All the Single Ladies

by Jane Costello

  ‘But you never said,’ Julia replies incredulously.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Mum replies hastily. ‘I don’t know why. I just preferred not to think about it, didn’t I, Frank?’

  Dad doesn’t answer.

  ‘So when did you meet? And where?’ asks Mum.

  Julia fills them in and it’s impossible not to notice how agitated Mum is.

  When she finishes, Dad coughs. ‘So . . . what next? Are you going to stay in touch with him?’

  ‘I think so,’ Julia says tentatively. ‘But –’ she stands up and walks round the table, bending down to put her arms round Mum – ‘I hope you both know that this does nothing to affect my relationship with you. Nothing at all. I just want to fill in some detail on my history, that’s all.’

  She squeezes Mum’s hand. Mum nods and pushes through a smile. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’

  ‘Your mother and I understand,’ Dad says.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ echoes Mum as Julia returns to the other side of the table. ‘And when you say you want detail, I take it that means . . . you want to know about your mother?’

  Julia pauses. ‘I suppose it might.’

  Mum’s face is blank. She simply looks at her wine glass, before picking it up and finishing the last drop.

  For a moment no one speaks.

  Then Mum stands up with a forced smile. ‘Right, let’s get these dishes cleared away. I’m dying for a cup of coffee.’

  Chapter 45

  I never make it to Ellie’s place, though I glean from a phone call the next day that there was a lot to catch up on. Jen has been on three dates in one week with someone from the dating website. He’s from west Lancashire – Ormskirk – and is not her first romantic venture in that neck of the woods. At the end of last year, she went out with a porter at her hospital who commuted from there. She hadn’t given him a second look until he turned up to the Christmas fancy-dress party as Flash Gordon, revealing a hitherto invisible six-pack and biceps capable of bending the bars on his trolley. Their three dates went like a dream according to Jen (though the rest of us thought his tights were the best thing about him).

  However, by the time she’d signed him up as her ‘plus one’ on the top table at her sister Linda’s wedding, he’d moved on to a radiologist with a boob job capable of requiring Playtex to invent a new sizing policy.

  So three dates is good news. What will happen next is anyone’s guess, though Ellie’s concerned. She spent last night pleading with Jen to stop texting the guy, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

  ‘She’ll never learn,’ Ellie sighs. ‘I’ve done the only thing a good friend can do in this situation and bought her a self-help book.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Dating.’

  ‘Jen has no problem with dates. She’s been on so many she could write an encyclopaedia. It’s relationships that are the problem.’

  ‘She needs to learn some restraint,’ Ellie continues. ‘The latest one’s as doomed as all the others. I’ve given up on it before it’s even started.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I groan. ‘I feel her pain already. So what’s the book?’

  ‘How to Play Hard to Get – Treat Them Mean to Keep Them Keen and Other Tricks For Mad, Desperate Women. Something along those lines anyway.’

  ‘How did that go down? Is she receptive?’

  ‘She was allegedly insulted. But only because she’s already choosing the soft furnishings in their first marital home. I guarantee she’ll have been disabused by this time next week, God love her. Urgh. I’ll need more Pringles, no doubt about it. Anyway, what’s new with you? Any more dates lined up?’

  As I fill her in on Ben, I experience a flicker of excitement. On paper, this guy is perfect. Not least because Jamie would hate him.

  He’d never admit it, of course.

  Jamie likes to think of himself as totally laid back. But there is a distinct chip on his shoulder when he meets someone obviously more successful than him. This small personality flaw is totally outweighed by Jamie’s good qualities. I’ve always overlooked the chip on the basis that nobody’s perfect. Now I’m glad I did, because it could work in my favour.

  Despite this, an undercurrent of pessimism about the date remains unshakeable. It’s not as if my hit rate with the dating website has been anything to brag about. Plus, I’ll confess to being disconcerted by his choice of venue.

  Ben and I have arranged to meet on Tuesday night after work, not in a bar or a restaurant or cinema, or even Subway for that matter.

  But in a church. It’s not as odd as it sounds, for St Luke’s – at the pinnacle of Bold Street in the city centre – isn’t any old church. I’m not sure it even counts as one these days; as far as I’m aware, it hasn’t been used for anything remotely holy since 1941, when it was bombed by the Luftwaffe.

  While that fateful grenade all but destroyed the once resplendent Gothic building, its outer structure remains, and has stood in proud determination since. In fact, the shell of the ‘Bombed-out Church’ hasn’t just survived, it’s evolved; this is courtesy of a loving restoration of its gardens and, more recently, with some large-scale modern art installations finding a home in its open-air interior.

  I arrive six minutes late – timed to perfection – and am momentarily distracted by the beauty of the place. Sunlight streams through the windows of the church and casts filigree patterns onto the lush rose gardens below. Lovers sit enraptured on the cast-iron benches, unable to appreciate the gorgeousness of anything but each other. And groups of office workers laze on the grass, their top buttons undone, as they laugh and gossip.

  I cross the lawn, scanning faces, and it strikes me how nervous I am.

  I know I shouldn’t be. After four dates, I should be an old hand – even if every one of those was totally uninspiring (with the exception of Juan, who was too inspiring for comfort).

  I spot Ben sitting on a bench. He is in jeans and a striped cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. My insides flip so violently I am almost queasy, but the reflex action feels strangely good.

  He’s far more attractive than in his pictures – and more good-looking than I remember from the tennis event. But, beyond that, he’s sexy too, with that strange and wonderful quality that’s about so much more than the way someone looks.

  My stomach clenches into a knot as I approach him. While the last thing on my mind is actually starting a relationship, the simple fact of being here with someone so gorgeous – on a date – arouses a rush of exhilaration. Part of me loves it. The other part wants to go and hide behind a bush.

  He stands up as I approach and greets me with a slow, confident smile and a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Sam. Lovely to meet you.’ He pulls back and doesn’t remove his eyes from mine.

  ‘You too,’ I reply, shrivelling up with self-consciousness.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind the unusual choice of venue.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I can hear my voice wobbling. This didn’t happen on any of the other dates. ‘It’s a great choice, actually. I’ve certainly never been on a first date here before.’

  He pauses. ‘You’ve been on many, then?’

  ‘Oh . . . only one or two,’ I clarify hastily. ‘Three, maybe. Or four.’

  ‘Not that it matters,’ he laughs softly. ‘None of us would be doing this if we weren’t looking for the right person. And the chances of the first person you stumble across being the right one are slim, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I reply, feeling my throat dry up. I suddenly wish I could think of something witty to say, but anything vaguely amusing, entertaining or intelligent escapes me.

  I take a seat on the bench and Ben disappears briefly to buy ice creams. As he returns, his powerful thighs striding across the lawn and his handsome face breaking into a smile, I wonder about something.

  What’s someone like him doing on a dating website?

  There must be something wrong with him. And my top bet is that – exactly like Juan �
� he’s a player. He oozes it, and it’s more than just his good looks that make me say that. It’s his confident swagger. The overt eye contact. The unashamedly flirtatious smile.

  He’s in the same category as Luke, I just know it. They could’ve been separated at birth. This guy probably has a matching Laura Ashley toilet-roll holder in his downstairs loo. Not that that matters, of course. His motivation is irrelevant; the only issue is the reaction he’s capable of provoking in Jamie.

  When Ben is six feet away, with two cups of ice cream, I notice that his pace slows slightly.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘I . . . No,’ he says, shaking his head, before peering at me again. ‘Have we met somewhere before?’

  Chapter 46

  ‘So do you mind me asking your surname?’ Ben says. ‘That’s the thing about this online dating – you don’t get to find out some fairly rudimentary details.’

  ‘Brooks,’ I reply.

  ‘Samantha Brooks,’ he muses. ‘That’s a lovely name. And it suits you.’

  I smile. ‘Good job, really. How’s Mildred’s cat?’

  He grins and rolls his eyes. ‘Fighting fit again. I think Mildred may just want to marry me as a result.’

  I laugh and his eyes glint in the sunshine. We’ve moved from the bench to a prime location on the lawn in a bid to stay in the sun. He insisted I sat on his sweatshirt, despite my protestations, which weren’t just motivated by the potential grass stains, but also by the idea of those stains being in the shape (and size) of my bum cheeks. It doesn’t matter that I’ve lost weight. I could be the size of a hamster and still worry about my bum cheeks.

  ‘How long have you been single, Sam?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh . . . not long really. I split up with someone a couple of months ago.’

  He takes this in. ‘Had you been together long?’

  I nod, trying to look as if this fact is as inconsequential as the colour of my ex’s favourite socks.

  ‘Your decision or his?’

  The temptation to fib is suddenly overwhelming. While I know that everybody’s been dumped at some point in their life – and if you haven’t there’s probably something wrong with you – I still feel as if admitting it puts me in a category where I’d rather not be. Loser. Victim.

  However, I’m such a pathetic liar that I’m aware that if I attempt to say I ditched Jamie in the same manner Alexis Carrington might dump her sixth toy boy of the year, he’d realize instantly. And given that I’ve already had to confess to being the woman who catapulted a pile of dog poo through the air, I’d be expecting way too much for him to overlook that as well.

  ‘It was his, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see. Then . . . isn’t it a little early to be on a dating website if you’ve just had your heart broken?’ he asks gently.

  ‘Oh he didn’t break my heart,’ I insist, with an annoyingly unconvincing twang. ‘My heart’s fine. Everything about me’s fine. Fine, fine, fine.’ I sound like I’m yodelling.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he replies, clearly not believing a word. ‘So what made you take the plunge and sign up to the site?’

  ‘I was roped into it by my two best friends.’

  He suppresses a smile. ‘Ah. Another one who was coerced.’

  ‘You had a similar experience?’

  He nods. ‘My sister, Kate, insisted I signed up. Though “insisted” might not be the word. She’s very bossy. In fact, she’d have been at home in Stalinist Russia.’

  I laugh. ‘Have you been single for a while?’ I ask.

  When he returns my gaze, our eyes lock momentarily and time stands still, for no reason I can put my finger on. One thought runs through my head as fast as the blood pumping in my veins: I so want this man to find me attractive. I am more bothered about his opinion than I was about that of any of the others.

  ‘About six months,’ he replies. ‘And, since I haven’t lived in the UK for a while, I was largely starting from scratch.’

  ‘You haven’t been living in the UK?’ It’s only then that I become aware of how much my situation has dominated the conversation. I rectify that by grilling Ben-who’s-far-from-a-minger for the next hour and a half.

  It turns out he’s spent the last five years living in Australia. He moved back to the UK – to Aigburth, about a mile from me – to be close to his parents; his father is being treated for cancer.

  ‘Not quite as glamorous as Sydney,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he concedes. ‘But, despite the circumstances, I’m enjoying being back in the UK. My dad’s getting better and his prognosis is pretty good. Plus, the practice where I’m working is great; there’s a really nice crowd of people there.’

  Ben goes on to tell me that he’d always wanted to be a vet, despite never having pets of his own as a child (his mum is allergic to anything with fur).

  ‘Do you have lots of friends still in Liverpool?’ I ask.

  ‘Not as many as I’d like. There’s hardly anyone I went to school with still around. Certainly nobody I’d consider eligible. Lisa Smith, who I used to sit next to in geography when we were thirteen, did get in touch and offer to show me a good time. She’s a lap dancer these days,’ he grins.

  ‘And you turned her down? That sets the bar high for what you expect from a woman.’

  ‘Ha! Well, I don’t want to scare you off so soon,’ he grins. ‘No lap dancing is required – until at least the third date.’

  When he kisses me on the cheek at the end of the date, the tingle of his lips lingers on my skin. I drive home smiling from ear to ear and with the radio turned up so high my indicators are vibrating.

  I pull up at some traffic lights and find my mind drifting to his sparkling eyes and luscious mouth, the gentle and oh-so-sexy contours of his face. A certainty rushes through me: this is him. I’ve found the man who’s going to help me win Jamie back.

  I just pray he wants a second date.

  I put the car in gear and am pulling away, when a familiar spluttering noise is emitted from the engine and my beloved car judders to an excruciating halt.

  An almighty beep from behind jolts me further and I glance in my mirror to witness a middle-aged man, with teeth shaped like toe separators, shaking his fist. I frantically put on my hazard lights and grab my phone to contact the AA yet again.

  I’m about to type in the number, when a text beeps and I open it with a thrashing heart. It’s from Ben.

  Samantha Brooks, you’re lovely. Would you like to get together again?

  Chapter 47

  ‘You need a new car, Sam,’ Ellie tells me the following night. ‘I’m glad there’s a possible new man on the horizon too, of course – but I can’t help thinking your automotive needs are becoming more pressing.’

  ‘I love that car,’ I say, squirming because I know she’s probably right. ‘It’s perfect for me.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that it doesn’t go?’ she points out, glancing up from her compact mirror as she puts the finishing touches to her eyeliner. She perches on the edge of the sofa in the stunning Merlot-coloured gown she bought for Alistair’s awards ceremony in Manchester tonight. He’s in line for some psychotherapy award, so she wants to look the part.

  ‘You’re exaggerating. It’s temperamental, that’s all.’

  She sniggers and takes a slug of wine. Ellie always has a drink, or several, when she’s getting ready, claiming she can’t put her eyeliner on straight without doing so. ‘So, Ben sounds like a hot prospect.’

  ‘He’s nice,’ I shrug. ‘Though I’m clearly not the only one who thinks so. We made friends on Facebook today and you should see his wall. It’s covered in messages from fawning females thanking him for saving their pet poodles.’

  ‘You’ve got competition, then?’

  ‘Looks that way. So, young Sophie,’ I say, as Ellie’s little girl scuttles into the living room in cute pink pyjamas, the effect of which is marred slightly by a trail of snot on her top lip that resembles an exotic
mollusc. ‘It’s you and me tonight. Would you like some milk?’

  ‘No,’ she replies, while Ellie wipes her nose with a tissue. ‘I like a lollipop.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got lollipops. Wouldn’t milk do?’

  ‘Only lollipops.’

  I frown. ‘Well, how about we get you some milk, and if you don’t want it you can leave it?’

  ‘Only want lollipops.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Pretty certain about this lollipop business, aren’t you?’

  Ellie snorts with laughter.

  ‘Are you nearly ready for bed?’ I attempt instead.

  ‘NO BED, Auntie Sam!’ she says, as if I suggested she becomes a practising Satanist. ‘It not bedtime.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it is bedtime,’ Ellie interjects, scooping her up and kissing her soft curls.

  ‘No not!’ replies Sophie determinedly, trying not to giggle.

  ‘Well, if it’s not bedtime, what time is it?’ I say, deciding there’s no way she can get out of that argument.

  She thinks for a second. ‘Party time.’

  Ellie laughs and, after another kiss, hands her over. ‘Good luck,’ she winks, as she and Alistair slip into the night, leaving me to deal with an insomniac two-year-old who’d rather have a rave than a good night’s sleep.

  In the event, she goes down quietly. At least, I think so for a couple of minutes, until I realize that I’ve forgotten to turn on the baby monitor. She is in fact pumping out a medley of nursery rhymes from her cot bed, accompanied by a dance routine that’s part cancan, part JLS.

  When she finally drifts off, it’s into such a deep sleep that I feel slightly anxious every time I look in to check she’s still breathing . . . about every four minutes. I’ve got no reason to think she won’t be breathing; she’s never decided to stop in her entire two and a half years, so I don’t know why I’m worried that she’ll change that policy on my watch.