My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

I force myself to smile. He smiles back and returns to his piano, resuming his Debussy. I drag myself off the sofa and head to my bedroom to get changed out of my work clothes, appalled at this nagging feeling.

  I can’t really be jealous of Henry, can I? How the hell can I be jealous of Henry? My lovely, wonderful friend who’s finally found a woman who fancies the pants off him? Can I really be such a selfish, horrible person that I can’t feel 100 per cent happy for Henry – just because nobody wants me? Dear God, don’t make me so desperate for a man to like me that I resent—

  My mobile is ringing.

  ‘Lucy Tyler,’ I say.

  ‘Lucy, it’s Paul. How’re things?’

  Chapter 36

  I know what I said I’d do if Paul asked me out again. But that was before he did. Besides, the prospect of being alone on Saturday night while everyone else is out was about as appealing as an Ann Summers party at my grandma’s house. So I agreed to another date, probably too easily.

  I would have liked him to come up with a brilliant excuse for his no-show at the business awards. Sudden death in the family, accidental amputation of a limb, major earthquake causing widespread structural damage to his property – all would have been acceptable. That and a grovelling apology for not phoning for more than a week.

  In the event, he never mentioned the issue and I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t press him. It was a betrayal of every post-feminist bone in my body but, desperate that he didn’t change his mind, I took the easy option and kept my mouth shut. My self-respect is in tatters but at least I don’t have to sit in watching Britain’s Got Talent.

  ‘Come on, Ivana Trump, show us what you’ve bought,’ says Mum.

  Obviously, I also had to find a new outfit, just a modestly-priced one – nothing over the top. I might have known it’d be a mistake to stop at my parents’ house when I’m carrying shopping bags, though. Particularly when there are six.

  ‘None of it was expensive,’ I tell her, wondering why I feel the need to justify myself.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she says sarcastically, examining my Coast skirt. ‘Looks just like it came from a charity shop.’

  The kitchen door flies open and Dave walks in. He’s carrying nine shopping bags.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaims Mum. ‘We can safely say you two are getting through the global recession unscathed. You appear to have more disposable income than Elton John.’

  ‘All right, Mum,’ says Dave, plonking his bags at the table and heading for the fridge. ‘Got anything to eat?’

  Dave is permanently eating, and not especially healthily either. If he ever stopped weight training, he’d assume the Great Buddha look within weeks.

  ‘There are a couple of things in there,’ says Mum, ‘but for God’s sake don’t touch the pork pie, your father’ll go ballistic and—’

  Dave spins round, revealing a mound of pastry in his mouth like a suckling pig. He takes a bite. ‘Tell him I’ll owe him one,’ he says between mouthfuls.

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘What have you bought? Come on, let’s have a look.’

  ‘None of it was expensive,’ he says innocently.

  ‘There’s a Reiss bag there,’ I point out.

  He pulls a face. ‘So what?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m just saying, it’s hardly cheap in there.’

  His eyes widen in exasperation. ‘You’ve been to bloody Whistles. Bet there weren’t any customers in there who’d come straight from the Job Centre.’

  I frown. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Exactly my point, you dope.’

  I’ve already donned my best grotty fifteen-year-old’s face in preparation for my next comment, but Mum beats me to it. ‘Give it a rest, you two. Are you still going to be like this when you’re in your eighties?’

  I stand and pick up my bags.

  ‘I’m off now anyway, Mum,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  When we reach the hall, I remember something. ‘Oh, I haven’t asked – how was your salsa class?’

  She looks at her nails. ‘It was a bit naff. I thought it would be.’

  ‘Naff?’

  ‘Well,’ she sniffs, ‘not really my thing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘All those gyrating hips, everyone getting worked up, it was all a bit . . .’

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘Over the top.’

  ‘Right. So you didn’t enjoy it?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘So you’re not going again?’

  She shrugs. ‘Well, I wouldn’t, but Denise is absolutely insisting.’

  ‘You enjoyed it,’ I blurt out.

  ‘I did not.’ You’d think I’d accused her of GBH.

  I am about to leap back in and reconfirm the fact of which I’m certain, but instead I content myself with a knowing smile.

  Mum opens the door for me. ‘I don’t know what that funny face is all about. Cough and you’ll get stuck like that.’

  Chapter 37

  I’ve been in a few ‘brainstorms’ in my time, but none like this.

  ‘How about chivalry?’ says Erin. ‘Those little touches like opening doors for her, pulling out the restaurant chair – and simply being a perfect gentleman. That’s really important.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Dominique jabs her permanent marker in the air and spins round to add the word to her flip-chart. She’s getting into her training co-ordinator role and today’s tutorial is one of her favourite topics: how to behave on a date. ‘That’s a good one, Henry. Mind you, I reckon that’ll come naturally to you. Let’s recap.’

  Henry is concentrating hard. Now that he’s secured a date with Rachel he’s determined not to blow it. As he sits on our sofa before a list of dating rules – the result of our ‘blue sky thinking’ – Dominique has his full attention.

  ‘Number one: listen to her. Most men end up jabbering away about themselves and there’s nothing more offputting. Ask about her for a change. Where she grew up. Her job. Her likes and dislikes. You get the picture.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Henry.

  ‘Number two: act confident. You might feel anything but, Henry – that’s only natural. But don’t give it away. Relax your shoulders. Make sure you smile. Don’t twiddle your thumbs.’

  ‘I feel as if this is a job interview,’ says Henry.

  ‘It is, Henry,’ I tell him. ‘The vacant position is “boyfriend”.’

  ‘Number three,’ continues Dominique, ‘is flirt. We’ve been through this in detail. Lightly touch her arm. Make eye-contact. Hold her gaze.’

  ‘Yup,’ says Henry. ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Good,’ says Dominique. ‘Because there’s a final rule. One we’ve not discussed until now. It’s crucial that you don’t forget it.’

  ‘Another one?’ Henry looks worried.

  Dominique nods. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  Chapter 38

  Tonight, something new and exciting is happening in our household: Henry and I are both getting ready for dates.

  We dash around ironing clothes (Henry), retrieving lost hair curlers from under the sofa (me), and checking mobiles in case of a change of heart (both). By the time we’re ready for the off, we’ve generated enough nervous energy to fuel a light aircraft.

  Henry takes a deep breath. ‘You look gorgeous.’

  ‘So do you,’ I reply, feeling strangely self-conscious.

  I catch his eye and am unable to control myself. ‘Oh, Henry – come here and give me a hug!’ I throw my arms around him. ‘This is so exciting.’

  He hesitates and squeezes me back. I wonder for a second if I can detect something wrong, but he unravels from my clutch and smiles. ‘I know.’

  ‘You nervous?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d feel more relaxed doing a tandem parachute jump with a suicide bomber.’

  ‘You’ve got no reason to be anything other than confident,’ I tell him, brushing fluff from his shoulder. I stand back to examine him and am struck by how true my w
ords are. He is stunning tonight. It’s not just the new pale blue shirt and flattering jeans. His skin is glowing, his eyes sparkling. ‘Rachel thinks you’re the hottest thing on two legs.’

  ‘She must need her head examined,’ he grins as he opens the front door.

  The city-centre bar is already packed when I meet Paul. I’m relieved that I glammed up as the place is WAG-Central. Not all the women are real WAGs, of course, though there are one or two genuine ones, with legs as long as their hair extensions and micro-dresses as short as their attention span. But there are lots of girls who look the part – a bling-tastic bevy of beautiful women who appear to have spent three weeks French-manicuring their nails. I can’t hope to compete and not least because, next to theirs, my nails look as if they’ve been filed with a chisel.

  ‘Lucy!’ Paul spots me approaching the bar and beckons me over. I take a deep breath and head towards him, trying to hide my nerves.

  ‘Hi,’ I grin. He throws an arm around my waist and pulls me in, kissing me hard on the mouth. The kiss only lasts for a second but when he releases me, I can feel myself blush, somewhat stunned.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, um, fine,’ I reply breathlessly. I pull back and look into his eyes, reminding myself how gorgeous he is.

  He removes his arm from my waist and grabs me by the hand. ‘Come and meet some of the guys.’

  I shake my head, wondering if I’ve misheard him. ‘The guys? What guys?’ Did I say that out loud?

  ‘A few mates are hitting the town tonight so I thought we’d join them for a couple. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Before I get a chance to lie – of course I don’t mind! – I am standing in front of three blokes clutching designer bottles of beer and laughing uproariously. When they sense our presence, the laughter dies down and they turn to look. I feel like a museum exhibit.

  ‘This is Jimmy, Brian and Chas,’ announces Paul.

  ‘Hi. Lovely to meet you,’ I beam. Their expressions are so surly I’m half-expecting to be issued with a parking ticket. ‘I’m Lucy. Lovely to meet you.’ You already said that, you idiot. ‘Um . . . do you know each other through work?’

  I look directly at Jimmy, then Brian, then Chas. My aim is to detect a flicker of warmth from one so I can engage in conversation and begin bonding. If my relationship with Paul is to work out, I must demonstrate what a fantastic, convivial and all-round nice girl their friend is going out with.

  Sadly none of them answers.

  ‘We go way back,’ says Paul, downing the last quarter of his bottle in a demonstrative gulp. ‘Drink?’

  It doesn’t take long to realize that Jimmy, Brian and Chas, who clearly resent the intrusion of a female on their lads’ night out, are going to be hard work. In fact, calling them hard work underestimates it. I feel like a dancing monkey before a Roman Emperor more used to seeing virgins’ heads ripped off by marauding lions. My attempts to engage in small talk are greeted with one-syllable grunts – if I’m lucky – and it soon becomes clear that they think Paul was insane to bring me along tonight. Which is about the only thing on which we agree.

  If Paul notices this dynamic, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he joins in as they leap from topics of conversation which include (in no particular order): Keeley Hawes’s tits; last night’s Top Gear; whether it is acceptable form to fart on a first date (apparently this is not simply okay, but to be encouraged). For two hours – despite the peals of laughter – I struggle to detect a single genuinely witty remark among this poor excuse for schoolboy humour. Yet the last thing I want is to be dismissed as having no sense of fun, so I stand redundantly with a smile fixed to my face. This sounds easy, but it’s anything but. Unlike Paul, who has tears rolling down his cheeks, I find his friends about as hilarious as dysentery.

  ‘God, they’re funny!’ laughs Paul. He turns to the bar and I have a rare opportunity to talk to him alone. ‘Don’t you think? Brian’s like the next Billy Connolly – everyone says so.’

  Comparing Brian with Billy Connolly is akin to calling a cack-handed painting-by-numbers enthusiast the next Vincent Van Gogh. He might have an extensive repertoire of jokes, but you’d have to be lobotomized to find any of them amusing.

  ‘He certainly knows a joke or two,’ I force myself to say. Then: ‘Are we going somewhere else soon?’

  ‘Oh, dunno. Maybe,’ shrugs Paul, handing over a twenty-pound note to the bartender. ‘We’ll see what the boys are doing.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Oh, weren’t they going somewhere else?’

  ‘They’d planned to but, well, we’re all having a laugh here, aren’t we?’

  I look at him blankly, unable to think of something to say. We’re interrupted by Jimmy.

  ‘Paul! Wait till you hear this cracker Brian’s got about a nun with a boob job . . .’

  Chapter 39

  We finally get rid of Jimmy, Brian and Chas at 2.15 a.m. when, having bar-crawled round the city centre, Jimmy throws up under a table and we are politely asked to leave. On the way out, Brian and Chas bump into two women from a call centre where Chas’s brother Darren used to work. Mercifully, we manage to lose them.

  ‘So, you’ve been initiated,’ grins Paul, putting his arm round me as we wander up Castle Street looking for a taxi. ‘I get the feeling my friends like you.’

  I get the feeling Paul must be out of his mind, but decide not to say anything.

  He squeezes my waist and leans down to kiss my hair. My pulse quickens and it suddenly makes me forget to be irritated that he’s put me through one of the worst nights of my life. Instead I feel a rush of lust.

  ‘Shame we didn’t get much chance by ourselves though,’ he continues.

  ‘True,’ I shrug.

  He stops and turns to me, cupping my face in his hands as the light from the Town Hall lamps flickers in his eyes.

  ‘God, you’re sexy, Lucy,’ he breathes. I can feel his hips gently pressing against me and gulp. He leans in and brushes his lips against mine. Fireworks explode inside my new underwear – underwear I strangely found myself purchasing despite swearing that sex was off the agenda until I could trust Paul again after the North-west Business Awards.

  I wrap my arms around him and feel a bulge against my leg. I don’t know how long we kiss in the street for, but it’s long enough for me to know that when he suggests getting a taxi to his place, I’m not going to hesitate. We kiss the whole way home and, as the taxi trundles along, I feel myself getting more turned on.

  By the time it stops outside his house, I am breathless with desire and anticipation, so much so that I can’t bring myself to stop his hand as it moves underneath my top. We stumble into his flat, still kissing, and I know as the door slams that my rules are about to go out of the window.

  Before I know it, I’m in my bra in his hallway with his lips on my neck. I’m stumbling up the stairs as his shirt comes off. We’re collapsing through his bedroom door as my skirt is discarded. I’m panting with desire as his trousers are thrown to one side and the condom packet in his wallet is decisively ripped open.

  Writhing on his bed, my eyes close as I submit to the pleasure of the moment, to the sheer exhilaration I feel in the knowledge that the rest of the night is going to be the most sensual experience I’ve had in a very long time.

  I am staring at the ceiling of Paul’s bedroom as his snores ripple across the room. Pulling up his duvet over my chest, I wonder if I ought to go home.

  There is clearly no way he’s going to be roused from his slumber to continue this liaison. Besides, I don’t think I could work myself up again if I wanted to. Paul falling asleep on the job – in fact, before the job – is the mood-breaker to end all others.

  I wonder if it would have been good sex? Probably not, judging by how quickly he dropped off. Knowing my luck, it would have been over faster than you could soft-boil an egg.

  I sigh, nudge Paul to the other side of the bed and start retrieving my clothes before realizing that I’ve left my t
op draped on the bottom of the stairs and my bra outside the bathroom.

  I open his door and peer out. When I’m confident nobody else is in the house, I creep downstairs, grabbing my top from the banister and galloping back towards his bedroom, scooping up the bra on the way.

  ‘Hiya.’

  I am so startled by this voice I almost drop my top again, but fortunately manage to clutch it defensively to my chest.

  The source of this greeting turns out to be one of Paul’s flatmates.

  ‘Good night?’ he says.

  ‘Oh, great,’ I reply, wondering whether he’s noticed the fact that I am standing at the top of his stairs, bare-breasted and, therefore, not in the mood to chat.

  ‘Where’d you go?’ he asks.

  ‘The Loft.’ I clutch my top tighter around my chest.

  ‘Right,’ he nods. ‘Can’t stand it in there.’

  ‘Really? Never mind. Must go.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Catch you soon. Janice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lucy,’ I correct him, hovering behind Paul’s door.

  ‘Right,’ he nods. ‘Catch you soon, Darcy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I smile, as I close the door behind him decisively.

  Paul has shifted onto his front when I return, his athletic back on full view, his buttocks barely covered by his quilt. I crouch down close to his face as it presses against his pillow. His soft mouth is slightly open, his flickering eyelids revealing busy dreams. He looks vulnerable, almost childlike, and it makes me smile. I lean down and kiss him on the head.

  ‘Not quite what I was hoping for,’ I whisper, brushing away a hair from his face. ‘Shame I still fancy you so much.’

  Chapter 40

  When I wake the next morning in my own bed, I don’t feel good. The fact that I almost had sex with someone so soon after meeting him has made me feel cheap. I could live with this puritanical disappointment in myself if it had been steamy and sensational; that it was short and not especially sweet is the real killer. Then I close my eyes and picture Paul’s face, laughing, and feel a swell of affection regardless.