My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  Next, I hear the door to Henry’s room open and shut and Rachel’s giggling disappear as she – clearly – ends up in the place where she’s wanted to be all day. Henry’s bed.

  I close my eyes again and take a deep breath.

  So, he’s done it. Project Henry is an unqualified success. He looks amazing. He got the girl. And he could have had at least ten others, judging by tonight.

  I should be congratulating myself on a job well done.

  So why do I feel like screaming into my pillow?

  Chapter 46

  Rachel stays all of Sunday and I spend the day bumping into her and Henry and exchanging awkward pleasantries. I keep expecting her to leave, but she doesn’t. By Monday morning, I’m desperate to get out of the house so head off to work at seven-twenty. I have my bag over my shoulder and my hand on the door knob when Rachel emerges from Henry’s room wearing one of his new T-shirts – and a flush on her neck.

  ‘Hi again.’ All of a sudden she looks shy, which is odd from someone who’s had no compunction about her orgasmic groans reverberating through the walls for over twenty-four hours.

  ‘Hi, Rachel,’ I smile. ‘Good weekend?’

  She giggles. ‘You could say that.’

  I’m at my desk by eight and spend the first hour trying to sort through the mountain of emails I didn’t manage to look at on Friday. At eight forty-five, I can hear Roger approaching the double doors from the corridor; I’d recognize his laugh anywhere. He’s chatting to someone as the doors open.

  ‘Hi, Roger!’ I beam, as he steps into the office.

  He stops laughing. ‘Morning, Lucy.’

  Drew glides in behind him with an obsequious grin. ‘Catch you later, Rog,’ he says, touching his arm. ‘Don’t let that birdie go to your head, will you?’

  Drew sits at his desk and continues grinning. His teeth are so white it hurts to look at them.

  ‘And how was your weekend, Lucy?’ he asks, firing up his computer.

  ‘Wonderful, thank you. I had a fabulous time at the Grand National and—’

  ‘I played golf with Roger,’ he declares, and leans back to wait for a response.

  I pause. ‘Oh. That’s nice. You had good weather for it.’

  ‘It was great spending quality time with the boss. It’s one thing getting on well at work, but sometimes you need to kick back and enjoy the company of your colleagues – don’t you think? That’s what Roger said when he suggested I joined him for a round.’

  ‘Where did you play?’

  ‘Roger’s club. He’s going to put me forward as a member. I feel quite honoured.’

  I feel a stab of envy. Roger has never invited me to play golf. Okay, my experience of the game amounts to one round on an Ancient Rome-themed circuit one wet Easter holiday when I was seven, but that’s not the point. Roger’s supposed to be my mentor. How could he play golf with Drew? I feel like an abandoned wife.

  Things have never been the same after the business awards. It’s hard to put my finger on how; Roger hasn’t done or said anything specific, but he’s been cool and distant in a way that’s entirely new to me. And I hate it.

  A shadow descends on the desk and when I look up, it’s Roger.

  ‘I’ve got a cracking lead for a new client here,’ he says, holding a pile of papers. ‘A big firm of accountants is looking to outsource its PR. I need a brilliant proposal.’

  I smile, relieved. I’m overflowing with work at the moment, but I’d relish winning a big new client to remind Roger what I can do. ‘Hand them over,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Dominique and I will work our usual charms.’

  Roger frowns. ‘Actually, Lucy, I want Drew to handle this one. I think it fits his skill-set more.’

  As Drew takes the papers, he catches my eye and winks. I suddenly feel so very depressed.

  Chapter 47

  The Rachel Weekend as it’s become known by me, Dominique and Erin turns out to be just the start.

  The new Henry has been unleashed.

  The weekend after the Rachel Weekend, he has a date with a restaurant hostess called Jasmine. It lasts for several days. The Saturday after that, there’s a date with a gym teacher called Diane. She only lasts one night, but then he’s back with Rachel. But only on the Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. By Saturday, a financial analyst called Wendy pops up out of nowhere. She stays until Monday, when Rachel appears again. But only for one night, because he’s back with Jasmine the following evening, while I’m left to fight off phone calls from all the others. And so it goes on.

  In the three weeks or so after the Grand National, I hardly see Henry. When I do he’s either off out with some woman or other, or coming back home with them, where they closet themselves in his bedroom, emerging hours – or, more often, days – later with the most nauseatingly dreamy expressions you’ve seen outside a 1980s Cadbury’s Chocolate Flake advert.

  By early May, I’ve come to the conclusion that Henry is making up for a lifetime of being romantically unattached by shagging everything that moves.

  I know, I know. I know this was the point of Project Henry, but I hadn’t counted on turning my flatmate into Hugh Hefner.

  Maybe I’m exaggerating. I have technically only seen him with four women – though that’s quite enough, thank you. I feel distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of Henry’s bedroom, once home only to a library of dull medical books, as a temple of seduction. I’m even more uncomfortable with the fact that I’m so uncomfortable with this. The reason is not that I fancy Henry – a shortlived aberration on Grand National Day that could happen to anyone after seven glasses of Pinot Grigio.

  I must be jealous. While we were in the piano bar, Paul apparently disappeared off the face of the earth and I haven’t heard from him since. It’s not that I thought he was the love of my life, but can’t I do the dumping for once? Worse still, I haven’t been out on a single date since, not even an unsuccessful one. My love-life is like a desert – parched, arid, uninhabited. And my self-esteem is at rock bottom.

  ‘Your mum called last night,’ I say, as Henry wanders into the kitchen. It’s Saturday morning and I’m at the table reading the papers and nibbling on a miniature saucer of compressed sawdust, otherwise known as slimming toast. Henry was out again last night, though God knows with whom.

  ‘Oh, did she?’ He idly flicks on the kettle. ‘Did she keep you on for a while? She’s buzzing from her Papua New Guinea trip.’

  ‘About twenty-five minutes, but I don’t mind. I love your mum – she can talk as much as she likes.’

  ‘Well, the feeling’s mutual – she loves you too. Though if you deny you switched off when she got to the bit about the freshwater swamp forests, I won’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ I smile, looking up for the first time.

  He’s wearing a pair of hastily thrown-on Levis with the buttons done up wrong. And no T-shirt. The sight of his torso, to which I’d never given a second thought until recently, makes my neck redden. I drop my eyes and pretend to be engrossed in a story about the over-breeding of Neapolitan mastiffs.

  ‘What are you up to today?’ I ask, too brightly. ‘I’m meeting Dominique and Erin for lunch if you want to join us.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s all right,’ he says, pouring hot water in his cafetière and opening the mug cupboard. ‘I’m busy.’

  I notice that he’s holding two mugs and the penny drops. ‘Oh, you’ve got company.’ My neck gets hotter again.

  ‘Yes,’ he says awkwardly. ‘It’s Diane. You know, the gym teacher.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, through a forced smile. Yes, I know Diane. Diane of the Porn Star Pout and Tennis Ace Arse. Can’t say I’m a fan.

  ‘Well . . . see you later,’ he smiles, picking up his cafetière.

  ‘Yep. See you.’ Henry heads for his bedroom.

  When I meet the girls for lunch two hours later and recount this episode, Dominique greets it with the unbridled joy you’d reserve for hearing that someone who’s e
ndured twenty years of IVF was finally expecting.

  ‘This is fantastic!’ she whoops. ‘We ought to celebrate.’

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ I mutter.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ She says it as if I’ve left my commonsense on the top deck of a bus. ‘We’re celebrating the phenomenal success of Henry’s reinvention. We’re celebrating our collective genius. We’re celebrating the fact that Henry has managed to get his bloody leg over for once.’

  ‘Not once,’ I point out forlornly. ‘He’s always at it. It’s his new hobby. He should put it on his CV next to reading and piano-playing.’

  ‘He is incredibly attractive these days,’ continues Erin blithely. ‘Hard to believe the effect of little more than a few new clothes and a decent haircut.’

  ‘It’s all about confidence,’ adds Dominique knowingly. ‘I’m telling you, this is not just about the new gear Henry’s going around in, it’s not about his new haircut and the fact he’s ditched those god-awful glasses. It’s about the fact that he exudes self-assuredness. He’s genuinely sexy. Don’t you think, Lucy?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I shrug.

  Actually, attempting to deny that Henry is sexy is like trying to deny that Fairy Liquid is green, but I feel uneasy discussing it.

  ‘Anyway, enough about Henry,’ I say to Dominique. ‘What about you and Justin? How’s it going with him at the moment?’

  ‘It’s going fabulously,’ my friend replies, glowing like she’s stepped out of a Ready Brek advert. ‘We’ve been together for over three months – and he’s still gorgeous.’

  ‘Is it love?’ winks Erin, grinning.

  Dominique takes a sharp intake of breath. Then she hesitates. ‘Do you know . . . I’ll have to think about that one.’

  Erin flashes me a look.

  ‘What?’ asks Dominique. ‘What’s with the conspiratorial looks?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ teases Erin. ‘You’ll come round to the idea, sooner or later.’

  Dominique giggles and it strikes me that she’s never looked happier. Which is brilliant, obviously. But there’s something about Justin that bothers me. I just can’t put my finger on what.

  Chapter 48

  As my only other single friend, I invite Erin over to share nachos and a bottle of wine.

  There was a time when, if I didn’t have a date on a Saturday night, I’d sit in with Henry watching something from the DVD shop round the corner. It was an exercise in compromise as this is the DVD shop that time forgot. If you want a mid- to late-nineties classic, this is your place. Anything approaching a new release and you have to wait another five years before Ajmail, the owner, contemplates getting it in.

  Aside from that, Henry’s idea of a great movie and mine aren’t always the same thing. So we’d take it in turns. My choice one week (Dirty Dancing, Maid in Manhattan); his choice the next (Jean de Florette, The Year of Living Dangerously).

  I took it for granted until now. I can no longer count on Henry to just be there. To listen as I whinge about my love-life. To hold my bag of Maltesers so I can pretend he’s eaten them. To hand me the tissues when Johnny announces he’s gonna do his kinda dancin’ . . . with somebody who taught him about the kinda person he wants be. Sigh.

  Still, I’m having a nice time with Erin, when I can stop my mind from wandering onto what Henry’s up to.

  ‘Do you get sick of being single, Lucy?’ asks Erin, dipping a nacho into some guacamole.

  I briefly consider denying it. ‘Yeah,’ I confess. ‘You know the way recently divorced celebrities always say: “I’m enjoying being single”? Well, I wish I was, I really do. But it’s either exhausting when you manage to get a date, or boring when you don’t.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she agrees.

  ‘This is going to sound sad . . . but I want a man.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘I know. But I’m starting to get the feeling I’m never going to find one who I really fancy and really like. Oh, and who feels the same about me.’

  ‘Yes, you will. I’m sure you will.’

  ‘I’m not so certain. I want someone I really click with. Someone I can have fun with. Whose wavelength I’m on completely. I don’t think he exists.’

  ‘Of course he does – you have a relationship like that with Henry, don’t you? All you need to do now is find someone exactly like Henry, but who you fancy as well.’

  I blush again. I’ve started doing it all the time. I know as soon as it happens that Erin has seen me.

  ‘Oh God. How stupid of me,’ she says slowly.

  ‘What?’ I’m pillarbox-red by now.

  ‘You don’t think . . . you haven’t considered, you know, you and Henry getting together.’

  ‘Hhahhhahaaaa!’ I blurt out. ‘Of course not! Henry? And me? Hahahaaaa!’

  Erin looks stunned at my verbal ejaculation. ‘That’s a no,’ I add.

  ‘Oh. What a shame. You’d be perfect together in so many ways. You share this amazing history, you get on well, you—’

  ‘But we don’t fancy each other,’ I interrupt. ‘That tends to be a prerequisite.’

  I know I’m not being remotely honest about my feelings for Henry. But how can I be? My thoughts about him lately have been just wrong. Under normal circumstances, when a man was playing on my mind, I’d want to analyse every element of the situation with my friends; to get their feedback and advice. But I can’t discuss Henry with Erin and Dominique as if he falls into the same category as Jake or Sean or Paul. He’s Henry. He’s different. And he’s their friend, as well as mine.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask, changing focus rapidly. ‘How do you find being single?’

  ‘I don’t mind it,’ she shrugs. ‘I thought I would, but I don’t. In some ways it’s liberating. Do you remember I told you that Darren, James and Amanda were going travelling?’

  ‘Oh yes. Have they gone yet?’

  ‘Not until September,’ she says. ‘They’ve asked me to go with them.’

  ‘Really? Erin . . . my God. Are you going?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. But I like that I could if I wanted. When I was with Gary I wouldn’t have considered it. The fact that I can is almost as good as doing it.’

  Our conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing. ‘Excuse me a sec.’ I pick it up.

  ‘Hi, is that Lucy?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Hi, Rachel. How are things?’

  ‘Oh. Not bad.’ She sounds as if she’s spent the afternoon on a suicide self-help website. ‘Is Henry in? I can’t reach him on his mobile.’

  I hesitate. ‘Er, he’s out, Rachel, I’m afraid. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Oh. Tell him I called. Again. Thanks, Lucy. Bye.’

  I put down the phone and can’t help feeling rather sorry for her. And I come to a conclusion I’ve been building up to for some time now: it’s time to have words with the Lothario I call my flatmate.

  Chapter 49

  Henry arrives home at ten the next morning and immediately dives into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he wanders into the kitchen as I am making my breakfast.

  ‘Rachel called again last night,’ I tell him, trying to unpurse my lips.

  ‘Oh, did she?’ He at least has the decency to look guilty about messing her around.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply haughtily.

  Henry is wearing his combats and a plain dark T-shirt. Nothing special, yet he manages to look unfeasibly sexy. I haven’t got my head around that idea yet. Henry being sexy, I mean. Henry looking half-decent used to be a difficult enough concept. Every morning I expect him to emerge looking like he used to: as if he’s stepped out of a time-warp, all monstrous manmade fibres and mad hair.

  Instead, his clothes enhance a physique to which I never paid a moment’s attention until recently. One with sculpted biceps, a tight stomach, a broad, muscular back and perfectly-formed buttocks. It’s hard to believe that’s always been there, unnoticed and unloved.

  As he wal
ks past me to grab a bottle of milk from the fridge I get a waft of his smell – of shower gel and sunshine. My heart begins to flutter. I knock over my coffee.

  ‘Oh . . . shit,’ I mutter, scooping it up.

  ‘Everything all right, Lucy?’ Henry grabs a dishcloth, just in time for the liquid to seep into it.

  ‘Yes. No. Yes.’

  Jesus Christ. I sound like Vicky Pollard. My love-life must be bad. Has it really got to the point where a sniff of whatever Henry’s washed his armpits with makes me feel fruitier than a packet of Starburst?

  He looks at me with a concerned expression.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue hastily, ‘about Rachel . . . don’t you think you ought to tell her straight that you and she are no longer an item?’

  He nods earnestly then pauses, thinking. ‘Hmmm. I’m not sure I don’t want us to be an item.’

  ‘Henry,’ I begin sternly, ‘you’ve slept with three other women since you met Rachel. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you no longer an item.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with all of them,’ he protests.

  ‘You ended up in bed with them,’ I reply disapprovingly.

  ‘I know, but in not every case did I—’

  ‘PLEASE! I do not want to know the finer details of what you did or did not do with those women once you got them horizontal,’ I say furiously.

  He takes a swig from the milk bottle, finishing it off. ‘Look, I never told Rachel I was going to marry her. I never even said we were serious.’

  ‘So dump her.’

  ‘I like her.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘I just like the others too,’ he adds.

  ‘Oh God!’ I slump into my chair and put my head in my hands.

  ‘What?’ he asks innocently.

  ‘You’ve turned into a . . . a . . .’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A man! A typical bloody man!’ I whine.

  ‘I was always a man,’ he says, looking quite bewildered.

  ‘No!’ I yell, thumping the table-top. ‘You weren’t like this. You were nice.’

  ‘I’m still nice.’ He looks hurt.