The next few phone calls are even less productive. The guys in question either have a thoroughly Significant Other now or a forgotten tale of horror, or – like Chris Austen – both. Reluctantly, I decide to give up. The men in my past are clearly best left there.
Three days later, I get a phone call.
I’m surprised at how much it brightens my spirits. And, call me a blundering optimist, but an attempt at a relationship – one that doesn’t involve Henry – could be exactly the tonic I need.
Chapter 80
Paul isn’t as good-looking as I remember, but that doesn’t put me off: his behaviour this evening is so close to perfect he should write a textbook on dating etiquette. Since we arrived at the comedy club half an hour ago, I can’t fault him; he’s complimented my dress sense, enquired about my job, leaped to the bar every time I attempted to do so. He’s made me feel attractive and clever when I was feeling about as irresistible as a malodorous warthog. For that, I owe him a lot.
With five minutes to go before the first act, he turns and smiles. ‘I feel like an idiot, Lucy.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘For not phoning you after the Grand National. You must have thought I was a prat.’
‘Well . . . yes,’ I agree, but without rancour.
He looks embarrassed.
‘I’ve always had this problem with commitment,’ he explains. ‘Whenever a girl likes me, I feel the need to create some space – to take a breather.’
‘Hey, don’t worry, Paul.’ I laugh gently. ‘You didn’t break my heart.’
‘Of course.’ He’s unable to hide his disappointment. ‘The point is, I’m over it.’
‘Over what?’
‘My commitment issue.’
‘Oh. Well, good for you.’ I don’t mean to sound sarcastic. ‘I mean that,’ I add.
He smiles gratefully and something strikes me: Paul hasn’t made a single innuendo all night. He really has changed. ‘I’m so pleased you agreed to come out with me again tonight.’
‘Good,’ I shrug.
‘I’d almost forgotten how stunning you were.’
I smile awkwardly and, as the lights dim, part of me is relieved not to have to think of an answer. I’m not used to men being like this around me. It’s hard to put my finger on why it’s happening. Could it be that the more nonchalant I am, the more take-him-or-leave-him, the more interested he becomes? Surely not.
As the compère walks on, I feel Paul’s eyes on me again. When I look up, he has such a dreamy expression I feel like a Chunky Kit-Kat at a Slimming World meeting.
I turn away hastily.
I haven’t been trying to play it cool, it’s just how I feel. I like Paul – at least I think I do. But after the hoo-ha with Henry, I’ve struggled to get myself worked up about this date. Hence the absence of fake tan, the presence of last year’s jeans with a minor stain on the front thigh, and legs as stubbly as Kurt Russell’s chin.
The show ends up being a good one. The compulsory unfunny comic keeps his act mercifully short; the two amusing ones dominate proceedings.
By the time we spill out with the rest of the crowd, for once I can’t decide what I want the turn of events to be.
‘So,’ says Paul, ‘what would you like to do now?’
‘I don’t know. What are the options?’
‘Well, we could go for a drink, or to a club – Heebie Jeebies is only down the road and my friends are there.’
He glances at my expression. ‘Though, on second thoughts, maybe not.’
I smile.
‘Or,’ he continues tentatively, ‘you’d be welcome to come over to my place. For a nightcap.’
‘How about a drink?’ I offer diplomatically.
‘Oh. Great,’ he says.
As we head to a bar, I try to work out my feelings for Paul. When he slips his hand into mine and squeezes it, it gives me a comforting glow. There’s no doubt Paul wants me tonight. No doubt at all. When we get to the bar, he insists on buying the drinks again, despite my protestations.
‘Do you still go to the Lake District often?’ I ask when he returns.
‘I do,’ he replies. ‘Why, would you like to do it again some time?’
I hesitate and think back to the conversation Henry and I had the night he was with Davina – when he implored me to be more honest on my dates. ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell Paul. ‘I feel silly saying this, but I may have misled you about the amount of experience I had in fell-walking.’
He smiles. ‘I suspected.’
‘I’m no expert – at that or anything else. I’m just me. Boring old me.’
‘There’s nothing boring about you, Lucy,’ he says, and before I get a chance to think, he starts moving towards me. His eyes close and his lips meet mine and I find myself looking at his face at close range as he kisses me, with the fiercest intensity in his expression.
I pull away.
‘What’s up, Lucy?’ he asks.
‘I . . .’ I begin.
But I haven’t got an answer. Not really. I only know that Paul isn’t what I want.
Chapter 81
‘How’s the Jacuzzi?’ I am on the phone to Mum the day after the new addition to their spare bedroom has been installed.
‘Jacuzzi? That’s what he told me it was too.’
‘Oh. So Dad hasn’t brought home a Jacuzzi?’
‘No, Lucy, he hasn’t. We have a ten foot by ten foot pool of water in our spare room, but it is not a Jacuzzi.’
‘I’m confused. What is it then?’
She sighs. ‘It’s a birthing pool.’
‘A birthing pool? As in, a pool you give birth in?’
‘Correct. Just when I thought your father’s taste in knock-off goods couldn’t get more outlandish, he brings this home.’ She doesn’t sound impressed. ‘Apparently they were getting rid of them at the maternity hospital where your dad’s mate Robbo works as a porter. Over a thousand babies have been born in that thing. Which is a beautiful statistic – but it does shatter the vision I had of sipping martinis in it like Joan Collins.’
I hear a splash. ‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ Dad shouts. ‘It’s great in here. And it’s been cleaned out. You’d never have known if I hadn’t told you.’
‘There is a sticker on the side about what to do if your amniotic sac breaks,’ she growls. ‘You must think I was born yesterday.’
I decide to change the subject. ‘How’s your new job going?’
‘Absolutely brilliant. I love it.’
I hesitate, trying to work out if she’s being sarcastic.
‘Honestly,’ she continues, sensing my scepticism. ‘The team is great and Jasper’s a fantastic boss. I can’t believe how lucky I am.’
‘God, you do sound enthusiastic.’
‘For the first time, I feel like I’ve got a career ahead of me. Anyway, love, are you packed yet?’
‘Not really. In fact, I’d better crack on. I’ll pop round and see you at the weekend, okay?’
I put down the phone and wander into my bedroom, surveying the chaos.
‘Was that your mum?’ asks Henry from the hall. ‘How’s her new job?’
‘She’s enjoying herself so much I keep expecting her to break into the company song.’ I pick up an old set of straighteners and take them to the hall to add to the pile. ‘I can’t believe how much rubbish we’ve accrued in four years.’
‘Tell me about it,’ mutters Henry, adding what appears to be half a scuba-diving kit.
‘Where did you get that?’ I ask.
‘Mum brought it back from a field trip,’ he grins. ‘It caused quite a stir at Garston Leisure Centre.’
I burst out laughing.
Our charity-shop pile is now so high it resembles the peak of Borneo’s Mount Kinabalu, and I’m unconvinced they’ll thank us for it. It’s difficult to work out which has the least appeal: my CDs – a collection of crap late-1990s albums – or Henry’s textbooks.
‘I’m amazed y
ou’re getting rid of that,’ I say, as he adds A Textbook of Malaria Eradication by Emilio Pampana.
‘I’ve got two copies.’
‘What about your other books?’
‘Going to my parents’ place,’ he shrugs.
‘Their spiritual home.’ Spontaneously, I feel tears prick the backs of my eyes. All morning I’ve been more emotional than an X-Factor finalist and it had to happen at some point. I studiously return to my packing.
‘Feeling all right?’ asks Henry softly.
‘Yeah,’ I sniff. ‘My hay fever’s playing up.’
I quickly walk to the kitchen, determined that he won’t catch me crying, and begin wrapping the crockery in tea-towels.
‘Lucy . . .’
Henry is standing in the doorway, his face filled with concern. My lip starts quivering.
‘Oh, come here.’ He steps forward to hug me. I press my face into his soft, smooth neck as tears stream down my cheeks, stinging my skin. The more I try to stop crying, the harder it is.
‘I’m going to miss you, that’s all,’ I manage to say.
‘I’m going to miss you too.’ He strokes my hair. ‘More than you know.’
His words make me pull back. Could he mean . . .
‘But it’s not as if we’re going to lose touch,’ he goes on. ‘We’ll always be friends.’
A thousand unspoken words stick in my throat and the only thing I manage to mutter is: ‘Yup.’
He kisses me on the head and rubs my back. ‘Now. Come on, woman, pull yourself together. You’ve got a beautiful apartment to move into.’
There’s a knock on our front door.
‘Hey, you two,’ calls out Dominique, as she steps over a pile of clutter. ‘Don’t you have any notion of security? Someone could walk in and steal half the stuff in your flat.’
‘I’d leave them a tip for taking it off our hands,’ says Henry.
‘I’ve popped over to see how my new flatmate’s getting on,’ says Dominique. She’s looking better than she was a couple of weeks ago – not quite as immaculate as usual, but her skin is so much brighter, her hair shinier.
‘Oh, fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not picking up the van until tomorrow morning, so I’ve still got time to get this stuff packed.’
‘And what about you, Henry?’ she continues. ‘Are you ready for the big trip? I’ve just been to Erin’s place and she can barely contain herself.’
‘Yeah, I’m very excited, thanks,’ says Henry. ‘Only two days to go.’
He looks at me anxiously, to determine whether I’m still weepy. I do my best to look stoic.
‘Listen, Gorgeous,’ Dominique turns to me. ‘I’ve got the keys to the flat. Do you fancy coming to have a peek? I know we’re not meant to move in until tomorrow, but I can’t resist.’
Chapter 82
Our new dockside apartment is everything I’ve ever wanted in a home: it’s spacious, tastefully decorated and in a spectacular location. I wander into my bedroom, which is twice the size of my old one and five times as luxurious. It’s expensive of course – though everywhere is compared with the flat Henry and I shared. It was a bargain when we found it four years ago – and even more so lately given our rent has hardly increased. As I open the balcony doors, a breeze skips across my bare arms and lifts my spirits. But it’s short-lived. Even this isn’t enough. I should be fizzing with excitement, but I’m not. Because I won’t be living with Henry any longer. It’s as simple as that.
When we’ve finished planning out the furniture, Dominique and I decide to stop for a drink at a bar beside the dock. We find a table from which to watch the setting sun, as concert-goers heading for the nearby arena mingle with art lovers who’ve come from the Tate Gallery.
‘I’m going to enjoy living here,’ Dominique says.
‘Me too,’ I agree decisively. ‘How are you feeling?’
She twirls her finger around the stem of her glass. ‘I’m okay, Lucy. I’ve promised myself I’m not going to wallow in it.’
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘You’ve never struck me as a wallower. I don’t think it’d suit you.’ She smiles. ‘Are you still determined that you’re off men?’
She looks at me and pauses. ‘To be honest I haven’t the energy at the moment. I’m sick of dating. I want to keep my head down for a while.’
‘Justin has a lot to answer for,’ I mutter crossly.
At that, her eyes mist over and she stares into her glass. I immediately regret bringing up his name. ‘I’m sorry, Dom.’
‘It’s fine. I’m not the first girl in the world to have her heart broken.’
‘I suppose not. Though being the zillionth doesn’t make it hurt any less.’
‘True. But you know what, Lucy? I’m not going to let this get me down. You and me – we might not have found the right men, but we’re doing okay, aren’t we? We’ve got great jobs, a great apartment . . . and we’ve got each other.’
Suddenly, I’ve never felt more grateful for Dominique’s friendship.
‘Speaking of which,’ she continues, ‘are you up to anything tonight?’
‘Just packing.’ I sigh a little. ‘I’ll be doing it until midnight at this rate.’
‘That’s a shame. Erin phoned me earlier asking if I wanted to go for a drink.’
‘Oh . . . sorry.’ I feel a flash of guilty relief to have an excuse not to go out with Erin.
‘It’s okay,’ continues Dominique. ‘She sounded weird anyway. I think she’s nervous about leaving everything behind for a year.’
Before I get a chance to answer, a shadow is cast over our table.
‘All right, sis?’
Dave is dressed from head to toe in Emporio Armani and appears to have laid off the sunbed. It’s an improvement.
‘Oh – hi. Have you forgiven me yet?’
He laughs, ruffles my hair and pulls up a seat. ‘’Course. We need to stick together when Mum’s in the sort of mood she was in the other day.’
I shiver. ‘She can be scary when she wants to be, can’t she?’
‘Just a bit. What did she call you . . . Hetty Wainthrop?’
We collapse into giggles, before I say, ‘I don’t think you’ve met Dominique. Dom, this is my brother, Dave. Dave, Dominique.’
Dominique holds out her hand and grins. ‘You are nothing like your sister described.’
Dave shakes her hand. ‘Let me guess: terminally lazy wide-boy whose only interests are football, women and looking in the mirror.’
‘She never mentioned the football,’ Dominique replies, deadpan.
Dave chuckles, amused.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
He gestures to a group of businessmen and women at the other side of the bar. ‘I’m hosting a corporate event. We’ve been to an exhibition at the Tate.’
‘You’re joking?’ I snigger. ‘Don’t they know the closest you’ve ever been to modern art was the graffiti you used to carve into your desk at school?’
‘Very funny.’ He takes a gulp of beer. ‘Actually, I enjoyed it. Are you an art fan, Dominique?’
‘I could be,’ she replies.
I do a double-take at my friend and my brother. A terrible possibility bursts into my head and I almost spit out my wine.
I detect a subtle upward curve in Dominique’s lips as she holds his gaze for a fraction too long. Dave’s face breaks into an audacious smile as his eyes sparkle.
And I wonder if either of them knows what they’re letting themselves in for.
Chapter 83
There are two new starters at work today: Peter, a sweet IT whiz whose fashion hero is Shaggy from Scooby Doo, and Stacey, a marketing trainee with legs that don’t appear to end. It’s no surprise which one Drew decides to take under his wing.
‘Come on, Stacey, put me out of my misery,’ he smirks. ‘I’ve got two tickets for Kings of Leon and one has your name on it.’
‘Oh,’ giggles Stacey, obviously flattered. As she’s new to the organization –
and Drew – I can forgive her. ‘I had something else on tonight, sorry.’
‘Cancel it,’ he instructs her. ‘You won’t regret it – I guarantee.’
‘You will,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘I guarantee.’
I’ve got loads on today, not least pursuing a new client to replace Peach Gear. Although it’s sickening that they still think I was the source of their story leak, I’ve accepted that they’re never going to believe me. The only way to move on is to find a replacement client. I’m therefore polishing off a presentation for a meeting tomorrow with a big online fashion firm. I’m determined to make it the most persuasive piece of prose since Barack Obama’s final pre-election speech.
Two letters land on my desk and, by the time I look up, Little Lynette is halfway across the office with her back to me. She’s been off sick for a week and I’ve not heard a peep from her since she returned this morning. I’m about to return to my proposal, when Lynette takes a sharp left and sprints to the ladies. I frown, hoping someone will go after her, but quickly realize that the unperceptive buggers haven’t even noticed.
Reluctantly closing my presentation, I go to check on her.
‘Are you in here, Lynette?’ I push open the door and scan the bottom of the cubicles.
I’m greeted by silence, then a sniff that sounds like an industrial sink unblocker.
‘Lynette?’ I repeat.
The door of the end cubicle creaks open.
I find Lynette sitting on the loo seat in tears. When she looks up, she’s rubbing her beautifully made-up eyes so much they look like two great chunks of charcoal.
‘Don’t tell anyone I’m here, will you, Lucy?’ She attempts to wipe away mascara, but succeeds only in disconnecting her false eyelashes.
‘Of course not,’ I reassure her. ‘What’s going on?’
She beckons me in and makes me shut the cubicle door. ‘You know my new man?’ she says huskily.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, he dumped me.’
I crouch down and hold her hand. ‘Oh Lynette, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.’
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