My Single Friend

by Jane Costello

  ‘Was it definitely the Jacuzzi that caused the fire?’ I ask.

  ‘Looks that way.’ Mum bites into a hazelnut whirl. ‘It’d been set up wrongly, causing a leak in the corner and they think it got to the electrics in the house. The fire service will do a report but that’s the theory so far.’

  ‘You’re remarkably chilled out, Mum,’ I point out. The doctor told me earlier that he thinks she’s still suffering from shock. Even with a medical explanation for her coolness, she’s freaking me out.

  ‘I’m alive, aren’t I?’ she shrugs. ‘There’s nothing like facing the Grim Reaper and telling him to sling his hook to put things in perspective.’

  ‘But what about the house?’ I say tentatively. I don’t want to upset her.

  ‘Look, part of me is gutted about the house – we’ve lived there since we were married. But it was hardly the stuff of Country Life.’

  ‘Still. You are technically homeless.’ I say this gently because Mum’s got to come to terms with this sooner or later. She doesn’t look any less cheerful.

  ‘Well, you’ll put us up for a few months, won’t you? I’m sure the insurance would pay for a hotel, but they’re so faceless . . .’

  My eyes widen. I’m overjoyed my parents are alive, but I’d rather not have them squatting in my living room. ‘I’ll have to have a chat with Dominique about that. There are only two bedrooms.’

  ‘We’ll sort something out,’ says Dominique, and I can’t help admiring her compassion. Or naivety.

  There’s a knock on the door and when we turn to look, it’s Dad. He’s wearing a pair of hospital pyjamas that, uniquely, are an improvement on his own. In his case, there’s no doubt that last night’s events have sunk in. Although physically the doctors say he’ll make a full recovery, he looks grey and drawn. Still, as he walks forward, he produces a bunch of flowers from behind his back. They’re a quarter of the size of Jasper’s, but it doesn’t matter.

  ‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ Mum says, taking the bouquet and sticking her nose in a hydrangea.

  He pauses, with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’

  ‘About what?’ asks Mum.

  ‘About the birthing pool. It’s all my fault. All my bloody fault.’

  Mum frowns and I notice her eyes welling up. ‘Oh, give us a kiss, you soft sod,’ she says, drawing him near. ‘You saved my life, didn’t you?’

  Dom and I exchange a look and decide to back out of the room.

  Dad spots us and straightens his back. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not stopping,’ he says. ‘I’ve got my consultant coming over in a couple of minutes so I just popped in to drop off the flowers. I’ll see you all properly later.’

  And with that, he’s off. My dad, the hero. Sort of.

  ‘How long have you been married?’ asks Dominique.

  ‘Thirty-one years,’ says Mum, propping up one of Dad’s wilted flowers.

  ‘You’re a good advert for it,’ Dominique says, ‘and I never thought I’d be saying that. Not that Lucy or I have had much luck with our love-lives lately – eh, Luce?’

  Mum peers at me. ‘You still haven’t told Henry then?’

  My face flushes.

  ‘Told Henry what?’ asks Dominique.

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ I sigh. ‘Very discreet.’

  ‘Discreet? Discretion isn’t what you need – it’s action. Have you told him or haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Told him what?’ repeats Dominique.

  ‘I . . . look, nothing.’

  ‘Lucy,’ says Mum sternly. ‘When does he fly off on his round-the-world trip?’

  I look down at my hands. ‘Today. Now. He’ll be on his way to the airport.’

  ‘What do you need to tell Henry?’ Dominique just won’t let it go.

  ‘I . . . well—’

  ‘Tell her, Lucy,’ says Mum. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ snaps Dominique, who’s had enough of all this.

  ‘She’s in love with him.’ Mum crosses her arms. ‘Our Lucy is in love with Henry.’

  Chapter 88

  Dominique is shrieking so loudly the patients at the other end of the corridor must think she’s undergoing an amputation.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I stutter. ‘I didn’t want to compromise your friendship with Erin, for a start.’

  ‘How?’ she asks, incredulous.

  ‘Erin’s in love with Henry, like you said. Even if I was going to be a bitch and try to steal him – which I’m not – what good would come of telling you? It’d just lumber you with information you’d be powerless to act on.’

  ‘Arrrggh!’ Dominique rubs her hands over her face. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t mean about you and Henry,’ she says impatiently. ‘Though I grant you, that is quite a mess.’

  ‘What then?’

  She sighs and look out of the window. ‘You know when I said I thought Erin was in love with Henry?’

  I nod.

  ‘I was wrong.’

  It takes a second for her words to sink in. ‘What?’

  ‘She likes Henry,’ she clarifies. ‘I mean, everyone likes Henry, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  Dominique comes right out with it. ‘But she’s got the hots for Darren.’

  ‘Darren?’

  Dominique nods. ‘You know when we stopped off for a drink after we visited the flat and I said Erin had sounded funny on the phone?’

  ‘You thought it was nerves.’

  ‘It wasn’t nerves,’ she confesses. ‘It was lust. She’s been in turmoil about what to do.’

  I frown. ‘I knew Erin had the hots for Darren while they were at university, but that was ages ago. She told me it was history.’

  ‘Yeah, well, her feelings have been reignited.’

  ‘But what about Henry?’ I have to stop myself from screaming it. ‘He’s set off on a round-the-world trip with Erin thinking everything’s hunky-dory.’

  Dominique makes a tsking sound. ‘You’re missing something, Lucy.’

  ‘What?’

  She looks at me as if it’s obvious. ‘There is no way Henry would have chosen Erin had he thought there was a chance with you. Erin’s always known that. Maybe, subconsciously, that’s why she turned her attention to Darren: self-preservation.’

  I’m astonished. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Dominique sighs. ‘Where do I start? The way he looks at you. The way he tries to protect you. The way – just, the way he is with you. He’s had a twenty-year crush, Lucy.’

  I sit down, trying to stop my head spinning. ‘You never said this before.’

  ‘I assumed you knew. How can you not know?’ Dominique looks exasperated.

  I shake my head. ‘It can’t be true. Why would he bugger off round the world if it was?’

  ‘Because he thinks the feeling isn’t mutual,’ she replies. ‘We all thought the feeling wasn’t mutual.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Dominique. You were wrong about Erin being in love with him and you’re wrong about this.’

  ‘I admit I was wrong about Erin, but there is no way I’ve misread Henry’s feelings. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you both. You’re the love of his life, Lucy.’

  ‘I’ve meen trying to dell her,’ Mum interjects. She has at least three chocolates in her mouth and looks like a greedy chipmunk.

  Then she swallows and goes on: ‘Well, haven’t I? Lucy, you’re the only one who won’t believe it.’

  I turn to the window, my heart and my mind racing as fast as each other.

  Could it be true?

  Could Henry really be in love with me?

  ‘Right, Lucy.’ Dominique looks at her watch. ‘You’ve got one hour and fifty minutes before Henry’s plane takes off. So here’s the question. What exactly are you going to do about this?�
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  Chapter 89

  I am normally the safest driver I know. In fact, I’m an old woman behind the wheel, resolutely sticking to the speed-limit and, more than often, below it.

  But with the needle on my speed-dial touching a perilous 73 m.p.h. – look, I said I was no Lewis Hamilton – I belt along the M56, leaving a Nissan Micra, two heavy goods vehicles and a six-berth caravan in the dust.

  My heart break-dances against my ribcage as a thousand corny movie scenes flip through my mind. Lovers running with open arms. Floaty-haired women being spun around. Kisses that go on for ever. Cue a Leona Lewis ballad . . .

  I flick on my indicator and turn onto a slip-road.

  Problem is, this reunion isn’t going to be straightforward. First, there’s Erin. Whether she fancies Darren or not, there’s protocol to consider. Call me old-fashioned, but declaring your love for someone else’s boyfriend isn’t the done thing. Yet, that’s exactly what I’m about to do, with God knows what consequences.

  Then there’s the man himself. Whatever Mum and Dominique say, whatever I want to believe, the only conclusive proof that Henry loves me would be if he told me so. So far, he’s said nothing of the sort – and that doesn’t fill me with confidence.

  Despite this, there’s one thing I can’t disagree with: enough is enough. I can procrastinate no longer, hesitate no more. Whatever happens today, Henry must be told the truth . . .

  ‘OHMYGOD!’ I gasp. ‘OHMYGODOHMYGODDD!’

  I am sailing past an exit sign marked Manchester Airport.

  Which means I am sailing past the exit for Manchester Airport.

  Which means . . . oh Christ: I’m not going to make it!

  Wailing in frustration, I beat the steering-wheel with my fist.

  ‘YOU STUPID WOMAN, LUCY!’ I howl as tears of desperation blur my vision. ‘YOU STUPID COW!’

  I glance through the side window and the passengers in a Fiat Punto are staring at me as if they suspect I’ve dabbled with psychedelic drugs.

  ‘I’M A STUPID COW!’ I yell, trying to explain. They look even more worried.

  I spend five minutes shouting obscenities and frantically searching for the next exit. When I reach it, I swerve into it, cut up the driver in front and push my way to the lights at the roundabout.

  Panting and sweating, I glance at the clock. One hour to take-off. I can still do this.

  The lights change to green and I slam my foot on the accelerator, whizzing round the roundabout until I’m back on the motorway, heading to the airport again.

  My brain is on overload, but there is no way I’m going to miss the exit this time. I flick on my indicator and speed along a road signposted Departures. I abandon my car outside the doors, leaving on my hazard lights and other passengers tutting in disapproval as they battle with their luggage.

  I vault over a crash barrier in the departure lounge, push through a throng of youngsters wearing Ripley Junior Swimming Team sweatshirts and elbow through a scrum of people clustered round a flight information board.

  The first stop on Henry’s trip is Madrid and, as I scan the board, I feel a stab of hope when I see a stack of delays. If Henry’s is one of them, I’ll be able to get to him. Then I spot the line: CFKHH to Madrid – go to check-in desk number 32.

  My stomach does a triple somersault with pike: they’re still checking in!

  I race to the desk and am confronted by the sort of queue you’d find outside a bread shop in Bolshevik Russia. I start at the front, scanning faces. But after five minutes of sprinting up and down – and recognizing no one – I am forced to accept that they’re not here.

  Then I get a brainwave. I dive to the front, ignoring the conspicuous looks of displeasure.

  ‘Sorry,’ I plead. ‘This is life or death. Really.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ says the bloke at the front. ‘Go on, get on with it.’

  At the check-in desk, I am greeted by a surly bottle-blonde who’d easily fit in as a meeter and greeter on Death Row.

  ‘Passport,’ she demands, typing randomly into her computer.

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  She reaches up to the desk, refusing to make eye-contact, and feels around with her hand.

  She looks up.

  ‘Passport,’ she repeats sullenly.

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ I say again.

  She frowns as if I am the worst thing to have happened to her all year. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I do have one but I don’t have it with me. The point is—’

  ‘You want to fly to Madrid, but you haven’t got your passport?’

  ‘Actually I don’t want to fly to Madrid, I want to know if my friend has checked i—’

  ‘Where’s your ticket?’ she interrupts.

  ‘I haven’t got one of those either because I don’t—’

  ‘E-ticket reference number?’

  ‘No. You see, I don’t want to fly.’

  ‘You want to fly to Madrid, but you don’t have a passport or ticket or e-ticket reference number?’

  ‘I don’t want to fly to Madrid!’ I shriek.

  She looks at me, taken aback. ‘If you’re going to take that tone, madam, I’ll call security. This airport has a strict policy on abuse – verbal and physical – towards its staff. Look.’

  She points at a notice above her head that says: This airport has a strict policy on abuse – verbal and physical – towards its staff.

  ‘Sorry,’ I reply, hiding my frustration. ‘I don’t want to fly to Madrid, but the man I’m in love with is about to. All I want to know is whether he’s checked in. Because if he has, I’m screwed. But if he hasn’t, then I can go and declare my undying love for him.’

  She looks lost. ‘Let me get this straight. You don’t want to fly to Madrid?’

  I try to stay calm. ‘No.’

  ‘All you want is to know whether another passenger has checked in?’

  Finally. ‘Yes.’

  She turns away and starts typing something into her computer again. Eventually, she turns back to me.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to give out that information.’

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to—’

  ‘I heard you . . . but why?’

  ‘Data protection. Terrorism. You name it.’

  ‘Do I look like a terrorist?’ I ask.

  ‘What does a terrorist look like?’

  I stand there, wondering what to do next.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper. ‘Please let me know. If ever you’ve been in love with somebody, then you’ll understand why I need to know. Please. His name is Henry Fox.’

  She looks into my eyes. Then returns to her computer.

  She leans towards me, her face hard as nails. ‘If you tell anyone . . .’ she hisses.

  ‘I swear,’ I tell her, deciding she’s my new best friend.

  She goes back to her computer and types something in again.

  ‘He’s already gone through,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’

  Chapter 90

  I try to think of an ingenious method to get through security, but after an infuriating conversation with another official, I’m forced to accept that the measures to combat global terrorism are also enough to scupper a slightly unfit twenty-eight-year-old PR woman.

  With increasing determination, I decide to buy a ticket to Madrid, so I can get through the security gates. But after another episode at the sales desk, the fact that my passport is in a box in south Liverpool is clearly a show-stopper.

  I stand in the airport concourse as most of the western world seems to be heading off on holiday and take out my phone. I’d wanted to do this in person, but now I’ve no choice. Closing my eyes, I wait for it to ring.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘OH GODDD!’ I cry, but nobody notices.

  Despite it being the last thing I want to do, I pull up Erin’s number.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘OH GODDD! I cr
y. Again, nobody notices.

  For forty minutes, I pace up and down, trying to come up with a plan so brilliant it deserves recognition by the Nobel Prize committee. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t happen.

  I look at my watch for what must be the seven-hundredth time today and it is eleven forty-five. Henry’s flight has gone and so has he.

  My head is fuzzy with disbelief as I slump through the crowd and back through the doors. Numbly, I head to my car with tears biting the skin on my cheeks. I reach the spot where I parked my car in a daze and take out my car keys. Then I realize: my car isn’t there.

  I look up to see a tow truck pulling it away. And I don’t even bother chasing after it.

  Chapter 91

  By the time I’ve tracked down the company that towed my car, taken a taxi to the compound, waited in a queue, filled out a rainforest of paperwork, paid the fine and retrieved my car, it is mid-afternoon.

  The fine is astronomical: the equivalent of food bills for a month, pension contributions for two months or – most distressingly – a third of a pair of strappy sandals from Gina.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d be fizzing with pique about this, but today the thought evaporates from my brain as fast as it appeared. The drive home feels as if I’m in a computer game: a hazy, unreal world that I struggle to focus on. The only issue in my head is Henry – and why I didn’t say anything sooner. Why I didn’t do anything sooner.

  I know that, technically, I could phone him in Madrid, but it feels way too late. He’s gone. How could I ring him to say, ‘Sorry I’ve not mentioned this in twenty years but I’m in love with you. If it’s not too much trouble, could you hop on a plane home and spend the rest of your life with me?’

  I pull into the garage beneath our new flat and there is an empty feeling in my stomach telling me that I should eat. But I’ve never felt less hungry. I traipse up to the apartment, pausing to gaze through the stairwell window. The dock is bustling with people soaking up the sunshine and thoroughly enjoying themselves. It’s a concept that feels totally alien today.

  I get to the apartment and push in my key, prising open the door.

  It’s then that I spot the envelope.