My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  The voice of the BBC commentator becomes so animated he sounds as if he’s been inhaling helium, and as the horses belt to the finishing line, it is almost too much to bear. The crowd is roaring and jumping, and as the horses battle each other with literally metres to go, I have to remind myself to breathe. With seconds before the finish, Mister Misery looks certain to win; only a miracle would change the outcome now.

  But in the last few seconds, a miracle does occur. River Runs Thru It summons a surge of energy so impressive it’s as if someone has injected him with Red Bull.

  He belts towards the finish, past Ebony and Ivory and nose-to-nose with Mister Misery. As the two of them cross the line, there is a hum in the crowd as everyone looks round, bewildered. Who won?

  ‘The winner is . . . River Runs Thru It,’ confirms the commentator as an earsplitting cheer surges through the racecourse. ‘Followed by Mister Misery in second, Ebony and Ivory in third and Forrest Rule in fourth.’

  ‘Bastard,’ mutters Paul, shaking his head.

  It’s not clear if he’s referring to his horse or Henry.

  Chapter 43

  The rest of the afternoon is as close to the definition of pure enjoyment as you can get. We laugh, drink and cheer our way through the final two races before stepping on a packed but merry train to the city centre. No one cares when their toes are pulverized by wobbly stilettos or their hat falls off and ends up looking as if it’s been through a car wash. We ought to stop drinking and go home to a cup of cocoa, but the city’s nightlife is too seductive.

  As the train pulls into a station to let a couple off, I glance at Dominique and Justin. Their arms are wrapped round a pole – and each other – with their eyes locked in mutual adoration. Dominique catches me looking at her. ‘You okay?’ she mouths.

  I nod and smile. As Justin pulls her tighter, I know I don’t have to ask her the same.

  Rachel, meanwhile, is resting her head drunkenly on Henry’s shoulder two seats away from where Paul and I are sitting, holding hands. I can’t see Henry’s face as a woman wearing a hat the size of a Notting Hill Carnival headdress is blocking his way. But from Rachel’s expression, I’d say her pheromones were doing overtime.

  ‘What’s the plan when we get to Liverpool?’ asks Carl, resting his arm on the back of the seat behind Erin. It is clear that Carl is keener on Erin than she is on him, only she’s too nice to give anything but the subtlest brush-off. As she registers his arm, she bends forward to pick up her bag, rustling round in it then checking her mobile for non-existent messages.

  ‘Everywhere will be packed,’ I say.

  ‘Let’s go to Mathew Street,’ suggests Paul.

  I’m sceptical. ‘Have you seen how mobbed Mathew Street is after the Grand National? Last time I tried it I spent a week dreaming I was being transported to France for slaughter.’

  ‘Everywhere will be mobbed,’ Paul states.

  ‘Yes, but Lucy’s right,’ says Dominique. ‘Mathew Street’s in another league on nights like tonight.’

  ‘How about that piano bar off Victoria Street?’ Henry says suddenly. ‘Dominique, don’t you know the owners?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ exclaims Erin.

  ‘I can’t stand it in there,’ mutters Paul.

  I smile at him uncertainly. ‘At least we know we’ll get in.’

  Before he has a chance to protest, Dominique is on her mobile, organizing the rest of the night.

  An hour later, we’ve bypassed the queue, thanks to Dominique’s efforts. The place is almost unrecognizable: what’s normally a low-key piano bar is heaving with people fresh from the races – though given that the party started for most of them before noon, perhaps ‘fresh’ isn’t the right word.

  As Henry takes my wine and passes it to me, I am struck by the look on the barmaid’s face. It’s remarkably similar to Rachel’s. She fancies Henry – it couldn’t be clearer.

  ‘Take one for yourself,’ he smiles, as he hands over a couple of notes.

  Her hand lingers and her eyes, flashing and flirtatious, meet his. She’s gorgeous. Dressed in a black wraparound shirt and with long, caramel-coloured hair against creamy skin, she is the sort of woman whose sole experience of zits is to walk past the tubes of Clearasil in Boots.

  Yet, here she is, making blatant eyes at Henry. Unbelievable.

  As she returns with his change and hands it back with an amorous smile, something else strikes me that’s also unbelievable. Henry’s smiling back, holding her gaze.

  Christ, he’s flirting.

  After what feels like an age, he turns to me. ‘Have you had a good day?’

  I snap out of my trance. ‘I have. Though not as good as you. When did you become such an expert at horse racing?’

  ‘Never,’ he assures me. ‘It’s pure luck.’

  ‘Well, Lady Luck was obviously looking at you with generous eyes today. Although I don’t think that’s the only lady looking at you at the moment.’

  ‘What? Oh, let me get that for you . . .’

  A passing race-goer has dropped her handbag. Henry bends down to pick it up. As she takes the bag, she registers his face and pauses.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ She smiles coyly.

  ‘A pleasure.’ Henry smiles back.

  The woman flicks back her chestnut curls with an enticing pout.

  ‘Thanks for the drink, Henry,’ interrupts a voice, which turns out to be Rachel’s. With her eyes drilling into those of Handbag Woman, whom she immediately recognizes as a pretender to her role, she flings her arm round his waist. She’s trying her best to look casual – but I suspect she wishes that Henry could be electronically tagged.

  Chapter 44

  The evening passes so quickly, it’s as if someone has pressed fast forward. Our day out began at eleven-thirty but, before I know it, it’s one in the morning and we’re still going strong. I’ve perked up since earlier in the evening when, before we ordered bar snacks to refuel, my body was begging for mercy. Now I have a second wind and feel as if I could carry on until dawn.

  ‘Dominique talks a lot about you,’ Justin tells me as he takes a slug of beer. Dominique and the others are chatting to one of her work contacts so it’s the first time I’ve spoken to him alone. So far, we’ve talked horse racing, my (permanently-lapsed) gym membership and whether cocktails are only for girls (he thinks so, unless you’re in the Bahamas).

  ‘She talks a fair bit about you too,’ I reply.

  ‘She’s a nice girl,’ he says.

  I scrutinize his expression. ‘Nice’ isn’t quite the adjective I was looking for. Dominique is as close to being serious about this bloke as she’s ever been, so I was expecting something more effusive. ‘Devastatingly wonderful’ would do. ‘The woman of my dreams’ at a push. ‘Nice’? No.

  ‘Of course, you’re a nice girl, too,’ he smirks.

  I smile uneasily.

  ‘Hello, Lover,’ says Dominique, appearing from nowhere. He leans into her and kisses her slowly on the lips. When they part, she turns to me and grins. ‘God, I’m a lucky girl, aren’t I?’

  Rachel has successfully kept Henry to herself for the last hour and when I catch up with them, she’s in a giggly mood.

  ‘Is Henry a good flatmate?’ she grins.

  ‘Oh, he’s a nightmare,’ I say. ‘Don’t let his easygoing charm deceive you, Rachel. He’s very challenging when he wants to be.’

  ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ laughs Henry.

  ‘I’m joking,’ I add. ‘He’s great really. Ridiculously great. The closest Henry has come to anti-social behaviour is playing his piano too loud.’

  Rachel goes into meltdown again. ‘You play the piano? I love the piano.’

  I’m starting to think that if I told Rachel that Henry unblocked drains in his spare time, she’d love that too. Still, I can’t complain: this is the precise effect we’d hoped for with Project Henry. I just never expected it to be so successful.

  ‘Are you any good? Oh, I bet you are,’ she continues.
<
br />   ‘I’m okay,’ says Henry modestly. ‘Relatively competent, no more than that.’

  ‘Relatively competent?’ I smirk. ‘Relative to whom? Liberace?’

  ‘Oh Henry, they’ve got a piano here,’ gushes Rachel.

  ‘Have they?’ He suddenly looks nervous.

  ‘Come on, why don’t you give us a tune?’ she beams.

  ‘Oh, I c-couldn’t,’ Henry stutters. ‘I mean, there’s music playing already.’

  Rachel looks disappointed. ‘Are you sure I can’t twist your arm?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ he says.

  Rachel smiles but her disappointment is obvious – that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. ‘Will you excuse me while I go to the ladies?’ she says.

  As she disappears to the other side of the bar, Dominique appears from nowhere. ‘Did I hear Rachel trying to persuade Henry to play the piano?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Henry, ‘but I was about to tell her that doing something as geeky as that would do nothing for my—’

  ‘There’s nothing geeky about being able to play an instrument,’ interrupts Dominique. ‘Some of the least likely sex symbols in the world owe their appeal to music. Look at Mick Jagger. Liam Gallagher. Steven Tyler. If they were behind the counter at the Co-op, no one would give them a second look. On stage, it’s a different matter.’

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 45

  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.