.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, but the little voice in my mind refused to play along. Instead of ohm-ing, it seemed to be tutting loudly and whispering something that sounded rather a lot like ‘Christ? Really?’

  Yes brain, I replied unhappily, really.

  ‘How did you find it?’ Asher asked at the end of the session. I sat on the floor, red-faced and sweaty, rolling up my mat and praying that I would never unroll it again. I stared up at him, not quite able to believe he was asking. I’d spent half the class in corpse pose, silently crying, and the other half tearing my hamstrings off the back of my legs, audibly crying.

  ‘It was challenging,’ I said, after spending at least half a minute trying to think of an answer that wasn’t a lie and didn’t include the words ‘fucking horrible’.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ he beamed. ‘So what do you feel like doing?’

  Sitting on the floor, looking up at his open, happy face, I had a sudden vision. Asher and I in perfect warrior poses with two identical little Ashers trying to copy us and falling over in adorable bundles of geeky, glasses-wearing joy. Snapping back, I bit my lip.

  ‘Drink?’ I suggested.

  ‘And then I called her a vacuous cow,’ I said, finishing up my hilarious ‘the day I shouted at a supermodel story’ and my second glass of red. ‘And marched off.’

  ‘Right. Wow. That’s um, yeah. Wow,’ Asher said for the umpteenth time, finishing up his third beer. He drank a lot for a yoga teacher, I thought. That wasn’t a tick in the ‘future father of my children’ column.

  ‘But you know, onwards and upwards. My round.’ I stood up. ‘Another of the same?’

  ‘Right. Yes,’ Asher said. ‘Another.’

  Standing at the bar, I looked back at our table. OK, so he was a bit quiet, but he seemed nice. And he couldn’t be evil or anything if he taught yoga, surely? After class, we’d ducked into The Lexington, my theory being that if my hamstrings gave up, I’d be able to crawl home. Jamie, the bartender, nodded acknowledgement and lined our drinks up on the bar.

  ‘All right, Rachel?’ he asked, taking my twenty.

  ‘Not so bad.’ I returned his smile and took my change. ‘Busy night?’

  ‘There’s a band on upstairs so it’s pretty quiet actually,’ he said, nodding slightly over to where Asher was sitting playing with his phone. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Oh, new … friend,’ I pulled a face. ‘Simon and I broke up.’

  ‘Bloody fast worker,’ he replied. ‘I suppose there’s no point messing around.’

  ‘He seems all right,’ I nodded.

  ‘Well, I’d hold out for better than all right, if I were you, but as long as it’s fun.’ He gave me a half-smile and moved down the bar to serve the next punter.

  Fun. Hmm, was I having fun?

  ‘So how long have you been into yoga?’ I asked, setting Asher’s beer down on the table in front of him. His long legs were folded up underneath his chair, yoga mat off to the side.

  ‘Cheers. Been a couple of years now,’ he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. ‘I love it.’

  I nodded. Good, healthy lifestyle. Tick. ‘What made you start?’

  ‘Actually an ex got me into it,’ he admitted, sipping his pint. ‘He’d be practising for years and it was like, if I ever wanted to see him, I had to go to bloody yoga class. I’m glad I did now, though – much happier having yoga in my life than him.’

  I felt my eyes widen against my brain’s command and very slowly spat my wine back into my glass. For some reason, I was not quite able to swallow …

  ‘Your ex was a him?’ I was sure my voice wasn’t quite as high-pitched as it sounded in my head.

  ‘Yeah, oh god, that’s not a problem, is it?’ He looked nervously across the table. ‘I forget some people aren’t always totally OK with, you know, that.’

  Before I could answer, a strapping six-foot yoga god wandered into my vision, pushed me over onto my arse and swooped in to give Asher a great big kiss. I sat on the grass weeping while my fantasy children sobbed, ‘why, daddy, why?’

  ‘Totally OK with that,’ I said, having another, considerably more successful go on the wine. ‘Totally.’

  ‘Phew.’ He jokingly wiped a hand across his forehead. ‘Like I say, ex. Long time ago ex.’

  I was fine with it. Really. Who wouldn’t be in this day and age? Aside from my dad. Again, big tick in the yes column from my mum probably. But I was fine with it.

  ‘I did the teacher training after we broke up.’ Asher sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. I couldn’t even move mine. Still. And it had been two hours and three glasses of wine since I’d even attempted a downward dog. ‘Can’t believe my distraction ended up changing my life.’

  ‘I can kind of understand that.’ I sipped my wine. ‘Really.’

  ‘Good to know.’ He leaned forward across the table and looked around before nodding for me to come closer. I put down my wine. Was he going to kiss me? Was this the start of something wonderful? ‘I know we’ve only just met, but I actually run a naturist class on Saturdays and then some of us kind of get together afterwards. At my house. You could come along tomorrow if you wanted to?’

  I sat back, pressing my lips in a thin, white line.

  ‘Is that the loo over there?’ he asked, pointing towards the doors at the side of the room. I nodded silently, staring ahead and not moving. All that time on corpse pose had come in handy after all.

  As soon as he disappeared into the toilet, I whipped my phone out of my bag to send Em our agreed ‘get me the hell out of here’ text message. I’d had enough. I glanced up at the toilet door. No movement.

  ‘I’M A CELEBRITY, GET ME OUT OF HERE’ I typed as quickly as I could and kept my phone in my hand.

  I had a text from Dan. My thumb hovered over the open button for just a moment. Most likely he was going to say he couldn’t make the party, that Ana had tightened the chain on his balls and summoned him home. Try as I might to pretend otherwise, I felt a bit disappointed.

  ‘Can I bring anything tomorrow?’

  Huh. It was a nice text. But I still had no idea what was going on and I hated not knowing what was going on. Matthew’s best bet was that it was exactly that, a bet; while I didn’t like being the subject of a wager, I was prepared to accept it was a likely option. And also, as Em immediately pointed out, I was perversely sort of flattered.
As long as it wasn’t a pull-a-pig sort of bet. That wasn’t flattering to anyone.

  I was brief in my reply. ‘Just yourself. And booze. Loads of booze.’

  ‘Checking in?’ Asher retook his seat. ‘Or just letting your friends know I’m not a serial killer?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that yet, do I?’ I really didn’t want to be on a date with the naked yoga orgy-meister any more. ‘No, I just got a text.’ I waved my phone around in the air, just to illustrate the point.

  ‘Anything exciting?’ he asked, trying to readjust the boys subtly. He was unsuccessful, I noticed immediately. This was one of the major problems about a post-yoga date. Spandex or not, his ensemble left very little to the imagination – and I wasn’t even that imaginative. And that would have been embarrassing even if we weren’t sitting in my local surrounded by men in jeans and other assorted normal-person outfits.

  ‘Just a friend,’ I stuttered over the word slightly. ‘A guy I work with.’

  ‘He’s a make-up artist?’

  I thought he sounded a little bit too amused by the idea of a male make-up artist for a bisexual yoga-teacher.

  ‘He’s a photographer,’ I clarified. ‘We work for the same agency.’

  ‘I’ve never met a make-up artist before,’ he mused. ‘Can’t imagine spending all day touching up someone’s lipstick.’

  I smiled politely and threw back half my glass of wine. It was drink it fast or throw it over him and I didn’t want to cause a scene. Where was Em? Where was my phone call?

  ‘What made you want to do it as a job? The make-up thing, I mean.’ Asher rubbed the end of his nose. Had it always been that big?

  ‘Well, I used to like art at school but I was no good at it and I was always doing my friends’ make-up.’ I had the short answer down pat. It was a question I was asked a lot. ‘The more I did it, the more I really loved the idea of making something beautiful, using make-up to transform someone. That’s it really.’

  ‘It’s interesting because obviously you don’t look like someone who wears a lot of make-up,’ he said while I sat on my hands. ‘It’s probably because I’m a man but, really, I just don’t understand the thrill of covering your face in crap. No one looks better like that. I mean, the other night? All those women done up like complete tarts? No thanks.’

  ‘Well, I don’t go around covering people’s faces in crap,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘It’s just a weird job though, isn’t it?’ He just didn’t know when to stop. ‘Did your parents never freak out and tell you to get a real job?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And the whole “artist” thing. Really? Make-up artist? I mean, if you were a real artist, wouldn’t you be offended?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Despite the fact that my glare could have frozen the seventh circle of hell, he carried on.

  ‘Always fancied being a photographer though.’ He laid his phone on the table to show an entirely unremarkable shot of London from Waterloo Bridge. ‘I’ve always had a good eye.’

  I couldn’t count the number of times I’d seen Dan deal with amateur photographers. Putting them down with a look was one of his gifts. Occasionally it took a patronizing smile or polite laugh. I understood; we both had jobs everyone thought they’d be able to do. After all, I was just touching up someone’s lipstick and putting crap on their face.

  ‘I think it’s probably a more difficult job than people realize,’ I said diplomatically, ignoring his phone. ‘Dan is really talented.’ I thought back to the photo in the gallery the night before. He really did have an amazing eye for creating something stunning. When he wasn’t taking pictures of Ana in her knickers.

  ‘Yeah, if I hadn’t had to get a job, I could have studied photography. It’s not reliable though, is it?’ Asher’s tone was decidedly defensive. ‘I mean, I suppose some people just luck into jobs, don’t they?’

  ‘He didn’t luck into it,’ I replied with equal aggression. ‘He worked really hard. Being a photographer doesn’t just happen – you have to do years as an assistant, you’re always having to study new techniques and work with new equipment. And then there’re the long hours and all the travelling. And if you’re as good as Dan, it is reliable.’

  Asher looked pissed off.

  ‘Same for make-up artists,’ I muttered into my wine glass. My phone was still dormant in my bag. Where the bloody hell was Emelie? If she was texting my brother instead of saving me from a night in the cells when I clubbed this idiot to death, there would be trouble. ‘It goes a bit further than touching up people’s lipstick.’

  ‘Do tell,’ he said, looking at his watch.

  ‘You know, I would, but my friend just texted me and I really need to leave,’ I said, knocking back the rest of my wine and throwing my bag over my shoulder. ‘Thanks so much for tonight.’

  ‘Did your friend really text you?’ he asked, standing up but not looking particularly surprised.

  ‘Nope,’ I flounced past him. ‘Bye.’

  ‘You forgot your yoga mat,’ he shouted after me across the loud and now busy bar.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I shouted back.

  Which was true until I got outside and remembered it wasn’t actually my yoga mat and now I owed Matthew twenty quid. Bugger.

  Best. First. Date. Ever.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Oh, you know me so well,’ Matthew shouted over the music and waved his present around gleefully. ‘Can I put it on?’

  ‘DVD yes, condoms no,’ I replied.

  Matthew’s party was going better than I had anticipated. Having been desperate to eradicate all memory of the night before, I’d really thrown myself into the party planning. There were ridiculous amounts of booze in the kitchen, more food than would ever be consumed by the assembled masses and I’d even dug out the fairy lights to create a bit of interesting lighting. It was also something of a plus that the low lights meant you couldn’t read ‘Simon is a dick’ on my living-room wall. Which you could in direct sunlight. Still. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Matthew was already worse for wear, Emelie was doing a fine job as secondary hostess keeping everyone’s glasses full and I hadn’t freaked out once. Result.

  ‘So what did you do today?’ I asked Matthew, taking a moment out of refilling the chips and dips to sit down on the sofa with the birthday boy. He wasn’t bouncing off the walls as I might have expected. Worrisome. ‘You don’t seem your usual desperately self-involved birthday self?’

  ‘Oh god, I don’t?’ he looked utterly stricken. ‘Sorry, distracted.’

  ‘I know, that’s what’s bothering me.’ I ruffled his hair and tried not to look at my own TV screen. I assumed he was suffering First Birthday Without Stephen Syndrome and tried not to push it. ‘Are you OK? Did you have a nice day?’

  Matthew, on the other hand, could not tear his eyes away. ‘Today? I slept, watched telly, had a wank. What’s tall, dark and dickhead doing in the kitchen?’

  He was of course referring to Dan. He’d arrived dead on the dot of nine with a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of vodka and a case of beer. Never let it be said that the boy could not take direction. And yet, since he’d walked through the door, we’d barely spoken. I was pretty much resigned to the fact that I’d misread the situation and he was just being friendly and supportive because I’d been dumped. And by ‘resigned to’, I of course meant ‘relieved by’.

  ‘He seems all right.’ Matthew poured us both tumblers full of whiskey. He had eschewed the beer and wine options much, much earlier in the evening ‘I forgot how hot he was.’

  ‘Yeah anyway, back to you, birthday boy.’ Whiskey was good. ‘Is everything really OK? You just seem a bit down. As in more than your usual “everyone’s a knob but me” down.’

  ‘I know, I’m a miserable bastard,’ Matthew threw back his drink and poured another. ‘It’s just, whatever. Birthday blues.’

  ‘Watch your porno and be quiet then,’ I ordered, giving him a kiss on the top of his
head before marching back into the kitchen in search of the Doritos. It was a classy party.

  ‘Matthew having fun?’ asked Dan as I slid past. Tonight’s ensemble combo included dark indigo skinnies, a checked white shirt, pale blue cashmere V neck and a skinny black tie. I had to admit, he looked really good. If a little warm. I was in my new sleeveless sky blue silk dress and I was roasting.

  ‘Like the child that he is, he’s fine now that I’ve told him he can put his video on,’ I said, peering back into the living room. I knew Matthew wouldn’t want me to go into his soul-wrenching heartbreak, so I didn’t. Yay me. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I was talking to Emelie. She seems nice when she’s not punching out my date.’

  ‘She is,’ I said. Nice? Date? Were they back on? Argh. ‘Are there any more crisps anywhere?’

  ‘She’s really hot.’ Dan reached up to the top shelf where he’d hidden the snacks.

  ‘She is.’ There was no way on god’s green earth he’d come to my party to hit on my best friend. Was there?

  ‘No need to be jealous.’ He set the crisps down and then turned to hold my gaze. ‘You’re hotter.’

  I coughed, choking on a freshly acquired Dorito.

  ‘Rach!’ Matthew shouted from the living room. ‘There’s someone knocking at the door.’

  ‘Then answer it,’ I replied, not taking my eyes off Dan.

  ‘I’m watching porn,’ he yelled back. ‘And it’s my birthday.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Dan said. I looked away quickly, just not quickly enough. ‘Can you put the guacamole into that blue bowl? It’s the green lumpy stuff.’

  ‘You’re so funny, I could wet myself.’

  ‘Not in the kitchen, please.’ He placed his hands on my waist as he slid past me into the living room. Hmm, there was that funny flushing feeling again. He really needed to stop touching me. Or start doing it more regularly. I wasn’t sure which. Whiskey made me very indecisive.

  ‘This is a really great party.’ Em replaced Dan in the kitchen, nibbling delicately on a carrot stick. Which was annoying given that I’d bought Mini Cheddars especially for her. ‘There are so many people here.’