All the Single Ladies Page 2

  ‘Oh I don’t believe that,’ she says dismissively, leaning over to grab the bottle and top up our glasses again. ‘He’ll be back in days. I know it. He’ll move into one of his mates’ houses and within a week of eating slimy takeaways and living with each other’s farting and dirty pants on the bathroom floor, he’ll be on the doorstep. I guarantee it.’

  I gaze into the middle distance, feeling my tears well up again. ‘He won’t, Ellie.’

  ‘How do you know?’ she challenges.

  ‘Because he’s got a ticket to South America. And it’s not a return.’

  She opens her mouth wide. ‘What? When?’

  I swallow. ‘He flies out in five months. To Peru, apparently. He’s got some job with an environmental monitoring project that starts in December.’

  ‘But he’s dumped you now?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess if you know you’re leaving someone it’d be difficult to live a lie for such a long time.’

  Ellie shakes her head incredulously. ‘Has this come totally out of the blue? He gave you no indication before tonight that he was planning this?’

  I let out a deep breath. ‘Things weren’t perfect. But are they in anyone’s relationship? Honestly, Ellie – I never expected this.’

  She goes to answer, but the beep of a text interrupts her. I pick up my phone with trembling hands.

  I love u, Sam. I’ll always love u. But I have to do this. I’m so very, very sorry xxxxxxx

  Chapter 3

  I know how it sounds. The man’s dumped me. So, assuming there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with me (and you’ll have to take my word for that), he must be a selfish prat, a loser or an emotional fuckwit. Or – worse than all those – a wonderful guy who happens to have fallen out of love with me.

  The stupid thing, though, is that none of those apply.

  Despite the circumstances, I know he loves me – and not only because he’s told me. That’s not to say that I don’t feel like throttling him, because I do. But more than anything I want to kiss him. The thought of never kissing that man again makes my insides ache.

  I knew within a week of meeting Jamie that he was ‘the one’. It was a fact so obvious it practically leaped out and grabbed me by the heart with both hands. I never thought he was perfect, although he was without question the most charismatic and unique person I’d ever met. I simply thought he was perfect for me – which is all that counts.

  Even after six years together, we had that indefinable something, the X factor that makes couples live with their differences, put up with the odd row and know that they’re simply meant to be together. We had chemistry, at least as far as I was concerned.

  Six years. Quite a while by the standards of some relationships. Yet, now he’s gone, it feels as though that time has passed in a flash. I can still conjure up a replay of when we met, as agonizing and gorgeous as it is to do so. We were in Koh Samui, Thailand, and it was January 2006 . . .

  I’d been an irrepressible tomboy when I was little and even now, when I should know better, there’s a part of me that fancies myself as an Action Girl type. I love the idea of being sporty, adventurous – capable of everything from mountain climbing to white-water rafting.

  Sadly, the notable lack of mountains and fast-flowing rivers in south Liverpool, where I grew up and still live means this image has never been fully tested. Plus, as I constantly discover whenever I give such things a whirl, they’re harder than they look. Still, I’m bloody good at Boxercise, if I do say so myself.

  During my gap-year trip round the world with Ellie and our friend Jen (which turned out to be a gap seven months round Asia thanks to our less-than-meticulous financial calculations), I leaped at the chance to unleash the go-getter side of my personality.

  I’d have loved to scuba dive. But not being in possession of a PADI diving qualification, or the trust fund required to gain one, we went for second best: snorkelling. What was good enough for Ursula Andress was good enough for us.

  ‘God only knows where this has been,’ said Jen, glaring at the end of her mouthpiece. It looked as though it had been chewed by a Rottweiler.

  While she grumbled, those in Jen’s presence, as ever, gazed upon her with expressions that fell into one of two camps: mild envy (in the case of the women) or unrestrained lust (in the case of the men).

  That remained the case even though her hair – usually cheerleader-blonde to bring out her Coppertone-advert skin – wasn’t looking its best. The dreadlocks she’d had installed on Chaweng beach a week earlier now resembled the rotting intestines of a dead squirrel – and were starting to smell similar too. Not that anyone was looking at her hair. When Jen’s in a bikini, nobody looks at her hair.

  ‘You worry too much,’ I said, pulling on my flippers and plunging into the water. The manoeuvre was delivered with less aplomb than I’d hoped and I spent the next ten seconds adjusting my bikini top so that the triangles were covering the correct appendages instead of my armpits.

  Ellie, in a polka dot bikini like the ones on old-fashioned postcards, tore off her oversized glasses and jumped in. ‘Come on, Jen! It’s lovely in here.’

  We’d arrived at the secluded beach on one of those traditional Thai fishing boats – the wooden ones featured in every brochure, resplendent with ribbons at the front. The scenery was breathtaking: a crystal sea, verdant landscape and sand so fine and white it looked like something you’d sprinkle on a baby’s bum.

  Aside from our guide, the boat’s captain and the five other tourists, there wasn’t another soul. Not another person, not another boat. It was just us, a coastline full of coral and total tranquillity.

  We dipped our faces underwater and began swimming above the coral, overwhelmed by what we saw. There were fish of every colour imaginable, coral in every shape and size, and as sunlight streamed through the water, we were dazzled. The further we swam along the coast the brighter and more beautiful everything was.

  I was vaguely aware of the growing distance between us and the boat, but it would be impossible to lose our way: all we had to do was follow the coast back to where it had been anchored.

  That was the theory. The practice, nearly an hour later, diverged somewhat.

  I don’t know why Ellie popped up her head at that precise moment; frankly, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she thrashed her arms and legs, walloping my back until Jen and I looked up. The issue was immediately apparent.

  The distance we’d covered couldn’t have been more than a mile, but as we’d swum along in blissful ignorance, a crucial factor had changed: we were no longer alone.

  Stretching the length of the coast were so many boats they would have made the Spanish Armada look like pedalos at Center Parcs. They were all identical. What followed was a frantic few hours of splashing, panting and panicking, all of which did precisely nothing in the quest to locate our vessel.

  We couldn’t get anywhere near the island because of the coral and, of course, there was no way we were going to ask anyone on the other boats for help. We might have been desperate, but we were also British. The embarrassment would’ve been too much. But there comes a point when your sense of hopelessness overtakes your sense of self-respect – and it came to us in a flash.

  Our thighs and our arms ached. Our eyes and our skin stung. Our stomachs cramped, our feet hurt and our heads throbbed.

  More than all that, though, was the now overwhelming conviction that, if we didn’t take drastic action, we were going to be left there, abandoned and destined to live a Lost-style existence. With no food, water, Factor 25 or Matthew Fox, I didn’t like that prospect one bit.

  In short, in the space of ten minutes we’d gone from not wanting to bother anyone with our troubles to being so desperate we’d have stowed away on a white slave ship.

  Unfortunately, that point came at the exact moment when the boats fired up their engines and prepared to do the one thing we were keen for them not to do: leave.

  ‘Surely they won’t go wit
hout us. Surely,’ said Ellie, breathless. ‘What do you think, Sam?’

  ‘No, they won’t,’ I replied with a conviction totally at odds with how I felt. ‘Surely.’

  ‘Yep, I’m sure too,’ added Jen.

  ‘As sure as sure can be,’ Ellie said for good measure.

  As the boats started heading back one by one to the main island, there came a point – with about three left – when there was only one thing to do.

  Scream.

  I’d thought I was loud – until Jen opened her gob and emitted a noise like the wail of a demented banshee on her way to the seventh circle of hell. But no matter how loud we shouted, how pathetic we looked, how blue in the face we turned in our attempts to catch someone’s attention, we were ignored by all but one.

  His voice swam across the Indian Ocean and swept me up. It had the lilt of an accent I recognized immediately, and although it said a dozen things it meant only one: we were going to be saved.

  Chapter 4

  Jamie had taken the job with the long boat company four weeks earlier and he told us that night that ‘incidents’ like ours were common. Very common. In fact, the more pressure Ellie put on him to reassure us we weren’t imbeciles, the more common they became.

  I often reminisce about that first evening, when we ended up alone, drinking cold Singha beers on the beach and sharing stories beside a fire we’d built, its flickering flames reflected in our eyes. It was terribly romantic – apart from the fact that chronic sunburn had left my shoulders, nose and forehead looking like a walking strip of pancetta.

  I had a sense even then that it was one of the defining moments of my life, an unforgettable snapshot that would remain with me for ever. But it wasn’t the setting that made such an impression. It was Jamie.

  He was beautiful in a way I’d rarely seen up close. Lean and tanned, his body was the equivalent of a gorgeous, gooey cream cake I was never going to be allowed. So why did I think I wouldn’t be allowed him? For a start, with his blue, cool-water eyes and a heart-stopping smile, he was too good-looking for me. I was punching above my weight and I knew it.

  Yet I wanted him so badly it made my head spin.

  He was well-travelled and well-read, intellectual and thoughtful. He talked about books by John Fante and Bukowski (no, I’d never heard of them either) and had a CV of exotic jobs ranging from tour guide in Borneo to jobbing guitarist in Sydney.

  But with that Liverpool lilt betraying the fact that we’d grown up less than ten miles from each other, his dazzling experiences weren’t intimidating. He and I shared a history and sense of humour that created an instant connection.

  ‘Isn’t it difficult constantly moving round? Maintaining friendships must be hard,’ I said, pushing my feet into the warm sand and feeling it run through my toes.

  ‘I make new friends. You get used to it,’ he shrugged, letting a handful of sand slide through his fingers. ‘Though I must admit . . .’

  ‘What?’ I asked, sensing his hesitation.

  ‘I miss having a girlfriend.’ He looked into my eyes and smirked. ‘It’s been . . . a while.’

  I raised an eyebrow. He laughed. ‘Oh I don’t mean sex – I’ve not struggled with that . . .’ Then he widened his eyes. ‘Oh God! That came out wrong!’

  It was the first sign of self-consciousness I’d detected.

  ‘What I mean is –’ he took a gulp of beer – ‘I’m not saying I’ve been an angel . . . but sleeping around holds no interest for me. I want intimacy with someone on every level.’

  I sipped my beer. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Does that surprise you? Given that I’m bumming my way around the world, I mean. The thing is, there’s a big part of me that wants to find someone to spend, well, forever with.’

  I peeled off the label from my beer bottle. ‘Forever’s a long time. And that might be tricky given that you are, as you say, bumming your way around the world. Maybe you can’t really decide what you want in life.’ I flashed him a challenging grin and he laughed.

  ‘Oh I know what I want. I have a list.’

  ‘A list?’ I laughed. ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘Let’s see . . . adventure. Love. Happiness. Fun . . .’ His eyes twinkled as he was unable to suppress a smile. ‘Lust.’

  We both giggled. He’d moved closer to me, so close I could feel his breath on my face.

  ‘That’s a great list,’ I whispered, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ he replied as his lips melted into mine.

  The girls and I were supposed to be staying on Choeng Mon beach for only a few days. But, for one reason or another, we stayed two weeks. What I really mean by one reason or another is Jamie. He was the reason. And my friends, loyal and lovely as ever, indulged the holiday romance they could see developing. Even if it did involve remaining in the ‘luxury beach hut’ whose shower facilities consisted of a tap that intermittently vomited dirty water and more wildlife than a David Attenborough box set.

  Jamie and I couldn’t stay away from each other. It was one of those intense relationships that felt like a drug addiction. When we were apart, all I could think about was my next hit. When we were together, the pleasure was so sweet it made me glow.

  I told him every day of the last week on Choeng Mon that it would be my last. I had to move on. My friends were getting restless and I owed it to them to continue with the trip. Yet the thought of leaving him was unbearable.

  On the day we were due to sail back to mainland Thailand, I felt like I was being ripped in two. We’d exchanged numbers; we’d promised we’d email; we’d agreed that, if he ever came back to the UK, we’d go for a drink. A drink. It sounded so small and unsatisfactory compared with the explosion of emotion I’d experienced in the last fifteen days.

  ‘Come on, gorgeous – I’m sure your paths will cross again,’ Ellie said, as we loaded our backpacks onto the taxi and climbed on. It was one of those open-air Thai ones easily mistaken for a milk float. ‘Besides, it’s never the same when you get home. Without the sunsets and the tan you don’t get that rush of blood to the head.’

  ‘It would have been different,’ I insisted, as Ellie squeezed my hand.

  And I meant it. I knew it. I could feel it in the sting of my tears when he kissed me for the last time outside his hut and told me he’d never forget me.

  I often wonder how fate would’ve played out if our taxi hadn’t broken down on that dusty road to the harbour. If we’d set sail on time. And if I hadn’t looked up as the driver stood at the side of the road gesticulating – and seen a motorbike racing in our direction.

  It was only as it skidded to a halt, dust billowing around the driver, that I realized who his passenger was. As Jamie stepped off the back of the bike and strode towards me, I was alive with anticipation.

  ‘What’s up?’ I managed.

  Then I noticed his backpack, his guitar. He put them on the ground and held my face in his hands, kissing me slowly, as if we had all the time in the world.

  ‘I had a moment of realization,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Oh?’ I replied, holding my breath. ‘What did you realize?’

  He smiled. ‘That I’ve found someone to share my list with.’

  Chapter 5

  When I first heard the name of my new client, Lorelei Beer, I pictured a vaguely slutty type whose main talent is giggling.

  I’ve only once met Lorelei in person – during our kick-off meeting for an event I’m organizing for her company – but she’s nothing like I’d imagined. A large, loud redhead of indeterminable age, with a thick Cardiff Bay accent, she isn’t remotely slutty (as far as I know). And there was no giggling.

  ‘I’ve looked at the celebrity guests you’re proposing,’ she booms down the phone, almost setting my earlobes on fire.

  ‘Right,’ I say, as brightly as I can. Despite being confident about the quality of my guest list, I’m struggling with work today like never before. ‘What do you think?’

/>   She doesn’t miss a beat. ‘They’re a shower of crap, my love.’

  I take a deep breath and attempt to compose a lucid response, even though there’s only one thing on my mind – and it isn’t work. She beats me to it.

  ‘That’s a generous assessment, by the way. A kind one. I should get a frigging OBE for not having torn up that list and spat on it.’

  I open my mouth to speak.

  ‘I said I wanted A-LIST, my darling.’

  Lorelei, I discovered early on, has a unique ability to combine terms of endearment with insults as toxic as nuclear waste. ‘Some of these soap stars wouldn’t go to the opening of a Netto, my lovely. And where’s Coleen? You promised me Coleen.’

  Lorelei is the Marketing Director for a massive charity that was launched in Liverpool nearly a century ago to help vulnerable young adults. Despite the fact that the charity now helps teenagers in need in several corners of the world and its main HQs are in London and New York, it continues to have a major office here, and the local connection means that they still have the odd event in the city.

  The event I’m in charge of is one of a string of parties marking the charity’s centenary in November. The others, including a black-tie ball, a networking event for suppliers and a staff shindig, are all in London. But they wanted to throw the hundredth-birthday party itself in the place where it all began.

  Which is where I, as Events Director (Liverpool) for BJD Productions, come in. If the grand title gives the impression that I have scores of minions to jump to my every creative whim – be it a chocolate fountain the size of Victoria Falls or Bill Clinton as an after-dinner speaker – don’t be fooled.

  It’s not that we don’t do ludicrously proportioned chocolate fountains or former presidents, because we do and we have. It’s just that, despite BJD being a big London-based company with several sub-branches, there are only a handful of us in Liverpool – and, far from being minions, one or two of the staff like to think of themselves as only slightly lower in status than the Sultan of Brunei.