My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I tell him with conviction. ‘You’ve gone from being the nicest person I know to being – officially – A Right Bastard.’

  ‘I am not A Right Bastard.’

  ‘Deny it if you like.’ I sniff and look out of the window.

  ‘Really, Lucy, I’m not,’ he maintains. ‘At least, I don’t think I am. I certainly don’t mean to be.’

  ‘That’s no defence. What about poor Rachel?’ I huff. I don’t know when Rachel became ‘Poor Rachel’. I was never massively fond of the girl and, to be perfectly honest, her fawning over Henry was starting to make me feel queasy. But I feel the need to stick up for her.

  Henry pulls out a chair and sits down next to me, forlorn.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I ought to tell her I don’t want to see her again. Draw a line under it, for everyone’s sake. It’s just . . . well, she is very attractive, as you said. And nice.’

  ‘Then stop seeing anybody else and stick with her,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yes,’ he decides. ‘Though I was supposed to be going out with Wendy tonight.’

  I stand and thrust my chair under the table in disgust. ‘I give up!’

  ‘Lucy – come back. Let’s talk about this.’

  I stop at the doorway, cross my arms and spin round, snapping, ‘Okay. What?’

  ‘You’re absolutely right about Rachel, I accept that. And I’ll do something about it this afternoon.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But, as for the other people I’ve been seeing . . . have I been doing anything so wrong? All I’ve done is gone out on a few dates with one or two nice people. I haven’t proposed to anyone; I haven’t deceived anyone – I’ve been enjoying myself. Surely that was the point?’

  I try to think of an answer, but can’t.

  ‘What’s so awful about that, Lucy?’

  I look into his eyes, my heart pounding.

  ‘Forget it, Henry. You wouldn’t understand.’ I spin on my heels and head for the door. I’m well aware of my hypocrisy – because part of me doesn’t understand either.

  Chapter 50

  The following weekend, things are looking up: I have a date.

  I know that some people might not see this as a reason to celebrate, given my success rate. But, as I have discovered only too well, it’s better than sitting at home watching Pretty Woman again and listening to the groans of ecstasy coming through Henry’s wall.

  Besides, I have a good feeling about this one. Call me blindly optimistic, but Will – whom I met at a Chamber of Commerce lunch – seems a gentleman, unlike some of the blokes I’ve been out with. He’s also slightly less, how can I put this . . . obvious in the looks department. A bit shorter. Thinner. Pointy-nosed. Oh, that makes him sound awful and he’s not. He’s quite good-looking. Certainly passable. Which will do for me because what makes a man sexy and nice – and all the other things I’m looking for – has nothing to do with how he looks. I’ve learned that much.

  I’m also convinced that Will has the potential to be more tolerant than all the others if I do something inappropriate. Not that I’m planning to – but then, I never do plan these things.

  Will is a quantity surveyor who recently relocated from Bristol. His dress sense is slightly conservative. In fact, Will as a whole is slightly conservative.

  In the light of this, I considered forfeiting my subtle application of St Tropez, new choppy bob from Toni & Guy, outfit from Karen Millen and shoes from Kurt Geiger. Only they had a sale on in the Metquarter and I couldn’t resist. Plus, Dominique was getting her nails done at a place where there was a two-for-one offer and I couldn’t resist that either.

  I’ve never had acrylic nails before and I can’t believe what I’ve been missing. What a slattern I must have looked before two o’clock this afternoon, with the unpolished and woefully stubby efforts at the end of my fingers.

  Now, as I rest my hands gently on top of my new clutch bag, I feel a surge of self-confidence. God, they’re glam. Dominique tried to advise me to go for a shorter look, given I was an Acrylic Virgin. But, in for a penny in for a pound. Now, they’re so luscious and long that at a distance I must look like Edward Scissorhands’s big sister. Just joking. Kind of.

  The only downside to these magnificent talons is that, while they look the part, they make doing just about everything – from putting a key in the door to applying make-up – tantamount to embarking on an obstacle course. I had particular fun trying to get the lid off my shaving foam before doing my legs. Not only did I dislodge one edge of a nail (which is still hanging precariously despite some emergency DIY), I also ended up flinging the can across the bathroom and almost taking out a window. Thankfully, we’re double-glazed.

  It’s a balmy early summer evening as I sashay into the restaurant’s bar and see Will perched on a stool. He has a gin and tonic and is typing away on his BlackBerry as I approach. When he looks up, his expression relaxes me immediately.

  ‘Wow,’ he says, putting his phone away as he stands and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You look amazing, Lucy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile as I sit next to him. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He’s clearly fibbing as he’s almost finished his gin and tonic. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  The conversation feels stilted at first, but after a couple of drinks we loosen up. Admittedly I have to be flexible with the truth when he asks about my qualification in yoga (I don’t even remember telling him that) and being president of my local chess club – particularly since the last board game I played was Buckaroo. But by the time we sit down to eat and order our food, I’m confident the evening is going well.

  ‘Is your relocation a permanent one?’ I ask.

  ‘Who knows? I’m here because of the job, but I could end up settling here. It’d be a bit strange, I suppose, given that my friends and family are in the south. But you make new friends, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll look after you, if you like,’ I offer flirtatiously. When he doesn’t answer immediately I panic. Maybe my efforts to bring him out of his shell have been misjudged.

  Then his face cracks into a wide smile. ‘That’s settled it. I’m staying.’

  Chapter 51

  The restaurant is busy and service relatively slow, but that’s fine because it means that I get to learn all about Will. I decide I like him. I like him a lot. I can’t say we’ve a great deal in common, given that he grew up in a seven-bedroom house in Bedfordshire and I didn’t.

  Nevertheless, he is one of life’s good guys and therefore exactly what I need. By the time our food arrives I’m determined to impress him.

  ‘What did you go for?’ he asks, looking at my plate.

  ‘Tempura of king prawns with chilli and lime jam. I love seafood.’

  ‘Mmm, me too,’ he says. ‘But I also love a good soup and this one sounded lovely. Vine tomato and basil.’

  ‘Nice,’ I nod, picking up my fork delicately and wondering how to negotiate the dish without exposing my nails to further trauma.

  ‘Did you always want to go into PR?’ he asks.

  ‘Not exactly. I was interested in the media – read a lot of newspapers and that kind of thing. I toyed with being a journalist, but everyone wants to do that when they’re at university, don’t they?’

  ‘A lot of people seem to,’ he smiles.

  ‘I never really knew what I wanted to do. Then a friend did work experience at a PR agency in Manchester and loved it. I liked the sound of it, so decided to give it a go.’

  ‘Did you start at the bottom?’

  ‘I was a graduate trainee, which involved making as many cups of tea as it did writing press releases. But I loved it. I still do.’

  This remains just about true, despite recent events – not only the awards ceremony fiasco, about which I still have nightmares, almost two months later, but also the fact that Drew seems to have been unofficially crowned God’s Gift to the PR Industry since.

 
‘You’re lucky to have found a job you enjoy so much,’ Will says.

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘I don’t know how you fit it all in, what with your extracurricular activities. What was it you were telling me the other night . . . you can fence?’

  I feel my neck getting hotter, even though this is, in fact, true. Well, perhaps true is pushing it a bit. But I did get chosen to take part in a demonstration by a retired fencing champion at school when I was thirteen – and he said I was a natural. Under the circumstances, I feel I can hold my head high.

  ‘I don’t do it as much as I used to,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m a bit rusty.’

  ‘I’m sure it’d be like riding a bicycle. I’ve always fancied fencing myself. How about showing me the ropes next weekend?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Unless you think I’d hold you back.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Then it’s a date!’ He takes a spoonful of soup.

  ‘I’m busy next weekend,’ I blurt out. Clearly, it comes out more forcefully than I’d hoped as he sits up in shock.

  ‘Oh. Oh . . . I see.’

  No, you don’t see. Oh, now I’ve gone and made him think I don’t like him. What am I going to do?

  He continues to eat his soup silently as I solemnly make my way through my prawns, wondering how things have gone so awry.

  Will looks out of the window. ‘I hadn’t realized how magnificent the architecture was in this city.’ It is a random comment, but I’m so grateful at his attempt to get the conversation back on track that I nearly lean over and kiss him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I smile instead. ‘There are more Grade One listed buildings here than anywhere outside London.’

  I put down my fork to pick up my wine. But as I go to grab the glass, I catch my hand against a large pot of black pepper and hear a ping, as pain tears through my finger.

  I suck air through my teeth and briefly contemplate the source of my agony. Then I catch sight of it: my false nail. Rocketing across the table like a heat-seeking missile.

  My eyes widen in panic and I hear a squeak escape from my lips. Shit! My false nail is airborne. And it’s heading . . . directly for my date’s soup.

  My heart stops as the nail lands with a small splash, pauses momentarily on the surface, then capsizes into the deep like a tiny version of the Titanic.

  Oh my God. Oh my –

  ‘I particularly like the Cunard building,’ Will continues, apparently oblivious to the synthetic nail I’ve catapulted into his starter. ‘Terribly grand, all that Italian Renaissance-influenced stuff. Over the top almost – but I still can’t resist it.’

  He waits for a response.

  ‘Um . . . no,’ I grin weakly, my heart pulverizing my ribcage. ‘Me neither.’

  Barely able to catch my breath I stare, incredulous, as he dips his spoon into his soup and lifts it to his mouth. I pause, while he sips, apparently successfully, before resting the spoon back in the bowl. I breathe a momentary sigh of relief.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I begin, trying to sound casual, ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. Why don’t we send back these starters and move onto the next course?’

  He looks at me, clearly wondering if I’m demented.

  ‘Waiter!’ I shout, beckoning over one of the blokes serving the table next to us.

  The waiter turns and frowns.

  ‘Over here, please!’

  ‘I’m serving this lady and gentleman,’ he responds sniffily. ‘But I’ll be right with you, madam.’

  I turn back to Will, my face burning.

  ‘Actually, I’d like to finish this soup,’ he tells me with a worried look. ‘It’s nice.’

  He lifts his spoon up to his mouth once more and I hold my breath again. As the liquid seeps between his lips, without incident, I nearly pass out with relief. It’s shortlived.

  ‘Why are you in a hurry?’ he asks, dipping his spoon into the soup again.

  ‘I just . . . I . . .’ I am unable to think of a response.

  The spoon lingers as a disappointed look settles on his face. ‘You don’t want to be on this date, do you?’

  ‘No, I do!’ I cry.

  ‘You don’t like me very much, I can tell.’

  ‘I do! Honestly I do! It’s just—’

  I consider cutting my losses and confessing about the stray nail. But just then, our waiter arrives.

  ‘Now, madam,’ he says with a stiff smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  I glance at Will as he slurps another spoonful of soup, then at his bowl – and can see the white edges of my nail poking out. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  Regardless of Will’s desire to finish his starter, I turn to instruct the waiter to remove the offending bowl, when I catch sight of Will out of the corner of my eye slurping another spoonful. I glance down at the bowl again and – arrgh! – the nail is gone.

  I look at Will and gulp. He looks at me and smiles. But his smile lasts less than a second. Soon he’s frowning. Soon his expression becomes very strange. His face very . . . red.

  ‘Cchhrrr!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Panic sweeps over me.

  ‘Chhrrr!’ He grabs his oesophagus.

  Paralysed, I watch as Will coughs and splutters, his cheeks an alarming shade of purple. He stands up and starts gesticulating wildly to the lower part of his throat, as guests on the next tables wonder what’s going on.

  ‘Oh God!’ I shrill, leaping up and knocking over my wine.

  ‘He’s got something stuck in his throat,’ yells the waiter, perceptively.

  ‘Do something!’ I cry.

  ‘Chhhecrrhrhrhh!!’ says Will.

  ‘I know the Heimlich manoeuvre!’ A large, middle-aged woman from the next table barges forward.

  She lifts Will up, grabs him from behind and wraps her arms round his ribcage. She then starts thrusting backwards and forwards, tightening her arms around his body as his face turns even brighter and he wheezes like a burst bagpipe.

  The woman pauses to gather her forces, before putting every last bit of might into another thrust. Will’s head flies forward and my nail shoots from his mouth as if powered by a jet engine.

  She releases him and he slumps down into his chair.

  ‘God, Will . . . are you all right?’ I kneel to look at him, praying that he’s come through this unscathed. He’s panting like an asthmatic greyhound and tears are pouring down his face, but he manages to nod.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asks the waiter.

  Diners and staff start scrambling on the floor to try to work out what almost killed a man. I look at Will and see that he’s recovering rapidly. I seize him by the elbow and murmur. ‘I think we should go.’

  ‘W-what?’ he wheezes. ‘Well, yes but . . . give me a minute.’

  I look at the door, biting my lip.

  ‘Ready now?’ I ask, hoping I don’t sound unsympathetic. I mean, I am sympathetic – honestly, I feel terrible. But I only have one chance of escape.

  Will is wiping his face with a napkin, pouring out some water.

  ‘It’s a nail!’ shrieks someone from the next table. ‘It’s one of them bloody fake nails! Was that in his food? This place should be shut down.’

  I catch Will staring through bloodshot eyes at my middle finger – the only one with a short, stubby nail, covered in half-set glue – and I know I’ve been busted.

  Again.

  Chapter 52

  I pray Henry’s around when I arrive home after ten. I’m desperate to talk about what happened tonight and he is the only person who’ll do. Aside from the fact that Dominique and Erin are out, they’re not as good at listening as Henry. No disrespect to them, but no one is. And after tonight’s shenanigans, I need someone to do some serious listening.

  I remind myself, however, that it’s Saturday night and Henry hasn’t been around on a Saturday night since dinosaurs roamed the plains of east Africa. At least it feels like it. The point is, I’m not holding
out much hope.

  As I put my key in the door and push it open I spot Henry’s coat on the rack in the hallway, hanging next to mine. The sight makes my heart skip with happiness. Henry’s home and I know I’m going to be all right.

  His keys are on the side table, next to his mobile phone. I pick it up and look at the screensaver, a daft shot of him and me taken on the beach last summer. I can’t help smiling, though I’ve seen it a thousand times. Thank God I’ve got Henry.

  I head for the living room, assuming he’s watching telly, and push open the door. I couldn’t be less impressed with the sight before me if I tried.

  Mercifully, they’re fully clothed. Yet, the position of Henry and this woman – whoever she is – is so intimate, she might as well be fellating him.

  Henry is lying on his back, biceps resplendent with a hand behind his head, as this She-Devil with glossy black ringlets and a skirt up to her crotch is leaning on his chest, impossibly toned legs entwined around his. She’s gazing at him, her expression oozing awe and lust. In his hand is a battered paperback entitled Love Poetry of the Eighteenth Century.

  ‘My poor expecting Heart beats for thy Breast,’ Henry murmurs with a tongue-in-cheek smile, ‘in ev’ry Pulse, and will not let me rest. A thousand dear Desires are waking there . . .’

  He stops and looks up. ‘Oh Lucy, hi. I didn’t see you there.’

  The siren scrambles up and pulls down her skirt. Thankfully, I no longer have an eyeful of her lacy black knickers (cheap-looking, I couldn’t help but notice).

  ‘Hi! Sorry to interrupt. I’m Lucy. Lovely to meet you.’ Beaming, I march over and hold out my hand to the woman, determined not to make my resentment apparent.

  ‘Hi!’ she replies brightly, sitting up and straightening her top. ‘I’m Davina. Henry’s told me a lot about you.’

  She’s pretty, with a winsome smile, a stick-thin body and breasts that could double for space hoppers.

  ‘All good, I hope.’ I breathe in and subtly stick out my chest.

  ‘Of course,’ he says smoothly.

  Then we all stare at each other, smiling politely.