All the Single Ladies Read online

  He looks as though his brain is about to melt.

  ‘So . . . are you from Liverpool?’ I continue, deciding to tone things down a little.

  He picks up his drink with trembling hands and takes a large mouthful. ‘Runcorn.’

  ‘That’s not far,’ I smile. His body is so broad and hard you’d think he’d been born in a gym and never left. ‘So you’ve probably been to this place a few times before.’

  ‘Not really,’ he replies, gulping again. ‘It’s my mother, you see. She doesn’t like me going far.’

  ‘Oh. So you just go out in Runcorn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  This isn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped.

  ‘I rarely go out. Except Mother’s in hospital having a hysterectomy so I came here with Terry straight from visiting. She’d needed quite a lot tonight – grapes, her Reader’s Digest crossword books and some sanitary towels. The ones at the hospital weren’t up to standard.’

  This is all wrong.

  The physical manifestation of this man simply does not correlate with his brain. He is without question the sexiest-looking bloke in the place, yet I cannot think of a less sexy conversation, short of him filling me in on further elaborate details of his mother’s women’s troubles.

  But as I glance at Jamie on the other side of the room, I feel a rush of determination. I’ve got to stick to my guns.

  Besides, Jamie never has to meet this guy and discover that he has all the charisma of a decomposing corpse. He only has to see me with him – and hopefully imagine I’m succumbing to a seduction technique that could teach James Bond a thing or two.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ I ask, brushing dust off his shoulder. It’s an old chestnut but it seems to work. He gulps again.

  ‘I’ve just got a new job. As a salesman at Carpets R Us.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I breathe, deliberately making my pupils dilate. He is momentarily fixated by my mouth and I take the opportunity to run my tongue slowly across my lips and flutter my eyelashes. He takes another gulp of beer. Then gulps once more. This man could gulp for his country.

  ‘I don’t know how long it’ll last,’ he says anxiously. ‘Selling isn’t my forte.’

  ‘Really . . .?’ I murmur, looking over to Jamie again. ‘A gorgeous guy like you?’

  At this, he splutters out his beer and launches into a coughing fit that makes me consider calling a paramedic.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Um . . . yes,’ he replies, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, carpets. Well, Terry got me the job. But I’ve been doing it for two weeks and have sold only one. And that was . . . well, the management weren’t very happy. I took down the measurements wrong. It was a foot too small. It was a lovely shagpile, as well. I felt awful.’

  I glance up and realize that Jamie’s looking in our direction. He’s parted from the brunette slightly, as if something else has caught his attention. I sincerely hope it’s me. Then a brilliant thought hits me.

  ‘What do you think of my flower?’ I say, deliberately forcing him to look at the rose at my neckline.

  It makes his knees buckle.

  ‘Ummmmm . . .’ he says, averting his eyes, mortified.

  ‘It’s not wilting, is it?’ I add, flashing a look at Jamie. It’s a split-second look, not long at all. But long enough to notice that he has abandoned the brunette and is on his way over.

  ‘Right!’ I say, hastily grabbing my bag. ‘Hold that thought – I’m going to the loo.’

  I’m about to leave, when I feel compelled to spin round and add, ‘Do you mind if I make an observation?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You are lovely – I meant what I said. You should have a bit more . . . belief in yourself.’

  He straightens his back and looks as if this is the nicest thing anyone’s said to him in a year. Which is a tragedy, but one I can’t hang around thinking about.

  I glide across the room – spotting Julia chatting to a woman I recognize as one of her old school friends – and weave through the crowds in the direction of the toilet, slowly enough to give Jamie a chance to catch up. Then I hear two words that send adrenalin rushing down my spine.

  ‘Sam, wait!’

  Chapter 28

  I try to look shocked. I suspect Cate Blanchett won’t be too concerned about her next Oscar bid, but it’s the best I can do.

  ‘Jamie! Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘Yeah, weird,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’d never normally dream of setting foot in a place like this, but the guys from work wanted to come. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I went to see Julia at the Phil and she wanted a drink. We stumbled on this place. Coincidence, eh?’ I laugh. ‘So . . . the girl you were chatting to – is she new at work?’ I can’t help myself.

  ‘Oh that’s Lauren. She’s the little sister of Michael, our new manager.’ He says this dismissively, but I feel distinctly un-reassured. ‘What about you? Who were you with?’ He looks over my shoulder.

  ‘Oh . . .’ My mind whirrs, not least with fears about my newfound competition. ‘That’s . . . Demitri.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s a friend,’ I shrug, in a way that I hope looks distinctly suspicious. ‘I know him through Julia.’

  ‘So he’s a musician?’ he asks, not looking nearly jealous enough.

  ‘Er . . . no. He lives near her. No, he’s got a far more exciting career than that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  My brain spins with possibilities as I attempt to choose the most envy-inducing job on the planet. Underwear model? Cardiac surgeon? Owner of an upmarket boutique hotel? None seem nearly impressive enough. Then a flash of inspiration bursts into my head – and straight out of my mouth before I can gag myself.

  ‘He’s a spy.’

  Jamie snorts and looks at me like I’m demented. ‘A spy?’

  We turn to look at Gordon as he enthusiastically blows his nose on a napkin, then examines the resulting contents.

  ‘Obviously, he doesn’t do it any more,’ I splutter. ‘I mean, that’d be ridiculous – because I’d have told you all about it and blown his cover.’ I try to compose myself and look cool again. ‘No . . . those days are over for Demitri. He, er, runs a property company these days. He’s done very well for himself.’ I decide that this is a far more manageable lie.

  ‘Oh. He looks young,’ replies Jamie.

  ‘Yep. Early thirties and a millionaire . . . Can’t be bad, eh? He drives, er . . . a Lambrini.’

  Jamie blinks. ‘You mean Lamborghini.’

  Shit. ‘That’s the one!’ I reply. ‘He’s not shallow at all, though. Very modest. Such a nice guy.’

  Something catches Jamie’s attention on the other side of the bar and I panic that I’m starting to lose him. That my crap about Gordon the carpet salesman hasn’t had anything like the desired effect. I take another large gulp of my drink and hope I’m being paranoid just because I’m tipsy. And I really am tipsy. You know how, on some evenings, you can drink and drink and not feel drunk, then it hits you in a word-slurring, head-spinning, need-to-sit-down-before-I-fall-down sort of way?

  I feel just like that. Although I haven’t exactly drunk and drunk. I’ve only had three – the last one a double – but the effect appears to have been magnified by the fact that it’s ten hours since I ate.

  ‘Well . . . I think the guys want to move on shortly,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I blurt out. ‘Oh . . . it feels like ages since we had a chat.’

  He looks into my eyes and goes quiet. He looks glazed and serious and I get a surge of hope that I’ve made a connection with him again. But I know it’s not enough. I’ve got to act. Having a twinge of regret isn’t enough. I need Jamie to feel as desperate for me as I am for him. The problem is that I haven’t a clue how to make that happen.

  At that very moment, my guardian angel arrives.

  H
e’s an unlikely guardian angel, admittedly, but these things come in all shapes and sizes. Including carpet salesmen.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ says Gordon, looking significantly more nervous than 007 ever did in front of a woman. ‘You know, the last thing you said to me. About—’

  ‘Yes – I know,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Well,’ he continues, taking a deep breath and apparently oblivious to Jamie’s presence. ‘Would you like to dance?’

  If I was going on my instincts alone, there’d only be one answer and that would be a definite no: A, because of my chronic aversion to dancing, and B, because I’m standing here with the love of my life. Yet, when a flicker of disquiet appears on Jamie’s face, I know that this is my chance. So I reply in the last way he’d ever expect. With an enthusiastic smile and a small but unprecedented sentence: ‘I’d love to.’

  Chapter 29

  I can’t decide whether the alcohol that’s passed through my empty stomach and is now coursing through my bloodstream is a help or a hindrance. On the one hand, I know what booze does to my coordination. On the other, Dutch courage is an absolute necessity in this situation. Put simply, I couldn’t do this unless I was on my way to being – to put it poetically – slightly lampshaded.

  Under normal circumstances, my heart would be racing in panic as I step onto the dance floor. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s personal.

  I can feel Jamie’s eyes burning into my back as Gordon takes my hand, and, knowing the role this is playing in my quest to win him back, I decide there’s only one way to handle it: with bullish self-belief.

  As the Black Eyed Peas song trails off and is replaced by another, I close my eyes, determined to submit to the music. To just go with it . . . whatever it is. The first beats begin and my eyes ping open. I can barely believe my luck: it’s Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’.

  The opening track on my Belly Dance Abs Blast DVD!

  Every woman on the dance floor ups her game immediately – it’s just one of those songs – and I know I’ve got serious competition.

  But, for the first time in my life, I’m confident of stepping up to the mark. Gordon sways self-consciously as I get myself in position and launch into the only dance I’ve ever learned, courtesy of repeated instruction by Princess Karioca in my living room.

  I know I’m capable of the wiggly hips and sashays but, under the circumstances, I also feel the need to . . . soup it up a little.

  So I don’t just shimmy . . . I shimmy like a Brazilian street dancer whose toes are on fire. This is no time to be shy and retiring: this is the time to give it everything I’ve got. And boy, do I. My hips go up and down, round and round; they swivel so madly you’d think they’d been given a squirt of WD40.

  Princess Karioca’s words are shrieking through my brain: ‘Keep them loose! Keep them loose!’

  My hips are as loose as a Weightwatcher’s Gold Member’s trousers. And together with my pouts, hair flicking and eyelid batting every time I glance at Gordon, he’d have to be in a coma to not be left with the (totally false) impression that I want to rip off his clothes.

  Of course, I’m not following the Belly Dance Abs Blast DVD to the letter. Nothing like it. I’m going with the flow, frolicking so fast and energetically that I can see the reaction of no one – until I hone in on my partner. Whipping my shoulders back and forth while I simultaneously muster up the most seductive look I can, I drape one hand on Gordon’s shoulder and the other around his waist.

  It’s like the move Olivia Newton-John did on John Travolta at the end of Grease, only more overtly sexy: a soft-porn version of Sandra Dee. Gordon’s eyes pop so far out of his head I’m convinced they’re going to land in someone’s drink.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ I murmur.

  He nods, wide-eyed, as I let go and start twirling . . . and twirling . . . and twirling. It feels amazing . . . then not – as I stumble into a bloke behind me, nearly breaking several of his toes.

  He pushes me back into position, while I hope I’ve managed to make it look like a perfectly choreographed move. I launch again into the routine that’s technically brilliant for toning up your six-pack – but is doing a damn good job now too.

  I deliberately don’t catch Jamie’s eye, despite him being at the front of my mind.

  When the song reaches a crescendo, I fling out my arms and fall to my knees, significantly more enthusiastically than I ever do in front of my DVD. But it feels like the only fitting end to what I’m confident is a spectacular performance.

  It’s Julia’s voice I hear first in the commotion.

  ‘Honestly, I know what it looks like, but I promise you . . . my sister is not the type to do drugs.’

  I stand up, feeling slightly more woozy than I expected.

  ‘There’s no way that exhibition was solely with the aid of a couple of Bacardis and Coke,’ says the bouncer. ‘Now, come on. Out. Both of you. And don’t let me see you in here again.’

  Within minutes I find myself outside the club, burning with a sense of injustice.

  ‘What on earth washh all that about?’ I ask.

  ‘I might ask you the same question,’ says Julia, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Are you on drugs?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculoush. I was dancing!’

  ‘You weren’t just dancing,’ she says disapprovingly, holding her arm out to flag down a taxi. ‘It looked like someone had booked a stripper.’

  ‘I was belly dancing. That’s how you do it,’ I tut. ‘I’ve got a DVD. Honestly, I’ve got a DVD.’ I don’t know why I thought saying it twice would convince her any more.

  ‘I don’t care what DVDs you’ve got . . . that did not look like belly dancing.’

  I try to come up with a robust response. Only one thing springs to mind. ‘I’m telling you . . . I’ve got a DVD.’ Three times a charm. ‘Was Jamie watching?’

  We climb into a taxi and she gives the driver our addresses. ‘Everyone was watching,’ she answers.

  I grin. ‘Was he impressed?’

  She stands up from her seat opposite and comes to sit next to me, putting her arm around my shoulders. ‘Oh Sam.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  She gives me a big squeeze. ‘That hug is because I won’t be there when you wake up tomorrow morning. When you are so going to need one.’

  Chapter 30

  I am never, ever drinking again. That’s never. I am struggling to convey the level of mortification with which I wake the following morning but will simply say that it hangs heavily in my head, like a dark, festering blanket, poisoning my every thought.

  This is not just ‘the fear’, when I worry that I’ve done or said something inappropriate. This is beyond fear; this is a certainty.

  As I drag myself out of bed and start getting ready for work, a text from Julia lands.

  How are we this morning?

  U were right about that hug, I reply.

  Aw . . . never mind, sis. You got Jamie’s attention anyway! x

  I let out a groan that sounds like the hounds of hell on the cusp of a full moon, before pressing the call button.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I rasp the second Julia answers.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replies. My sister is never hungover. Largely because my sister never gets drunk. In fact, she never acts with anything but total decorum. I wish it ran in the family. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Come on. What does that mean? Was I that bad?’

  ‘Actually,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘“bad” isn’t the word. There were a lot of people in that room who thought you were pretty damn good.’

  ‘Really?’ I straighten my back, feeling a vague swell of optimism.

  ‘Mainly the men,’ she clarifies. ‘Particularly the sleazier ones. They loved you. The women generally weren’t as keen.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I ask defensively. ‘I was trying to . . . let go a little, that’s all. To really get into it.’

  �
�If that was your objective I can say categorically that you achieved it.’

  ‘You’re trying to imply I looked like a slut,’ I say, hoping she’ll deny it.

  ‘Was it only an implication . . .?’

  ‘Ohhhwwww!’

  ‘Oh come on, Sam. I’m only kidding. You’re right: it wasn’t that bad. Your technique itself was pretty accomplished. If you ever find yourself out of work, there are several lap-dancing bars that’d give you a job like a shot.’

  ‘Do you have to?’ I sob. ‘Oh God . . . Jamie’s going to hate me. He’s going to think he was shacked up with a slapper for the last six years. He’s never going to want to look at me again. He’s going to—’

  ‘Actually, Sam,’ she interrupts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. He looked as jealous as hell.’

  I hear from Jamie that evening, when I’m lying in the bath. I’d cracked open the aromatherapy gift set that I got last Christmas, which has, until now, never seen the light of day. It consists of a satin eye masque that looks like the sort of thing that Margot from The Good Life would wear to bed, and several little bottles of oil.

  I couldn’t decide whether to go for the lavender, to try to relax me (as I’ve felt anything but all day), or the grapefruit, to energize me (ditto). So I went for broke and threw in both. The result is that I feel slightly schizophrenic and definitely no better.

  When my phone lets out a little bleep I jolt out of my fitful snooze, splashing water over the edge of the bath as I grapple with my masque and fling it on the floor, then scramble to the sink. My hands are still wet when I read the text, which isn’t ideal, but the second I see it’s from Jamie I can’t even think about bothering to dry them.

  Hey . . . how’s it going? Nice to see you last night x

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I say out loud. But I know what it means. At least I think so. It means my plan is really starting to work.

  Chapter 31

  Over the next week, Jamie becomes an almost constant presence in my life. It’s as if he’s never left. Whether he’s round at the house to pick up more clothes, or popping into work to drop off some random household paperwork, I’m starting to see more of him than I did when we lived together.