My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  ‘Is this allowed?’ he asks, picking up a family-sized chocolate trifle that could keep a killer whale going through the winter months.

  ‘God, no!’ I leap back in horror. ‘There must be . . . let me calculate this . . . SEVENTEEN nootrients per portion.’

  ‘I don’t know what seventeen nootrients means, but from your reaction I’m guessing it’s potentially fatal.’

  ‘Might as well be,’ I tell him haughtily. ‘It’s out of bounds.’

  ‘You don’t have to have it,’ he says innocently. ‘I can hide it in the fridge drawer for myself.’

  I glare at him. ‘You’re seriously going to keep a chocolate trifle the size of Centre Court at Wimbledon in our fridge – next to my measly bag of bean-sprouts?’

  ‘Come on, Lucy, you’re not going to inflict this nonsense on me, are you?’

  Henry is one of those people who never gives a second thought to his diet. He can happily buy a mammoth chocolate trifle without a smidgen of guilt and, worse, can eat as much as he likes without putting on an ounce.

  I, on the other hand, can’t even look at a chocolate trifle – nay, think about one – without disintegrating into a car crash of complex body and food issues, of greed, lust and frustration.

  The difference is knowledge. This is the only example I can think of in which mine exceeds Henry’s. My expertise in the field of calories, fat and, latterly, GI is so pre-eminent that if I went on Mastermind I’d make televisual history.

  Despite this, it hasn’t done me a great deal of good over the years, and I’ve almost come to the conclusion that I’d be better off living in ignorance. Look at previous generations: my gran had a twenty-four-inch waist until she was in her late fifties. She was a skinny little thing and, like Henry, was as familiar with what constituted a kilo-calorie as the lyrics to Kanye West’s back catalogue.

  She’d think nothing about whipping up dinner for four using a pound of lard, a few cups of dripping and several ambiguous hunks of solid red meat. Yet she stayed the size of a malnourished sparrow. I can only put this down to the fact that – unlike my generation – she did not obsess about every item she put in her mouth for sixteen hours a day.

  Clearly, I’m not going to let Henry know this.

  ‘It is not nonsense,’ I tell him, ‘but if you want to be unsupportive, then fine. I thought you were more sensitive than that.’

  ‘Lucy, as ever, I’m prepared to bow to your every need. But I’m not prepared to live on bean-sprouts for the week.’

  I scowl at him.

  ‘Besides,’ he says, putting the trifle in the trolley, ‘it’ll test your strength of character.’

  ‘I don’t want strength of character, I want a pert bum,’ I protest.

  For the sake of time, I agree to use a less rigid method of determining the nootrient value, i.e. instead of using the special Nootrient Calculator, I simply guess.

  I conclude that a tin of baked beans and sausages will be okay (approx one nootrient per tin, I’d say), as will a jar of pesto sauce (half a nootrient per serving) and some pro-biotic drink things in titchy plastic bottles (zero nootrients, surely?). I graciously allow Henry to throw in a big bag of gourmet crisps because they’re olive oil flavour, which everyone knows is good for you.

  When we get to the till, Henry pauses and picks up the trifle. ‘Okay, you win. I feel bad. I’m taking this back.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I laugh. ‘You’re right. It’s my diet, not yours. Leave it in.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t mind,’ he insists.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘No really, I—’

  ‘Henry!’ I snap, like an armed response officer. ‘Put – the – trifle – back – in – the – trolley.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I might want a bit after dinner,’ I mumble.

  ‘What about your diet?’

  ‘Everything in moderation is acceptable,’ I tell him, thinking back to what Mussolini used to say. ‘I can have a modest, tablespoon-sized taste. That couldn’t have more than half a nootrient or so, I’m sure.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ he smiles. ‘Great.’

  A weird thing happens at the till, as I pack away our food and Henry takes out his wallet. The checkout girl smiles at him. Really smiles at him. She’s not exactly a stunner – more Denise Royle than Denise Richards – but she’s got a nice enough face and a cleavage I’d kill for.

  ‘They’re lovely, them chocolate trifles,’ she sighs, carefully putting it in a bag and looking up at Henry. ‘Me and me sister had one the other night with loads of that squirty cream all over it. God, it was gorgeous!’

  If this were any other red-blooded male, being chatted to by an attractive young woman – particularly about her sister and squirty cream – would be a positive thing. An opportunity to engage in a friendly, potentially flirtatious conversation.

  If Henry sees it thus, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he mutters something under his breath, shoves his debit card into his wallet and, with his head bowed, scuttles away with the trolley. The poor girl must wonder whether she’s got halitosis.

  I almost challenge this behaviour in the car park, but stop myself. I know what it’s about and torturing Henry by bringing it up will only make things worse. When it comes to women, he’s desperately, dysfunctionally shy – and always will be.

  So, when we get into the car, I don’t say anything. Nothing at all. Instead, I calculate the nootrient value of the crisps which, it emerges to my disbelief, will put me over my weekly quota in one go.

  Chapter 6

  You know those apartments in Elle Decoration with elegant soft-furnishings, hand-cut flowers and room schemes that juxtapose striking colour with clean lines? Well, our apartment is nothing like those.

  I’d like it to be. It’s just never worked out like that, despite my considerable efforts. When we moved in, fired up with creative zeal, I attempted in earnest to recreate such a look.

  Only, when I painted the hall ‘Ochre’, it looked brown. So I painted over it with ‘Sienna’ and that looked brown too. I followed with a ‘Wheat’, a ‘Fallow’ and an ‘Ecru’, but the most appealing shade I ever managed just looked like the unwashed shorts of a grubby Boy Scout. When Henry pointed out that the walls mightn’t withstand much more, I went for broke and painted it ‘Duck Egg’. Every time I walk in now, I feel as if I’m being committed to a prison cell. Still, we’ve learned to live with it.

  The other reason our apartment is some way off those in Elle Decoration is that it isn’t exactly clutter-free, and for that Henry is as much to blame as me. Every room boasts floor-to-ceiling shelves straining under the weight of his books; they’re piled high on side tables, the bureau in the hall and the piano in the living room – his piano, not mine, in case you’re wondering. And this isn’t even his complete collection: the majority is at his parents’ house.

  These are just his favourites. I don’t know why anyone needs four editions of Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle, or three of Genetic and Evolutionary Aspects of Malaria and Other Blood Parasites (they’re classics apparently). But then, Henry doesn’t see being a scientist as just a job; it defines him.

  Henry – or Dr Henry Fox, to give him his full title – works at the Tropical Medicine Research Centre with a team of boffins (a word I can’t resist using, despite knowing how much he hates it) studying malaria and ways of preventing its spread across Africa. It’s the noblest profession I can think of and makes me feel rather humble when constructing press releases about half-price bathroom sales.

  Anyway, Henry doesn’t just read books about science. He has more first editions of classic and contemporary fiction than Russell Brand has split ends. All of which means our flat has some way to go before it features on Grand Designs.

  ‘Have you opened the chocolate trifle yet?’ I ask casually, curling up on the sofa.

  Henry looks up from his paperback. ‘I don’t fancy it tonight.’

  Panic registers in my brain, but I allow
him to return to his book.

  ‘Why not?’ I laugh lightly. ‘It looks lovely.’

  He scrutinizes my expression.

  ‘If I wasn’t on a diet, and didn’t have a date in three days’ time, I’d definitely want to eat it,’ I continue.

  ‘Who do you have a date with?’

  I can’t help smiling. ‘He’s called Jake. I met him at the opening night of the new play at the Circle. He’s gorgeous. Which is why I couldn’t possibly have any trifle. Though I’d scoff the lot under normal circumstances.’

  He shrugs. ‘I might have some later.’

  ‘At what time?’ I ask.

  ‘At what time?’ he repeats.

  ‘Yes, at what time do you think you’ll get round to opening it? I’m only after an estimate. You know, eight thirty-two . . . eight thirty-three . . .’

  ‘Given that it is eight thirty-one, I’m guessing you’d like to open it now?’

  ‘Well, if you were opening it now . . .’

  ‘Like I said,’ he continues, ‘I don’t fancy it at the moment – but you’re welcome to open it.’

  ‘I’m obviously not going to open it,’ I tell him, exasperated. ‘Not when I’m on a diet.’

  ‘What difference does it make who opens it?’

  ‘Oh Henry,’ I sigh. ‘Will you go and open it so I can pinch some and not feel guilty?’

  He stops and smiles. ‘Of course.’

  He goes to the kitchen to get the trifle, returning with two dessert spoons, one for each of us. He sits next to me on the sofa and we dig in as I switch over the television.

  ‘What are we watching?’ he asks.

  ‘Reality TV at its best. It’s right up your street,’ I tell him ironically, because this isn’t Henry’s kind of show at all.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Live a little, Henry. You might like it.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ he asks.

  ‘Some poor person who’s never been lucky in love volunteers for a full makeover. By that, I don’t just mean a new wardrobe. They get lessons in how to flirt and how to behave on a date. They get a new hairdo, facials, teeth whitening—’

  ‘Is there anything left of them by the time they’re finished?’ Henry interrupts.

  ‘The good bits stay,’ I reply. ‘Though admittedly, good bits are sometimes in short supply.’

  As I tuck into the trifle looking not very like someone on day one of a diet, I’m gripped. This week’s subject is a thirty-eight-year-old virgin called Brian who works in IT and has teeth like a Cheltenham Gold Cup winner.

  ‘I thought I was in trouble,’ Henry says.

  ‘Just wait,’ I reply confidently.

  Fifty minutes later, Brian looks like a Levi’s 501 model with more chicks at his feet than The Fonz.

  ‘I admit it,’ says Henry as the credits roll. ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘Told you. Oh dear.’

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘The trifle’s gone.’

  ‘So it has.’

  ‘You must have eaten it all,’ I tell him.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Henry, you must have,’ I say. ‘I can’t possibly have devoured half a chocolate trifle – I barely noticed it. Tell me I didn’t.’

  He smirks. ‘Course you didn’t, Lucy. I scoffed the lot. Apart from one or two modest spoonfuls for you.’

  ‘I thought so,’ I say, taking out my Diet World Nootrient Tracker and marking down two and a half points – a reasonable estimate, I think.

  When I put it down, Henry is gazing into space.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask him.

  He shakes his head, snapping out of it. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, Henry. I’ve known you long enough to recognize when something’s up.’

  ‘Nothing’s up.’

  ‘Henry . . .’

  He frowns. ‘It’s nothing really. Just . . .’

  ‘Just what?’

  He pauses and stares at his hands. ‘You know the way I am with women?’

  I look at him, taken aback. ‘You mean . . . shy?’

  He nods. ‘It’s a pain in the arse.’

  I let out a little laugh, see his expression and stop. ‘Sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘Oh, forget it, honestly,’ he replies, waving his hand.

  ‘No, Henry – I’m sorry. Tell me what you were about to say.’

  He frowns for a second and takes a deep breath. ‘I’d like to have a girlfriend at some point.’ He squirms with embarrassment.

  Henry has had a relationship before, about five years ago. It was a kind of office romance – except he works in a laboratory, rather than an office. The point is, he spent ten months with Sharon from the Accounts Department before they drifted apart and she went to work in Cardiff.

  There was absolutely nothing wrong with Sharon. She was quiet, unassuming, plain but not unattractive. But, at the risk of sounding like an over-protective friend, she wasn’t good enough for him.

  I wanted to like her when we first met, to get to know her hidden depths. Unfortunately, and this will sound awful, I never found any. Sharon, God bless her, was as dull as they come.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find someone one day, Henry,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m not,’ he replies. ‘I’m a glass-half-full sort of person, but I’m also a realist. I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.’

  I go to protest then stop, not wanting to interrupt him.

  ‘I’m hopeless with the opposite sex,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know why, but I am. Utterly hopeless.’

  I bite my lip. ‘Why do you think you find it so difficult to talk to women?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replies, looking genuinely bewildered.

  ‘I mean, I’m a woman, and you’re not nervous with me.’

  ‘You’re Lucy,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a difference.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘Maybe I’m aware I’m not much of a catch,’ he goes on. ‘I don’t look like any of those blokes in your magazines – Orlando Broom, or whatever his name is.’

  ‘Bloom, Henry. Orlando Bloom.’

  ‘Yes – him. I know I don’t look like him. But then I already know that from a biological point of view, not everyone can look like him. Even accounting for evolutionary theories and survival of the fittest, the human race couldn’t exist if only a select few were to successfully procreate. In fact, every multi-celled organism, particularly mammals, has the capacity to find a mate.’

  ‘Which means?’

  He looks up at me. ‘Even duffers like me can get a girlfriend. In theory, at least.’

  ‘There you have it,’ I declare. ‘That’s your problem.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You think you’re a duffer, when you’re not.’

  ‘Your loyalty’s touching, Lucy, but the facts would indicate that I’m right.’

  I am about to protest again when I focus on Henry. His hair. His clothes. His glasses. He could be modelling on the front of a 1950s knitting pattern. I wonder how to put this.

  ‘Look, I stand by my view fundamentally, but . . .’ My voice trails off.

  ‘But what?’ he asks.

  ‘You could do with a makeover.’

  ‘Really?’ Henry looks shocked. Which shocks me. Although this is a conversation we’ve never had before, I can’t believe he hasn’t noticed that nobody else dresses like him. ‘There’s no way I’m going on television.’

  ‘No, of course not. You don’t need to. I could give you a makeover.’

  How have I never thought of this before? I smile at my idea, at its brilliant simplicity, then I catch sight of Henry. He doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Believe me,’ I continue, ‘as someone who has spent most of her adult life studying attractive men in detail, I’d know how to sort you out in the clothes department. And hair and skin – you’d benefit from a bit of microdermabrasion.’

  ‘Isn’t that how they remove corrosion
from car panels?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I tell him, ‘let’s do this properly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Inspired, I look him in the eyes. ‘This can be a project,’ I declare. ‘Project Henry!’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I mean it. Dominique could help. What she doesn’t know about flirting isn’t worth knowing.’

  ‘Is that what you call it? I’ve seen Dominique flirting and it’s like a lioness pouncing.’

  ‘It works,’ I argue. ‘And Erin used to be a personal shopper before she did her current job. She’ll have you looking like Brad Pitt in no time.’

  I stop and take stock. Henry looks terrible.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, deflating. ‘I didn’t mean to get carried away.’

  There’s silence for a second. ‘You didn’t, Lucy,’ he says to my surprise. ‘And you’re right.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I don’t want to spend a lifetime as a loser, as your terminally single friend. I mean, you’re not going to be around for ever.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Sooner or later, you’ll settle down and have a family with someone. It might even be whatsisname – Jack.’

  I frown.

  ‘The guy you’ve a date with on Friday.’

  ‘Jake,’ I say.

  ‘Whoever. The point is, that at some point in the not too distant future, I’ll be your sad bachelor friend who no longer has anyone to butter bagels for.’

  ‘You’ll always be my best friend, Henry. Always.’

  ‘Well, good. But I’d still like to get laid.’

  I laugh. ‘You say that like you’re a virgin. What about your relationship with Sharon? And what was that girl’s name at uni?’

  ‘Karen Allagreen.’

  ‘That’s her.’

  He looks at me. ‘One fleeting relationship and a single drunken fumble in ten years. Casanova would be crapping himself.’

  ‘Point taken. So is this reinvention a goer?’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

  ‘Great,’ I say coolly, picking up the trifle bowl and heading for the kitchen.

  When I get there, I have to bite my fist to stop myself squealing with glee. If you’d told me yesterday that Henry would agree to a makeover, I wouldn’t have believed it. This could be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Scrap that: I’m going to make sure it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I’m going to make sure that my single friend isn’t single for very much longer.