‘Yep. You’re smart; you’re kinda sassy. You have a lot of chutzpah.’
‘Thanks!’ She grinned. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
She glanced away and smiled at a passing waitress. She felt incredibly naughty, sitting here with this man. She was supposed to be single. She was supposed to be ignoring men. But she was finding him irresistible. Was he her kind of man? He was exactly what she’d been after all these years. A rich, successful businessman, somebody with perfect manners who would treat her right. It was all she had dated for a long time. There was supposed to be a safety in these type of men – as disappointing as they’d all turned out to be – an unspoken assurance that she wouldn’t fall in love with them. She suddenly felt afraid she couldn’t guarantee her own safety, not with this man…but she pushed that fear aside. Why couldn’t she just enjoy him?
Their bill arrived and Richard paid it, despite Imogen insisting it be split.
‘My treat,’ he said. ‘I invited you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
She didn’t want to get up. She wanted to sit at this table, with this man, all night. Talk about everything, talk about nothing. Just be with him. She was shocked at the intensity of this feeling, that she wanted to be with this man. She’d only just met him! Up until the moment she’d met him she’d been really enjoying being single. What was happening to her?
As they left, their waiter was walking briskly towards the kitchen, a look of intense worry on his face. Richard stopped him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hey, good luck. In a couple weeks you’ll be flying. Heck, you’ll be running the show.’ It was really lovely of him; she hoped to God it wasn’t an act.
‘So where can I drop you?’
They were outside the restaurant, on the pavement. Ah. This was new. A really perfect gentleman, although she wasn’t sure she wanted him to be. She was slightly aggrieved he was not asking her back to his place, or to a hotel. They always did!
She tried to arrange her face so she didn’t look disappointed in the slightest.
‘Don’t worry, I can walk to the Tube from here,’ she said. It was fine and dry now. And it was only ten o’clock. It was early! The night was still young. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to walk away from him just yet. They’d had such a great time.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ She had never been an actress, but she’d been around them long enough to pick up a few tips. She made her face bright and nonchalant and gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Thank you ever so much,’ she said in the Queen’s best English. ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening.’ Okay, so she wouldn’t be picking up an Oscar any time soon. She probably wouldn’t even pass an audition for am-dram Noel Coward at the local village hall. She sounded like an idiot. An idiot who’d swallowed a plum.
‘My pleasure,’ said Richard, ignoring her Celia Johnson from Brief Encounter impression, and he stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was thrilling, having his face so close to hers, his warm but cool lips on her flushed skin. He smelled wonderful, like honeysuckle and testosterone.
‘Bye, then,’ she said, and she walked away from him and towards Oxford Circus Tube. She felt sad and sorry to be leaving him but at the same time excited and buzzing. She’d felt like this once before… Oh God. The fear was back. She suddenly felt like she was at the top of a very tall building and perilously close to the edge. She had nothing to grab on to and she was terrified. She was in very near and proximate danger of falling for this man.
And he didn’t have her number and she’d refused his card.
‘Wait!’ called Richard. ‘I don’t have your number! Do you have a card?’
Oh thank God, thank God.
‘Yes!’ Knowing she didn’t look at all cool, she literally ran back to him, pulled a card from the little inside pocket of her swish bag and thrust it into his hands. And then, because she couldn’t trust herself not to fling her body onto his and beg him to take her to bed, she turned on her heel and fled.
Imogen frowned to herself as she put her ticket through the barrier in the Tube station. She was in big trouble. Really big trouble.
She was in grave danger of being a giant, absolute fraud.
Chapter Eleven: Frankie
Frankie walked to Tesco’s. She wouldn’t run; she didn’t want to look all dishevelled and out of breath before she even got there. She wanted to look cool, composed and wedgie-less. She’d got new gear, including a pair of leggings that actually fitted her and a T-shirt in a normal colour that didn’t say anything.
She’d decided to go to the Couch to 5k meet-up. Just to see what it was like. Train with like-minded people. Beat her personal best. See that handsome guy again… Why not? It was another Sunday without the kids and, to be honest, she was bored stiff and desperate to avoid another drop-in visit from her parents.
She’d run, on and off, since that first time two weeks ago. She was getting better at it. She could now go twenty minutes without a stitch and was beginning to enjoy that feeling of satisfaction when she got home and knew she’d done what she set out to. She liked it. She was a runner again.
He hadn’t been quite right about the car park. It was empty of people – there were only cars – but there was a group of sporty-looking people in Lycra and fleece limbering up in the parkland behind it. As she walked over, the man she’d met by the river was lolling against a tree, wearing black shorts and a turquoise T-shirt, and easing on sweatbands. She made a beeline for him. The other people looked scary: a couple doing mirror-image star jumps, a guy in a red tracksuit and matching towelling headband doing hamstring stretches, a woman thrusting a black and pink bum in the air as she tied her laces.
‘Hey! You came!’ He was as gorgeous as she’d remembered. His hair slightly longer and even more George Wickham. His eyes just as heavenly. He had a slight designer stubble thing going on this morning as well, which made him look incredibly sexy.
‘I did.’
‘And you’ve got new trainers.’
Frankie looked down at her new Adidas running shoes with the natty netted sides.
‘Yep. Cool aren’t they?’
He had a neat pile of stuff at his feet: sports bag, water bottle, perfectly folded sweatshirt. They were all lined up in a row. He even had what looked like three individually wrapped protein bars aligned like soldiers in a manly blue Tupperware box.
‘Well, you look great,’ he said, as she looked up. She noticed for the first time his voice had a slight northern quality to it. With his full and floppity hair, his impressive but tidy sideburns and his mesmerising full-lashed eyes, she half expected a neighing, saddled horse or a discarded pair of breeches to materialise behind him.
‘Thank you.’
‘My name’s Hugh, by the way.’
‘I’m Frankie.’
‘Well I’m ever so pleased to meet you, Frankie,’ he said, mock-formally. And he held out a hand, which she took. As their skin made contact he smiled and his gorgeous eyes crinkled at the corners. Wow. He was gorgeous. She felt all funny. ‘Right,’ he said, letting go of her hand despite her trying to hang on to it for a bit longer. ‘We’ll be off in a minute. Are you ready?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Let’s go for it then.’
He ran next to her for the entire twenty-five minutes. It was hard to chat when your knickers were up your bum (damn! New leggings, same problem), your boobs were one big wobbling block and you were out of breath. But she did her best. Hugh was very encouraging.
‘All right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Do you need to slow the pace?’
‘No, I’m okay.’
‘Think you’ll make it to the end?’
‘I hope so.’ She looked at his muscly legs pumping in impressive rhythmic fashion. ‘You’re very fit,’ she noted.
‘I’m a PE teacher.’
Of course he was.
At least she didn’t get a
stitch this time, and when they got to the end of the run she mercifully didn’t feel like she wanted to die. She just had to sit down for ten minutes with her head on her knees saying, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’
Afterwards, he walked her to the edge of the car park.
‘Can I ask you something, Frankie?’ His beautiful eyes were boring into her. She was transfixed by them. ‘Are you married?’ Of course, he must have noticed her wedding ring. She still wore it. Actually, she didn’t dare attempt to try and get it off – she feared it wouldn’t pass her knuckle.
‘I’m separated.’
‘Oh. Good. That’s great.’ He looked really pleased. ‘Would you like to go out sometime? Could I take your number?’
Her heart gave a little leap. Would she like to go out sometime? She’d split with Rob to give her some time on her own. She was supposed to be single, and single for a year. She’d taken that pledge, with the girls, and she thought she’d keep it, easily. But he was so handsome, she was bored, she could do with some fun in her life and she needn’t tell anyone…
‘Yes. Okay. I’ll give you my number.’ He pulled his phone from his sports bag and tapped it in. Then slid the phone back into the front pocket of the bag. All the while he had a really intense look on his face. He was really looking at her. In her eyes. At her lips. Now she felt really funny. She felt all wibbly. She looked into his eyes. She looked at his lips.
‘Great,’ he said again. He stepped towards her. Then another step. When she thought he couldn’t get any closer, he got closer still. Her heart started pounding – what was happening? – and, before she knew it, they were kissing. Kissing! He had his hand on her left sweaty bum cheek. She had her fingers in his lovely hair. They were really going for it. They kissed for ages. Ages. She clutched on to him like a drowning woman to a lovely big, life-saving rock. He finally leant away from her, his lips flushed and a big grin on his gorgeous face.
‘I’ll text you,’ he said and bounded off into the car park.
‘What have you been up to? Your face is bright pink.’
Imogen had texted her as she walked – or rather swooned – home from Tesco’s, asking if she was free to meet for a quick coffee. Imogen was with Grace in town (James wasn’t having Daniel this weekend – he’d gone to the New Forest, with that bitch) and as Frankie was too wired to go home, she’d detoured to meet them. What the bloody hell had just happened? She’d kissed a man she barely knew, a man she’d met twice. They’d just kind of leapt on each other. It was unprecedented. It was so out of the blue… It was absolutely bloody fantastic.
‘I went for a run. The clue is in the outfit.’ She looked down at herself. It was a dry day and the trainers were still pretty pristine.
‘You?’ said Imogen, getting her purse out of her bag to pay for coffee.
‘I used to run, remember? I’ve decided to take it up again. I’ve joined a running group.’
‘Yeah, I remember. Good for you. Any hot men?’
‘If there were, I didn’t notice.’
‘So there were some?’
‘No.’
‘Well, great,’ said Imogen. ‘I’m pleased you’re running again. You used to love it.’
‘Does running make your chin all red?’ asked Grace. She was peering into the counter and deciding between a blueberry muffin and a millionaire shortbread.
‘Apparently,’ said Frankie vaguely. ‘So what have you two been up to?’
Imogen shrugged. ‘Not much. Just working.’ She started studying the Starbucks menu, above the counter, though they all knew exactly what was on it.
‘Just working,’ echoed Grace. ‘And staying in a lot. You know how it is.’
‘You’ve got that big do coming up haven’t you? James’s grandmother’s thing?’ said Frankie. ‘You still going?’ She wished she hadn’t met up with them now; she was feeling far too flustered, but she thought as long as she kept the conversation off her, she could get through it. When she got home would be the time to jump up and down and screech her head off.
‘Yes,’ replied Grace. ‘I’ve decided just to go on my own.’
‘Really?’ said Imogen. ‘I could come with you?’
‘It’s not your thing,’ said Grace. ‘And thanks again for your offer, Frankie, before you say anything. Honestly, I’m fine going by myself.’
They were now at the front of the queue and gave their order. Frankie knew it wasn’t really post-workout fare but she ordered a hot chocolate with whipped cream – she needed the sugar. As they sat down at a table she said, ‘Well, I’m impressed, Grace. Going on your own. I think that’s fabulous.’ Grace never went anywhere on her own. Frankie was really impressed.
‘Thanks, Frankie,’ said Grace. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘Good being single, isn’t it?’ said Imogen.
‘Hmm,’ said Frankie and Grace, and the three of them sat with their heads lowered and stirred their drinks.
Chapter Twelve: Grace
Anyone coming out of the Tube, as Grace was, in the five o’clock April sunshine, would have thought ‘Blimey, that’s an attractive man’. A really attractive man. He was leaning against a glass-fronted poster and wearing a perfect dinner suit and a handsome, amiable face that said he would make a great friend, boyfriend or husband. What a catch. He was gorgeous. He simply looked lovely.
Grace was surprised someone hadn’t got there before her and dragged Greg away. She wouldn’t have blamed them. He was a technicolour dreamboat. He certainly made all those terrible online dates she’d been on fade away, which was quite a feat, as most of them were still messaging her. She had to block Tasting Menu guy; he kept sending her photos of his pudding. Even on the way here she’d had a message from Tim, the man who’d bailed out on her, asking if she still wanted to go on a date. He did seem fairly normal and had provided a photo at last, of him halfway up a mountain (a real rock climber this time!) looking smiley and genial, but of course she didn’t. She had Greg.
He was outside Her Majesty’s Theatre in London’s West End. Nana McKensie’s one hundredth birthday treat was to take one hundred members of her family and friends to see The Phantom of the Opera – her favourite musical; she’d seen it over thirty times, apparently – followed by a private party in one of the theatre’s bars. Grace had been thrilled with the plan when she’d first been told of it, almost a year ago. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d asked James to take her to see a musical. He’d said West End shows were for girls or for gays, which was typical James. She always said, well, she was a girl, but that had never held any sway. James was not known for his political correctness. ‘How’s the gay?’ he always used to ask, about Gideon.
The girls had never wanted to come to the theatre with her, either. She understood their reasons: Frankie said it was all too poncey for her and she never understood what on earth was going on, and Imogen didn’t do musical theatre as she saw enough normal theatre. It was okay. To Grace, it was a romantic thing to do, going to a West End show. Some things she didn’t want to do with the girls. Some things she wanted to do with a man. Thank God she’d found her plus one.
‘Hello, again,’ said Greg.
‘Hello,’ said Grace.
‘You look lovely,’ said Greg.
She was in a long velvet evening skirt, corset top and choker, and some sparkly black pumps. She’d tried on and discarded several outfits, before going for this one. She really wanted to look special tonight.
‘Thank you, so do you.’ Some men didn’t suit a dinner jacket and bow tie. Greg did. He looked like he’d had another haircut since she last saw him. In the sunlight she could see some grey at his temples; it was very attractive.
‘Shall we?’
Greg took her hand and they walked up the small flight of steps and into the lobby. Sun was streaming through the windows and Grace had to narrow her eyes to make anyone out. Ah, yes, there they all were, most of James’s family, dressed up to the nines – earrings and necklaces and shiny shoes an
d well-polished bald patches all catching the light. Maggie, in a long tie-dye skirt and ruffly blouse, rushed up to give Grace a huge hug.
‘The guy from the sandwich shop?’ she whispered in Grace’s ear. ‘He’s gorgeous!’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, pulling back. ‘This is Greg. Greg, this is Maggie.’
‘Hi, Greg.’ Maggie beamed as Greg shook her hand. ‘And don’t worry,’ she said, giving Grace’s arm a congratulatory squeeze, ‘my far from punctual brother’s not here yet. Hopefully you won’t bump into him at all. Mum’s over there.’
Gloria, James’s Mum, gave Grace a small wave and then came over, rustling in black taffeta. ‘Grace,’ she said, enveloping her in a light embrace. ‘Nana told us you were coming. I’m so glad you have. And you’ve brought a date!’
‘Er…yes,’ said Grace nervously. ‘This is Greg.’
‘Well, hello. Lovely to meet you. And what does Greg do?’
‘Service industry,’ said Grace.
‘Marketing,’ said Greg, at exactly the same time.
He laughed. ‘I’m currently in the service industry but hoping to start my own business. Marketing.’
‘Fabulous,’ said Gloria. ‘And where did you two meet?’
Grace looked at Greg. They should have worked all this stuff out. Never mind meeting him in advance to check he looked like his photo, they should have compiled a cheat sheet for tonight.
‘We met while out walking,’ he said. ‘I have a very friendly Labrador.’
‘How lovely,’ smiled Gloria as Grace gave an internal sigh of relief. ‘Well, I hope you have a good night. Nana’s holding court somewhere. Oh, yes, there she is.’
She pointed out Nana McKensie over by the ticket office, resplendent in faux fur and pearls and surrounded by a circle of people all laughing their heads off. Grace smiled. She adored the lady.
‘Well, I’ll see you later.’ Gloria stepped forward for another brief hug with Grace. ‘I’m sorry about everything, dear. But, he’s my son, what can I do?’
Grace nodded. ‘It’s okay.’
A bell sounded and a baritone voice came on the Tannoy to announce four minutes until the start of the performance. Greg put a protective arm around Grace as they slowly climbed the plum-carpeted Victorian staircase with smartly dressed family chattering excitedly around them. There was an air of glamour and anticipation, of this being a wonderful treat and celebration. He steered her gently and expertly towards her seat – Nana McKensie had booked the entire balcony – and smiled benignly at the elderly theatregoers seated near them as they took theirs. He was the perfect gentleman. Grace sat down, taking a quick look around her. There was still no sign of James.
Year of Being Single Page 12