My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  I realize why, when I glance in the mirror and see my face: I look as if I’ve undergone a skin graft. Oh God.

  Only I, Lucy Tyler, would encourage my best friend to nuzzle his face into my boobs and remove my make-up with household bleach in a single evening. How do I manage it?

  I splash my face with water, wincing as it stings my skin. Tears prick in my eyes and I force myself to look away from the mirror.

  Come on, Lucy.

  If there’s any chance of salvaging things between me and Henry, I’ve got to march out there as if nothing has happened. Things would have been easier if nothing had happened . . . but there you go. I make a big effort to compose myself.

  At least I’m not the only one in this boat. Henry’s going to have to face me too.

  The thought sends me into a wave of panic. What the hell is Henry thinking?

  I hope he doesn’t want to move out.

  I hope he doesn’t think I’m easy.

  I really hope he doesn’t think my boobs are too small . . .

  ‘Lucy? Are you all right in there?’

  I drop my electric toothbrush and it clatters to the floor, spraying toothpaste over the toilet pedestal and a leg of my jeans.

  ‘Um . . . yep!’ I cry.

  I straighten my back and, before I’ve got a chance to think about it, I march to the bathroom door and open it decisively.

  ‘Morning!’

  I steam past Henry to the kitchen and put on the kettle.

  He follows me. ‘Good morning,’ he replies, sounding thoroughly calm.

  I don’t look at him long enough to see his expression, even though I’m dying to. In fact, I don’t look at him at all. I busy myself with rooting around in the kitchen cupboard for something. Anything.

  ‘What are you after?’ Henry asks eventually. ‘There’s plenty of tea in the caddy.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ I refuse to remove my head from the cupboard. ‘I fancied a cup of Earl Grey.’

  ‘I thought you hated Earl Grey.’

  ‘Used to. Love it now.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  I eventually locate an old box of Earl Grey tea bags and set about rearranging the crockery cupboard.

  ‘Fancy one?’ I ask cheerily.

  ‘Go on then,’ says Henry. ‘Though I’ll have a PG Tips.’

  ‘Okeydokey,’ I reply. Oh God.

  Henry sits at the table and waits for me to do the same. Instead, I bend down to the cupboard under the sink and start scrambling around in it, not knowing why exactly.

  ‘Lucy . . .’

  I grab a bottle of Cif and, flicking up the top purposefully, pour some on a cloth and begin polishing the kitchen tap.

  ‘Lucy . . .’

  ‘Hmmm?’ I say, refusing to stop despite the muscles in my arm feeling as if they’re about to ignite.

  ‘Lucy . . . why don’t you sit down?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ I’m getting a hot flush or something.

  When my arm can take no more, I fling the cloth in the sink, splash some boiling water into our tea cups, followed by some milk, and plonk Henry’s cup in front of him.

  ‘Right.’ I take a slurp of mine. ‘Must dash.’

  ‘Lucy – wait,’ insists Henry. I stop in my tracks, my back still facing him. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Reluctantly I turn round, walk to the table and sink into the chair opposite him. My eyes are glued to my cup.

  ‘The thing is . . .’ He pauses. ‘God, what’s wrong with your skin?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply self-consciously. ‘It’s feeling sensitive, that’s all.’

  It’s not the only one.

  ‘The thing is,’ Henry repeats, staring into his tea, ‘I think we should talk about last night.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ I say, shifting in my seat.

  ‘But there is.’

  ‘Henry, really.’ I force a smile. ‘The worst possible thing would be for us to make a big deal out of it.’

  ‘It is a big deal.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I gulp.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, it was a mistake. A stupid mistake. Mistakes happen all the time, don’t they?’

  He looks at me, saying nothing. I refuse to meet his gaze.

  ‘We need to accept that it was a ludicrous, ill-judged, drunken . . . thing . . . that never should have happened,’ I ramble. ‘And be thankful that it didn’t go further. The sooner we can put it behind us, the better. That’s the way I see it. Don’t you?’

  I finally look up. I can’t make out his expression. His jaw is locked, his eyes intense. ‘I think there’s more to be said than that.’

  Part of me is dying to know what else Henry has to say. But mainly, overwhelmingly, I can’t bear to continue this discussion.

  ‘Honestly, Henry, I don’t. We both know that we’d never have done anything like that if we’d been sober. I know I wouldn’t. God – the very idea of it. You and me. Ha!’

  He frowns.

  ‘Things will be back to normal in no time,’ I gabble. ‘What am I talking about . . . they already are, aren’t they? I mean, I don’t fancy you in the slightest in the cold light of day. Not in the slightest. And I know the feeling’s mutual. There – see? All back to normal.’

  He looks at me strangely and sips his tea.

  ‘Right,’ I smile stiffly. ‘I’m off shopping. Do you want anything?’

  Chapter 59

  It is hard to describe the atmosphere in the flat over the next two weeks. Things couldn’t be weirder if Marilyn Manson had signed up as our cleaning lady.

  At first Henry seems to be there every time I go home – which is hard to get used to, given that his presence had been so rare before. He makes repeated attempts to talk about what happened, but I cut him dead every time.

  This defies everything I’ve learned from the lifetime of study I’ve devoted to problem pages – and I’m certain that Mariella Frostrup wouldn’t approve. But I can’t help it. I am mortally embarrassed. Terminally ashamed. Permanently wishing I lived somewhere else. Like Saturn.

  I still haven’t discussed what’s going on with Dominique or Erin. And I definitely haven’t told them what happened on the night of the Caribbean Monkfish Stew. I’ve thought about it, of course, but it’s as though discussing my feelings for Henry makes them more real – and I’d rather pretend they weren’t real, thanks very much. I’d rather they went away.

  So my strategy is to pretend it never happened; to maintain a stiff upper lip. It’s sort of working. At least, Henry eventually stops raising the issue, even if he still lingers in the flat, desperate to clear the air.

  I should stress that I too want to clear the air, obviously – only it’s easier said than done. My thoughts about Henry used to be blissfully straightforward. I loved him as a friend and nothing more. Now my head is a riot of confusion and emotions that are impossible to deconstruct.

  In its simplest form, I mourn the way things were; our pure, platonic friendship that existed effortlessly, devoid of romantic stirrings. I miss the casual banter, the conversations that are only possible between two people who know each other inside out and always have. I cringe at the strain in our voices, the attempts to recreate our uncomplicated relationship faltering every time.

  In short, I know that nothing will make things return to how they were, with the exception of time. Lots of it. The hope I am clinging to is that, if Henry and I pretend that nothing has changed, over time it’ll become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  But there’s a spanner in the works: I fancy him. I fancy him like mad.

  How shallow must I be that all it takes to whip me into a girlish infatuation is for my flatmate to go on a shopping spree and get a half-decent haircut?

  More importantly, this is Henry we’re talking about. Henry, for God’s sake. I cannot fancy Henry.

  Yet, patently, I do.

  Why else would I experience repeated flashbacks to our Caribbean Monkfish Stew night; ones that involv
e him slipping down my bra strap and . . . oh, you know what happened.

  It’s getting ridiculous. We can’t be in the same room together without my heart racing and blood rushing to my neck. When his hand brushes mine – though we jump away like there’s a cattle prod in our backs – my knees go weak.

  It was so bad at one point that I prayed he’d go out more. Then he did – and now I miss him again. I have no idea who Henry’s seeing at the moment because I don’t ask. It feels wrong to discuss his love-life. I prefer to stick to safer subjects. Such as the state of the economy. Or the refit at the pizza shop round the corner. Or the fact that the bathroom tiles need regrouting. No wonder he wants to get out of the house.

  Despite how much I hate what’s going on between us, there is one thing keeping me going. A memory. One that proves that we will get over our ill-judged moment of passion – no matter how messy it’s made things.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m so confident. Well . . . how can I put this?

  It’s not the first time that it’s happened.

  Chapter 60

  Henry and I had one previous indiscretion when we were fourteen, though to call it that makes it sound far more sophisticated than either of us were.

  It was the summer of 1996. The Fugees were at number one, everyone was hoping England would win Euro 96 and I’d recently made friends with Simone Hemmings. Simone was the teenage daughter no parent wants: physically precocious (she’d been in a B-cup when I was still watching Scooby Doo) and obsessed with boys.

  I sat next to her in French and one day, when we were supposed to be learning to complain about an over-priced train ticket, she passed me a note. I unfolded it under my desk and read it while trying to appear fascinated by a passage in my Voila! textbook.

  What do you think of Ben Bachelor? I think he looks like Gary Barlow.

  I pressed the paper on my leg and wrote: More like Ken Barlow, before passing it back to her stifled giggles.

  In the following weeks, it became a ritual. Even when I swore I’d concentrate on lessons in the run-up to the exchange visit that summer, I was sucked into corresponding with Simone over everything, from who we thought would be the best kisser in the class, to Jake Roberts – a friend of Dave’s – and his spectacularly cute bum. I’d secretly fancied Jake for three months, but hadn’t told anyone except Henry, and now Simone.

  At the end of each class, I would stuff the notes in my bag among pencil-case tins, a copy of Just 17, a Rimmel cover stick and two compasses. After seven weeks of French lessons I had enough stray paper to ignite a small forest fire.

  I never dreamed anyone would find them – until one Tuesday night when I was in my room and I heard Dave and his mates laughing downstairs. I walked down tentatively and froze. They were reading a note Simone and I had written that day, in which she asked if I’d let Jake put his hand up my top. My response was unequivocal.

  Definitely. But he’d find more of a handful on a Bernard Matthews turkey.

  As six hysterical boys – including Jake himself – turned and looked at me, the author of this mortifying confession, I almost collapsed with shame. Brimming with tears and fury, I decided a low-key discussion was the best way of tackling Dave about it.

  ‘I HATE YOU, DAVE, YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE SHIT!’ I yelled and pushed past them as fast as I could.

  My face burning with tears, I raced to the door and was almost outside when a sharp pain tore through my arm. Without stopping, I glanced down and realized I’d sliced my skin against the frame. Blood was seeping through the fabric of my school shirt but I didn’t care. I needed to get to Henry.

  His house was five times the size of ours and the first time I went there I remember feeling as if it was a parallel universe.

  It wasn’t only the books that made it different from our place, though their collection would rival that of the British Library. It was also the souvenirs of his parents’ politically-active student days, the framed Private Eye covers, the joss sticks, the ethnic knick-knacks. This was the house of a sophisticated, educated family and, despite the peeling paintwork and damp in the bathroom, I was in awe.

  When Henry answered the door that evening it was a second before he registered my distress. ‘Lucy – what happened?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ I muttered.

  His mum was working late and his dad was in the garden tending to his hellebores, something capable of distracting him for several days. Henry ushered me to his bedroom where Leftfield was on his CD-player, pushed a pile of textbooks off his bed, and urged me to tell him, between tears, what was going on.

  Repeating what had happened ought to have been embarrassing. Henry was a boy, like Dave’s friends – so why wasn’t my immature bosom as mortifying in front of him? I don’t know. I only knew what his response would be.

  ‘If they can’t recognize a great line in self-deprecating humour, they’re denser than I thought,’ he said, crossing his arms.

  ‘They’re pretty dense,’ I sniffed gratefully.

  ‘There,’ he smiled. ‘They’re not worth giving a second thought to.’

  I nodded unconvincingly. Then burst into tears again.

  ‘Oh Lucy.’ He looked troubled.

  Then the most amazing thing happened. Henry stood up and grabbed his coat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘Over there. To your place.’ His eyes were blazing. I’d never seen him like that before. I was impressed. What I wasn’t, though, was stupid. Henry was fourteen years old. Dave and his cronies were two years older – and there were six of them. Confronting them was tremendously valiant, but we both knew he didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I whispered.

  ‘It’s not ridiculous. I’ve never seen you so upset.’

  When I looked into his eyes, I saw how sincere he was. How he was prepared, against monstrous odds, to challenge six kids who were older, harder, and dangerously thicker.

  I eventually persuaded him that I’d prefer to sit and talk. But I can’t pretend that, privately, I wasn’t as pleased about his reaction as I was surprised. And nor was it to be the only surprise of the evening.

  As Henry and I talked, my troubles washed away. It was only when I went to go to the bathroom that I winced in pain.

  ‘What’s up?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, peeling away my cardigan. The cut looked worse than it was: it wasn’t deep, but appeared as though my arm had been lunch for a half-starved Rottweiler.

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’

  ‘I ran out of the house so quickly I scraped my arm on the doorframe,’ I told him. ‘It wasn’t the dignified exit I was hoping for.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said, gently rolling up my shirt-sleeve. ‘Stay here a minute.’ He disappeared downstairs and returned with a First Aid kit and a bowl of water.

  Henry bathed the cut as I sat and gazed out of the window. The damp cotton wool melted into my skin and I submitted to its comforting warmth, closing my eyes as the events of the evening drifted out of my consciousness.

  Then I felt something other than the cotton wool on my skin and opened my eyes. Henry’s lips brushed against the bruises, so soft and gentle, his tenderness made my heart swell. He stopped and looked away self-consciously. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I whispered – and it was. Tears of happiness pricked into my eyes and I felt a wave of love, proper love, for Henry.

  Then I blew it.

  I don’t know what possessed me to do it, because it’s clear that Henry’s kiss was an innocent gesture solely intended to soothe my injury. It should have been left at that. Instead, I leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

  It wasn’t a proper snog – I was yet to have my first of those with James Feathergill on a school trip to Alton Towers. This was like a kiss you see in old films, where both protagonists keep their lips firmly shut, without a hint of tongue.

  I realized halfway through how wron
g it was. How inappropriate and ridiculous. I pulled away.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I held the back of my hand against my mouth.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he mumbled. But it wasn’t – I could tell.

  It was months before things were back to normal, well after Dave’s apology and his assurance that Jake Roberts was ‘a bit of a dick anyway’. Months before Henry and I could look each other in the eye without me dissolving into a wreck of insecurity and remorse.

  But things did get back to normal. It took a while, but they did.

  Given that fourteen years have passed before Henry’s lips touched mine again, I’m certain that things will get back to normal again. Sooner or later.

  Chapter 61

  A few days later on a glorious June morning, I switch on the radio as I drive to work and Dolly Parton is singing ‘Nine to Five’. I only know the chorus but my vocal cords take the clobbering of their life. By the time I’ve reached the city centre, slapping my thigh at the traffic-lights, I am so fired up I’m almost line-dancing in my seat.

  It’s an important week – on Thursday, I’ll be implementing the Peach Gear plan. It’ll be the challenge of my career but one to which I’m determined to rise. This is the week I prove my worth to Roger.

  My mobile rings. I reluctantly silence Dolly and put on my hands-free.

  ‘Lucy, it’s Phil McEwan.’ He doesn’t sound happy, but that’s only to be expected, given the week ahead.

  ‘Hi, Phil. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s out, Lucy. It’s already out.’ He sounds as if he’s referring to an escaped tiger.

  ‘What’s out?’

  ‘The news about the vest tops!’ he hisses. ‘The scandal about the vest tops, as the reporter I spoke to described it. What else do you think I’d be phoning about at seven-fifteen in the morning?’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply slowly, hoping to appear a bastion of levelheadedness, despite my hyperactive heart. ‘Who’s onto it?’

  ‘I had a call from the Gazette. They’re printing the story tomorrow. They know everything. Everything, that is, that was in your strategy document.’

  I pause, taking in the implications of his statement, the tone of his voice. ‘W-what?’