My Single Friend Read online

  I was in my fourth year in Kingsfield Primary School and Henry was the new boy. His parents, who were both professors, had transferred from their jobs in London to Liverpool University and the family was new in the city.

  Henry was wheeled into our class and forced to stand at the front of the room while Miss Jameson introduced him to the other pupils. He tells me that that moment – when he, a glasses-wearing swot with a funny posh accent and freaky hair, had to stand in front of thirty streetwise city kids – was the most traumatic four minutes of his childhood.

  Whether primary-school children can be as tough as Henry remembers is up for discussion. But there’s no doubt that he was immediately considered different. A stranger who was shy, sensitive, brainy and, worst of all, wore brown laceups that resembled under-cooked Cornish pasties – shoes no self-respecting nine-year-old should step out in. Not even after dark.

  Henry says that after Miss Jameson’s rambling introduction, she turned to the class and beamed: ‘Now, children, who’ll volunteer to look after Henry for the day?’

  A silence descended that was so deafening you could have heard pins drop in Devon. In that terrible moment, one thing was clear to everybody. To Miss Jameson, to Henry, to those rotten kids whose only excuse was that they were at an age when tribal instincts kick in furiously: nobody was going to put up their hand.

  Then somebody piped up from row three.

  ‘Go on, Miss. I’ll do it.’

  Henry says my voice was the thick-accented squeak he’d heard. When he looked up, dizzy with relief and gratitude, there I was, wonky-fringed and defiant.

  ‘You fancy him,’ sneered Andy Smith.

  ‘Shurrup or I’ll tell our Dave,’ I snapped. It was a threat I often issued, despite the fact that my brother reserved physical violence for just one person: me. Dave and I fought like rabid alley cats in those days – throwing each other downstairs, pulling hair, scratching and punching – so the prospect of him defending his little sister was as remote as a hamlet in the depths of the Amazon Basin.

  ‘Now, now, children!’ said Miss Jameson, clapping her hands. She didn’t have what you’d call a commanding presence, even with a bunch of nine-year-olds. ‘Well done, Lucy Tyler. Henry can take a seat next to you and you can show him the ropes at lunchtime.’

  Henry shuffled to the desk and smiled. I frowned suspiciously.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said softly.

  ‘’S’all right,’ I replied. ‘Why’ja wear them soft glasses?’

  The accent has been ironed out today. It hasn’t gone completely, and I haven’t tried to ditch it deliberately: I was brought up in a world where that would be the ultimate in pretentiousness. But after three years at St Andrew’s University and nearly eight in PR, I’ve got a voice that has prompted certain members of my extended family to accuse me of ‘going all posh’.

  Anyway, despite not personally remembering the details of the day Henry and I met, I recall quickly feeling that he was somebody I both admired and wanted to protect.

  Admired because, as well as turning out to be a great laugh, Henry knew the answers to everything. How many plates a Stegosaurus had, how volcanoes work, how to remember your times tables, plus a plethora of French swear words so choice they’d make a sailor blush.

  There seemed to be no piece of knowledge Henry hadn’t acquired in his short life. Which was liberating – because I wanted to know the answers to everything. I never had a particularly natural intellect, not as vast and effortless as Henry’s, but I loved learning and knew that I wanted to do my best in life – to be the best I could. I was, and have always been, a tryer.

  I’m digressing. Despite all this, Henry needed protecting from the Andy Smiths of this world, who entertained themselves by stealing his homework books and defacing his pencil case with Denise Gibbin’s My Little Pony stickers (she was one of those girls you just knew would grow up to be a lap dancer).

  Eventually, years later, Henry gained a degree of acceptance among our contemporaries. This was thanks entirely to the fact that one of the many things at which he excelled was sport – and, at our school, if you were good at sport, you can’t have been all bad. So Henry got some positive attention for once, albeit as ‘that weird kid who’s shit-hot in midfield’.

  What I knew that the others didn’t was that he was also hilariously funny when he wanted to be. Frustratingly, if they could have seen that, they’d have loved him. But his shyness prevented that and the class geek he remained.

  As we grew up, I was aware that my close association with Henry put me at permanent risk of a catastrophic downturn in kudos. But there was never any question of ditching our friendship to placate the in-crowd. Being Henry’s friend felt as if I knew a secret nobody else did. I understood his magic and was luckier for it.

  These days, Henry still gets the odd look that must take him back to that first day in Miss Jameson’s class. It’s not surprising. His glasses are abysmal. His dress sense wouldn’t make it onto the fashion pages of Railway Enthusiasts Weekly. And his hair, to be frank, looks as if it’s been attacked with a hedge-trimmer. But Henry doesn’t care. So why on earth should I?

  Chapter 4

  ‘How do you think it went?’ I am buzzing with adrenalin after one of my most important presentations ever.

  ‘I can’t believe you have to ask,’ replies Dominique, perching on my desk. ‘The panel couldn’t have been more convinced if we’d bent down and given each of them a blow job.’

  I suppress a smile and scan the notes I scribbled during the meeting. I’ve worked for weeks on this pitch but if we win the client – a massive property firm – it’ll be worth it.

  ‘You weren’t thrown by the question about contacts in the north-east?’ I fret.

  ‘What’s with the lack of self-belief, Lucy?’ says Dominique, stuffing her dark-blonde hair into a clip. ‘You’re not Peaman-Brown’s star performer for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, give over,’ I wince, though I can’t help feeling a little pleased.

  ‘Don’t deny it,’ she grins. ‘I keep saying you’ll be running this place in three years – and today confirmed it. The presentation was slick, our answers were textbook and, crucially, the MD had the hots for you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say, hoping she might be right.

  ‘Believe me,’ she winks. ‘It’s in the bag.’

  Dominique and I hit it off the minute we met. She’s sassy, down to earth and a natural at this job – so much so, you’d never guess it wasn’t her first career choice. Dominique had wanted to be an actress until she realized that, in her own words, she had the stage presence of a plank of MDF. She persevered for several years and won the odd bit-part, but nothing more. The crunch came on the day she was turned down for an audition to play a dead body in a British Gas training video. ‘If that isn’t a signal to get a proper job, I don’t know what is,’ she says.

  Yet when you meet Dom it’s impossible to believe she’s experienced a single setback in life. I still remember her striding in here two years ago with her proud and plentiful curves, endless legs and admirable aura of confidence.

  Dominique is one of the many reasons I love working for Peaman-Brown Public Relations. I’ve been with the company since university, yet what I do for a living still baffles most of my family. They can get their head around my brother being a salesman, but if anyone mentions that ‘Lucy works in PR’, they scrunch up their noses with a deep sense of bewilderment – and injustice that they’re not paid to sit in a fancy office doing such a namby-pamby excuse for work.

  What Peaman-Brown PR does for organizations is actually easy to understand, if not to do: we manage their image. On the one hand, this means unearthing positive stories and making sure the media knows about them. On the other, it means spotting negative news stories and making sure the media knows nothing about them. That’s the theory anyway. The practice can be different, I’ll admit.

  ‘Remind me how much this contract is worth,’ asks Dom.
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  I lift open the back page of my proposal and slide it over to her discreetly.

  ‘Good God.’ She shakes her head. ‘We deserve the bonus to end all bonuses if we get this, Lucy. Seriously, I expect to retire to a yacht in the Caribbean. Just a small one, nothing fancy.’

  ‘You’d be bored stiff.’

  ‘I’d bring you to entertain me,’ she grins. ‘You and I would be good on the high seas.’

  ‘It took me eight years to get my five hundred metres front crawl badge.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a pair of armbands,’ she promises.

  ‘You two are very full of yourselves this morning.’ The voice from the desk opposite belongs to Drew. He’s good-looking, well-bred and a charmer – when he chooses to be. It’s a quality he uses when he needs to divert attention from his professional ability (which is shaky at best) or when there’s an attractive female around – preferably wearing a skirt the size of a tea cosy. Such treatment is never directed at me; he prefers to wind me up instead. I’m sorry to say he’s often successful.

  ‘Of course we’re full of ourselves,’ grins Dominique. ‘We did brilliantly.’

  Drew smiles back. ‘Glad to hear it, ladies. One of my pub quiz friends works for Webster Black PR and they’re going after that contract too, apparently.’

  ‘One of your pub quiz friends?’ repeats Dominique.

  ‘Yep. Did I mention I’ve been on the winning team of the north-west heats of Pub Quiz of the Year for three years?’

  ‘Only every day since we met you, Drew,’ she teases. Her phone rings on the other side of the office and she goes to answer it.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re right, Lucy,’ continues Drew, as he examines his nails. ‘I thought I’d let you know because Tim’s certain they’ve won the contract. Webster Black are experts in the field. I’d hate you to get your hopes up.’

  He leans back in his chair and subconsciously rubs his crotch. Drew is one of those men whose hand is never far from their nether regions, as if permanently drawing attention to what they consider to be the most magnificent package bestowed on a human male.

  ‘I presume you were asked for a second interview?’ he adds.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get through to the second round,’ I reply, filing away my documents. ‘I hope so anyway.’

  ‘Good. Glad to hear it.’ He smiles. ‘Apparently, they invited Webster Black back while they were still at the meeting.’

  I look up.

  ‘They told Tim they were making a shortlist of three and Webster Black’s on it,’ he continues.

  I know full well he’s trying to agitate me but refuse to rise to it. ‘They might have said something like that to Dominique on the way out,’ I reply breezily.

  ‘Oh, that’s good. Because it’d be awful not to reach the final three. That’d ruin your lucky run.’

  ‘There’s nothing lucky about our run, Drew,’ I point out.

  Before he can respond, Little Lynette, the office administrator, appears at our desk sporting new hair extensions.

  ‘Morning, Lucy. Four letters today.’

  ‘Cheers, Lynette,’ I reply, putting them in my in-tray. ‘Nice hair.’

  Little Lynette has been known as such since she started on work experience aged sixteen. She’s now five foot nine and twenty-three but the tag is unshakeable.

  ‘Ooh, do you like it, Luce?’ she beams, twiddling with the raven-coloured ends of her hair. ‘It’s taken a bit of getting used to. The glue hasn’t half made it go crusty.’

  ‘Your hair’s lovely,’ I reassure her.

  ‘Not a bit knotty?’ She scrunches up her face.

  ‘If you need anyone to run their fingers through it, let me know, won’t you?’ Drew jumps in.

  I catch Lynette’s eye and tut. ‘Drew’s rehearsing for the role of office sex pest,’ I tell her, but she’s too busy whooping with delight to hear.

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ says Drew, winking. ‘Lucy’s irked because she’ll be too old for men to lust after her soon.’

  ‘I’m only twenty-eight—’

  ‘Lust!’ hoots Lynette. ‘Ooh, I love a man with a big vocabulary.’

  Drew doesn’t miss a beat. ‘That’s not the only thing that’s—’

  ‘Oh God, Lynette,’ I cry. ‘How can a nice girl like you listen to this and not want to give him a slap?’

  ‘Easy,’ she giggles, and totters away.

  When I open my in-box, seventeen new emails have arrived in the two and a half hours I’ve been out of the office. I skim the list and open one.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Miscellaneous

  Hi Lucy,

  A note from your favourite client to say we’re over the moon with the opening-night coverage of Fever this week. Danny must have watched himself on TV six times since you set up those interviews. And the piece in the Guardian . . . what can I say? Superb work as usual – thanks so much.

  On a separate and more important note, are you and Dominique still in the market for a girls’ night out this weekend? My bank balance is begging for mercy but I can’t face another night of Sex and the City repeats. Please say it’s still on.

  E xxx

  Erin is the Marketing Manager of the Circle Theatre, one of the accounts I manage, and if all those I worked with were as nice as her, life would be significantly simpler. Erin isn’t just an easygoing client and a lovely person, she’s a friend too. A proper friend with whom I spend time outside work because we genuinely get on – not because I’m ‘building client relationships’, i.e. making sure we continue to get their cash.

  I hit reply.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Cc: [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Miscellaneous

  Course it’s still on. What do u take us for, lightweights?

  L xx

  As I go through my other emails, it’s inevitable that not all are going to be as pleasant as Erin’s. There’s one from a small but demanding client – an insurance firm – suggesting I target Hello! with some two-month-old pictures of their staff drinks party.

  Then there’s the chain of DIY stores whose Marketing Manager has emailed with another set of amendments – the sixth – to a press release he officially signed off two days ago and which I sent out to the world’s media this morning.

  Finally, there’s a note from a potential client saying he needs to cancel our dinner date tonight and rearrange for a week on Tuesday – when I’m going to Cirque du Soleil.

  A response from Erin pops up.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Cc: [email protected]

  Subject: Re, re: Miscellaneous

  Fab. Where shall we meet? Hear that new place in Dale Street is good.

  Erin x

  p.s. Your pitch with that property firm must have gone well because their Marketing Manager phoned me for a reference. Obviously told him u were the best PR company in the world and he said they’re putting you on the shortlist.

  To: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Re, re, re: Miscellaneous

  I knew it!

  Lucy – will you break this to Drew? While you’re at it, ask him to remove his hands from his groin. He has been rummaging there for half an hour and has completely put me off my prawn sandwich.

  Dom x

  Chapter 5

  My love-life will never get off the ground unless I endeavour to become thinner.

  Henry looked at me as if I was clinically insane when I shared this conclusion with him. I then explained that there is some logic behind the theory and I am not simply some Heat magazine-reading idiot who is obsessed with the size of her thighs, at which he pointed out that I love Heat magazine
and spend more time contemplating the circumference of my legs than most people do inhaling oxygen.

  My argument is this: first, had I the bum of a seventeen-year-old trampolining champion and a washboard stomach that made Cameron Diaz look like a pork-pie addict, I would radiate a level of self-assurance that would be irresistibly attractive. Secondly, were I possessed of such qualities, I would simply be irresistibly attractive.

  Henry snorted at these suggestions in a manner I didn’t appreciate, and I told him as much, before dusting off my old Diet World welcome pack and ‘Nootrient’ point calculator.

  Worse, he’s now looking at me with an air of amused disbelief as I walk around the supermarket calculating the Diet World ‘nootrient’ value of our foodstuff before it goes into the trolley.

  We currently have one artichoke (0 nootrients), a large bag of bean-sprouts (ditto), a box of ice cream (4 per serving – I’ve got to have a treat occasionally), a piece of Brie (5, ditto), two bottles of Pinot Grigio (24 nootrients in total – I have a stressful job), and a tub of margarine (1 per teaspoon – to be used sparingly).

  Henry looks at his watch.

  ‘Lucy, we’ve been here an hour and there are seven items in our trolley. At this rate it’ll take until two weeks on Tuesday to buy enough ingredients for a stir-fry.’

  ‘Eight items,’ I correct him. ‘The margarine came with a free fridge magnet.’

  ‘You told me you hated Diet World.’

  ‘I did not,’ I protest.

  ‘You called the leader Mussolini.’

  ‘Only because she was going bald. And, okay, she was a bit of a bully, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to the classes anyway. I’ve got enough willpower to do it by myself. I’m just following the diet, which I know from experience works a treat.’

  ‘If it works a treat, why are you having to do it again?’ he asks.

  I tut, hiding the fact that I’m stumped for an answer.