All the Single Ladies Read online

  Then, a week after the Mathew Street incident, he texts to ask if we could grab a coffee at lunchtime. I don’t pick it up until three o’clock, when I phone him straight away.

  ‘Is after work any good?’ I ask.

  ‘Umm . . . yeah, sure. I was supposed to have something on but . . . yeah.’

  We meet at a pub near his work called the Fat Pheasant.

  It’s a tiny, dingy hovel of an establishment, the sort of place Jamie finds mysteriously appealing. He describes it as having ‘character’. Which basically means it features a variety of grubby blokes looking as if they’ve developed cobwebs in their ears and the toilets are cleaned with a level of attention you’d expect in a Vietnamese prison.

  He’s at the bar when I arrive. I’m flustered and red-faced after my last meeting of the day overran. He kisses me on the cheek and I inhale his smell and close my eyes briefly. God, he smells so good. Particularly compared with the rest of the clientele.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ he asks.

  ‘Diet Coke,’ I say firmly. The never-drinking-again rule is sticking, believe me.

  He has a pint of bitter and pays for the drinks as I look for a seat by the door. I like to have a visible escape route when in places like this. And, apart from the dubious patches on the seats and jammy rings of lager that have clearly adorned the table for several days, it’s perfect.

  ‘Great boozer this, isn’t it?’ he muses in all seriousness as he sits next to me.

  ‘Hmm,’ I reply.

  Then there’s a silence. Another of those awkward ones.

  ‘I haven’t really mentioned last week at Mathew Street,’ I find myself announcing. ‘I was sooo drunk.’

  ‘I know,’ he replies with a half-smile. ‘You were a lot more . . . gregarious than I’ve seen before.’

  I let out a little laugh. ‘Well, there’s a euphemism.’

  ‘Whatever happened to the girl who didn’t like dancing?’ he asks softly.

  I’m tempted to say, ‘Belly Dance Abs Blast is what happened’, but manage not to. ‘I suppose a few things have changed about me lately.’

  ‘Really?’ he asks with a flash of anxiety.

  I shrug. ‘I think I’ve worked out that life goes on, with or without you. That I’m determined to be the happy and positive person I always was.’

  He suddenly looks sad. Unbelievably sad.

  ‘I still wish you were in my life, though,’ I reply. And when he responds with a smile I feel a swell of pure unadulterated love for him.

  ‘Oh Sam,’ he murmurs, and I notice his lip trembling. As our eyes meet it feels as though there’s an electric current running between us and I’m overwhelmed with an absolute conviction that I can never be without this man. Not ever. ‘Sam . . . I don’t know where to begin.’

  I reach over to take his hand and he squeezes it back so hard it hurts my fingers.

  ‘Sam, I’m so confused,’ he whispers.

  ‘Still?’ I say.

  He nods, his face tortured. ‘Some days I know exactly what I want, I know exactly what I’ve got to do . . . and that’s South America.’ He glances at me, then looks at his drink. ‘Then other days, or nights . . . like last week in Mathew Street . . .’

  ‘What did you want last Thursday?’ I prompt, convinced that if I don’t ask he’ll say nothing.

  He looks up. ‘I wanted you. Unequivocally, I wanted you.’

  I swallow, feeling tears well in my eyes. ‘Then come back to me, Jamie. It’s not too late.’

  He nods. ‘Can I ask you something, Sam?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, breathless with anticipation.

  He inhales deeply. ‘I know you’ve got men chasing after you left, right and centre. You always had.’

  This isn’t remotely true, but I’m more than happy for Jamie to maintain the fantasy.

  ‘And on Thursday night, when I saw how much attention you were attracting . . . well, it was a wake-up call.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it to be,’ I say as convincingly as possible. ‘I was a bit drunk and—’

  ‘You don’t need to explain,’ he interrupts. ‘It was nice to see you letting loose a little. And you looked . . . well, you looked amazing.’

  Julia would disagree.

  ‘The point I’m making is that . . . Oh look, things are far from settled in my mind. I’ve booked my flight and everything but . . . flights can be cancelled.’

  ‘What date do you leave?’ I ask.

  ‘Tuesday the thirteenth of December.’

  The timescale isn’t news but I still feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach.

  ‘I know you could go out and get another boyfriend tomorrow if you wanted,’ continues Jamie. ‘And you’re perfectly within your rights to do so. I suppose what I want . . . what I’m asking, Sam . . . Look, I need you to leave the door open for me. I need you to not shut me out. Just while I get my head together and work out what I want and need.’

  Despite wanting Jamie more than anything, I feel a twinge of indignation at this request. I mean, he’s dumped me. He’s announced he’s leaving me. Yet he still wants me to leave the door open?

  Then another question explodes into my mind: if Jamie is essentially asking me to not go out with anyone else, what is his situation on this front? Is he allowed to see other women while we’re in this state of limbo?

  ‘It goes without saying that I haven’t even thought about seeing anyone else,’ he says softly, as if reading my thoughts.

  I feel stupidly pleased about this, but make sure I don’t let it show. And I think back to my original plan. I can’t make this too easy for him. I can’t let him think I’ll just drop everything for him and be there whenever he decides to pull himself together.

  ‘Jamie, I will leave the door open for you,’ I tell him. ‘But not unconditionally. If you’re asking me to not go near another man while you try to make up your mind over the course of the next few months, then . . . I’m not sure that’s reasonable.’

  He looks as though someone’s stabbed him in the chest. But I had to say this, even if the truth is that I couldn’t even look at another man. I’ve got to give him some incentive to want to get back with me.

  He nods. ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘No! No, of course not. I’m talking about the principle,’ I say. ‘Plus, you know . . . while I’m willing to leave the door open, as you put it, that can’t mean me sitting at home alone, praying that you’re going to see the light of day.’

  ‘O-of course,’ he stammers. ‘I’d never expect you to.’

  ‘I need to get out there. In case you don’t make the right decision.’

  I glance up at him, desperate for him to leap in and say, ‘But I will! I will make the right decision! Sod all this messing about. I already know what I want and I’m not prepared to risk letting you go.’

  He catches my eye and smiles. ‘I understand, Sam. And that’s totally fair enough. Do you want another drink?’

  Chapter 32

  In the five days that follow, the contact Jamie makes with me starts to tail off. I’ll admit I start to worry. It’s not that he doesn’t get in touch at all, because he does. However, it’s definitely more intermittent.

  But when I speak to Lisa on the phone on Tuesday, as I’m heading to the car park after work, she’s convinced that I remain uppermost in Jamie’s mind.

  ‘Oh he’s just been on a bit of a bender for a few days. The band were playing at the weekend,’ she explains. ‘But he had a day off today so he popped over to play with the kids. And I’ll tell you this: I know he’s bought the plane ticket but, seriously, there’s hope. No doubt. He’s thinking about you all the time. I can tell.’

  ‘Why . . . what did he say?’ I ask.

  ‘It wasn’t what he said so much as a feeling I got.’

  ‘How can you get a feeling if it wasn’t from what he said?’

  ‘Intuition,’ she replies knowingly.

  ‘He didn’t say anything about bum
ping into me in Mathew Street?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘What about meeting me in the pub after work on Thursday?’

  ‘Not that, no.’

  ‘Did he ask about whether you’d seen me lately?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  I sigh. ‘Did he say anything whatsoever about me, Lisa?’

  She pauses. ‘Strictly speaking, no. The idiot. This was despite my best efforts.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Well, I asked him if he wanted to share some thoughts with me because, if so, I’d be more than happy to give my honest and forthright opinion. And if anybody knows about holding a relationship together, it’s me. Dave and I are solid as a rock and always will be. Admittedly, I’ve got Hot Sex volumes three, four, five and six partly to thank, but that’s irrelevant.’

  I’m about to change the subject before she gets on to Dave’s toe-sucking techniques, but she does it for me.

  ‘I mean, if the only person he’s going to for advice is Luke, then God help him.’

  When the call ends ten minutes later, it’s that sentence that stays with me. Lisa’s right about Luke. He isn’t just Jamie’s landlord at the moment; he’s his best friend and, presumably, confidant as well.

  Given that even a sniff of anything approaching commitment brings Luke out in a rash, I can’t help worrying about his influence. The second I get Lisa off the phone, I dial Luke’s number, hoping that, for once in his life, his diary is free tonight.

  Luke and I meet at Pod, a smart low-key tapas bar five minutes from his house. We’re there early but there’s still a decent post-work crowd, the female contingent of which cannot prise their eyes away from my companion.

  ‘What’s it like, knowing you attract so much attention?’ I ask, sipping a Diet Coke.

  ‘Such a burden,’ he sighs, smirking.

  I suppress a smile. ‘Yes, I can tell you hate it. Haven’t you been at work today?’

  Luke is freshly showered, wearing jeans and a simple, long sleeved T-shirt. It’s nothing special, but he still manages to look as though his alternative career is modelling Y-fronts.

  ‘Day off,’ he replies. ‘Now, come on . . . I know you’ve spent every day since I met you disapproving of my every move, so what prompted the change of heart?’

  ‘What change of heart?’ I screw up my nose.

  ‘Well, you’ve asked me out for drinks, haven’t you?’ he grins.

  ‘I did not ask you out for drinks,’ I point out.

  ‘What’s this, then? I’m out. There are drinks. You asked me here. Therefore you asked me out for drinks. Oh look, don’t worry. You’re only human . . .’

  I don’t rise to the bait. ‘I want a chat about Jamie.’

  He tuts. ‘Credit me with some insight, won’t you? I was only kidding.’

  I don’t know what to say to that. I suspect everyone’s sick of me talking about my failed relationship by now. He reaches across and squeezes my hand reassuringly. The female bar tender, a pretty brunette wearing enough lip gloss to lubricate an internal combustion engine, looks consumed with envy.

  ‘Hey. Talk about it all you want. What do you want to know? Or ask? I’m not sure I can shed any light but I’ll do my best.’

  He lets go of my hand and reaches for his beer as I take a deep breath. ‘Well, does he talk about me?’

  ‘You asked me that last time you saw me.’

  ‘What’s the answer?’

  ‘Mmm . . . yes.’

  ‘That means no.’

  ‘It doesn’t!’

  ‘You hesitated too long,’ I accuse him.

  ‘Oh the logic of the female sex,’ he mutters. ‘Look, I’m not sure I’m any good at this stuff.’

  ‘I thought you considered yourself a master at the art of manipulating women?’

  ‘Manipulating?’ he says, looking hurt. ‘I don’t manipulate anyone. I love women. And it’s true what I said, that I am looking for the right person. I am just—’

  ‘Yeah, so you say,’ I interrupt, not believing him for a second.

  He holds my eye. ‘God, you’re tough. I’m sure I don’t deserve the scorn you pour on me.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure you do.’

  ‘Another drink?’ purrs the brunette. I’m tempted to move the drip tray under her chin.

  ‘Before you completely give up on me, Samantha, I have some news for you that may alter your horribly low opinion of me.’

  ‘Do your best,’ I reply.

  He looks down at his drink. ‘I’ve met someone.’

  I frown, scrutinizing his expression. ‘Someone?’

  He looks at me seriously, before his face breaks into a smile. ‘Someone . . . special.’

  I blink. ‘Liar!’

  ‘I’m not lying!’ he protests . . . and boy, do I come to believe him.

  I spend three hours with Luke, and at least two and a half of those are devoted to discussing the new woman in his life, who is beautiful, smart . . . and, from what I can tell, giving him a serious run for his money.

  ‘I have no idea where I stand with her,’ he says, bewildered. ‘I’ve never been keener on someone. I’m so keen I hardly know what to do with myself. Yet I have no idea whether the feeling’s mutual. This has never happened before. It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘How many dates have you been on?’ I ask.

  ‘Three. And they’re like no date I’ve been on before. We’ve only kissed – and I feel like a teenager again. I mean, what am I? Some sort of amateur?’

  I grin. ‘You’re falling for her.’

  He looks deeply worried. ‘Christ . . . do you think so?’

  ‘Who knows? Sounds promising, though.’

  ‘Whatever it is, I need to pull myself together. I’m starting to be embarrassed for myself.’

  We do get round to discussing Luke’s take on his best friend’s state of mind, although it isn’t massively insightful. He simply says that Jamie still has feelings for me. It’s also clear that those feelings are confused.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I mutter.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, finishing his drink and standing up. ‘It’s time I got you home.’

  ‘Why, have you got another date?’

  He rolls his eyes as we head to the door and he holds it open for me. When I get to my car, I click the key to unlock it then turn to him.

  It’s dark but the amber glow of the street light on his face makes him look . . . well, put it this way: I’ve known Luke so long that there are times I forget how breathtaking he is. This particular moment in time isn’t one of them.

  ‘Listen, thanks for tonight, Luke. It means a lot.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replies. ‘What are friends for? Besides, I may be calling on you again for some advice. Assuming I get past date number four.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ I reassure him.

  ‘I’m not,’ he laughs, and as he heads in the other direction, I can’t help wondering if the man who’s broken a thousand hearts has finally met his match.

  Chapter 33

  The approach employed by Piers Smith – a.k.a. my boss – when managing the Liverpool office isn’t what you’d call hands-on. I sometimes wonder if he’s forgotten there is a Liverpool office until I turn up in Manchester at the fourteenth-floor penis extension that is his office, for our bi-monthly catch-up meeting. As ever, when I perch on a seat across from his ridiculously proportioned desk, clutching my A4 pad and pen, I get the impression that it takes a few seconds for him to register who I am. Which, I can’t deny, has some benefits. As long as I keep my head down and hit our targets, Piers leaves me to get on with things. But there’s a downside that’s been gnawing at me for months.

  ‘I wondered if you’d considered the issue of the reporting structure?’ I ask tentatively. I’ve already talked him through next month’s budget, explained our targets, and updated him on nine imminent events and several business leads I’ve generated. He was looking sleepy before I’d got to item
two.

  ‘Reporting structure?’ he asks lazily, clicking on his mouse and failing to tear his eyes from the computer screen. He’s playing Farmville, no doubt about it.

  ‘We discussed it in my last appraisal,’ I remind him, semi-apologetically. ‘About how there are two staff members in the Liverpool office who report directly to you. And how that’s not practical, given the distance . . . and the fact that you can’t deal with them personally . . . and that the events they work on are ones I manage . . .’

  I’m squirming through this waffle, though I don’t know why. The set-up makes no sense at all, and only an unmitigated egomaniac would construe my suggestion as an attempt to seize power.

  ‘The upshot,’ I say, straightening my back assertively, ‘is that they’d be a lot easier to manage and motivate if they reported to me officially.’

  Piers turns away from his computer, claps two suntanned hands together and inhales so deeply through both nostrils you’d think he was trying to hoover up dust on his desk. He’s in his late forties and, to be fair, is looking well on it. Yet he’s one of those men who, while technically good-looking – a chiselled-featured, sharp-suited version of Barbie’s boyfriend, Ken – is simultaneously deeply unsexy. At least, I think so. Given that he seems to have bedded half the Manchester, Birmingham and Newcastle offices, unbeknown to his wife, Tracy, I’m apparently in a minority.

  ‘Let me tell you something about leadership, Sal,’ he purrs with a coffee-advert smile.

  ‘Sam,’ I correct him.

  ‘Sam,’ he repeats, nodding as if this was what he said in the first place. ‘Leadership isn’t something that comes from reporting structures. Leadership comes from here.’ He taps a finger on his head. Twice. ‘Allow me to lend you a book.’

  He opens a vast drawer and roots around in it before flinging a paperback in my direction. It’s bright red, with a retina-scorching pink title that reads: Be a Winner Not a Wally!

  ‘Have a read of that,’ he winks.