All the Single Ladies (11 page)

Her Karen Millen jeans – or ‘Jen’s lucky jeans’ as they’re now officially christened – often have this effect. She never fails to pull in them; they’re
capable of such supreme sexual magnetism you’d think they came with handcuffs.

‘I don’t know yet,’ I sigh. ‘I honestly don’t. But I need to make contact with him and see how the land lies. Oh Ellie, don’t look at me like that!’

She raises an eyebrow and glances away pursing her lips. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

Jen frowns. ‘Am I missing something? Why wouldn’t you text someone when they’ve got a perfectly good mobile? That’s what they’re for. I can’t stop myself,
personally.’

‘We know!’ Ellie says pointedly.

Jen goes to respond, then realizes where this argument might lead. She knows it’s unlikely to be to her outstanding practical knowledge of how to handle men.

‘How’s your fireman?’ I venture, partly to change the subject and partly in the hope that she’ll have some good news. I shouldn’t have bothered.

She scrunches up her nose and pretends to weep. ‘Did you have to?’ she says, clearly resigned to another romantic false start.

I squirm. ‘Oh . . . sorry.’

‘I haven’t heard from him. I mean, obviously I haven’t heard from him. It was going far too well for me to have heard from him.’ She’s on a roll and even the dishy
waiter who approached to top up the sugar bowl has backed away. ‘This is one thing I don’t like about the digital age. There are a million ways for a man to ignore you.’

‘Oh Jen, I’m sorry. I really thought things were looking good with that one too,’ I lie.

‘So did I!’ she huffs, shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘I was planning a weekend to Paris and everything. God, I had some good outfits lined up.’

‘Jen,’ says Ellie despairingly, ‘you’d only known him a couple of weeks.’

‘So?’ says Jen innocently.

‘You’d only known him a couple of weeks and you were planning a weekend to Paris,’ she states. ‘Do you not see something a little . . . wrong with that
sentence?’

‘I’d offered to pay, if that’s what you mean,’ replies Jen, sipping her coffee.

‘Of course that isn’t what I mean!’ says Ellie with gentle exasperation.

‘I think what Ellie’s trying to say is that it might have been a little early for you to be planning European mini-breaks,’ I point out.

‘Ohhh . . . Well, I know it looks bad on paper, but I really felt as if he was “the one”,’ she insists. ‘He was perfect. Intelligent, bags of charisma,
good-looking, plus . . .’

‘Muscles?’ offers Ellie.

‘Well, obviously,’ sighs Jen.

‘Jen,’ says Ellie, reaching over to clutch our friend’s hand as if she’s her counsellor. ‘We’re going to have to have “the talk” again,
aren’t we?’

Jen laughs and rolls her eyes, knowing what’s coming.

‘You are beautiful, intelligent and charming,’ Ellie reassures her. ‘But there is one thing you’ve got to get into your head. And that’s to stop being so bloody
full-on after knowing someone for about five days.’

‘They were five very intense days,’ Jen replies weakly.

‘Jennifer, if you want a man, you need to stop texting every minute of the day. Stop chasing them with phone calls. And, above absolutely everything else on this list that’s making
you look like a bunny boiler . . . don’t even think about Paris! Not until you’ve known him for at least three months. And even then let him suggest it, not you.’

‘You’re such a spoilsport,’ says Jen, as a waiter with Malteser eyes and biceps that would probably be visible on Google Earth removes the coffee cups. ‘I love the Louvre
in summer, too.’

Twenty minutes later, as I leap into my car to head to Sefton Park to check the arrangements for tomorrow’s tournament, I experience a strange sensation with regards to
my mobile phone. It feels like I’ve been walking round with a Galaxy Ripple in my handbag on day six of a fast.

For the first time in my life, I sympathize with Jen on this issue. The phone is a miniature siren; it’s beckoning me, tempting me to its glistening keypad. And having spent all morning
with my fingers twitching over it, fighting the urge to do what my instinct tells me, I can hold back no longer.

Once I’ve made the decision to text Jamie, I approach the enterprise like a junkie who’s stumbled across some crack: breathlessly, my hands fumbling in frenzied anticipation.
It’s unbelievably hard to edit down my first three drafts to anything less than seven screens. Winston Churchill’s chief speech writer didn’t sweat as much as this.

I’m midway through deleting some of the vaguely repetitive stuff, when my phone beeps, leaving me juggling it as if it’s on fire. I save a draft and flick to the new text. It’s
from Jamie. It is four words long.

They don’t declare his undying love. They don’t even ask to meet up again. But one thing’s certain in my mind: I am back in business!

At least . . . for about an hour I think I’m back in business. But it turns out to be a fleeting sensation because, after abandoning my lengthy drafts and going with a ‘Good, thanks
– and u?’, no response is forthcoming.

And after sixty torturous minutes this is too much to bear, so I dig out draft four.

I am halfway through the sentence when the phone beeps again and I inadvertently delete the tome that’s taken me fifteen minutes to compose.

My heart does a backflip as I continue reading.

He texts back straight away.

I frown, disappointed not to have pinned him down to an exact day, and I am about to fire off my ‘No probs’ reply when a kind of romantic madness grips me. I add a
kiss, followed by six more. I gaze at the phone after I’ve sent it, longing for him to send back some kisses.

That’s all I want. A small but significant gesture.

But they never arrive. Which sends me into a whirlwind of analysis about the reasons for the lack of them: he feels nothing for me any longer? Or: he doesn’t want to get my hopes up? Or:
he’s trying to suppress his feelings? Or the wackiest theory of all – which comes from Alistair, who I bump into in Tesco later that night: he’s a bloke, so it never occurred to
him to send some and it is no big deal. And this measly interpretation from a psychotherapist!

I’m aware that all this thinking about the situation is no good for me. It’d be no good for anyone. I’m convinced Stephen Hawking thinks less than this. Besides which, nothing
remotely productive seems to come of it.

The Liverpool Lawn Tennis Masters has become one of the big dates in the city’s lively sporting and social calendar. It’s a four-day extravaganza in the third week
of July and BJD Productions have been commissioned to help organize it for the first time.

The part we’re looking after is corporate hospitality – and very important it is too, given the profit involved. However, with cash comes responsibility, and it’s therefore
essential that every detail is right.

‘Deana, could you give me a hand?’ I puff, attempting to screw a wobbly leg back onto one of the tables while on my hands and knees, my new Reiss skirt hoisted round my thighs.

The fact that neither Deana nor Natalie was born overburdened with a sense of urgency is painfully evident this morning. While I’ve been here since six, zipping round like a blue bottle
whose wings are on fire, my assistants rolled in an hour ago and have barely moved, except to check on their eyelashes.

‘Deana?’ I repeat.

I look up, but she’s deep in conversation with Natalie, who is indignant about something.

‘DEANA!’

She looks at me and screws up her nose like someone’s shoved a dirty sock under it. ‘What?’

‘Can you help me, please?’ I ask as evenly as possible.

Despite the wobbly table leg, I’m pleased with the marquee: it seats four hundred and is gloriously positioned in the heart of the park, surrounded by hydrangea and blue mist, which look
particularly stunning given that the sun has made an appearance.

Inside is an English country garden theme, with peonies and delphiniums on the tables and ivy across the doorway. My client’s pleased too, judging by the feedback; though, admittedly, no
one’s sampled Deana and Natalie’s unique brand of customer service yet.

‘Did we have to wear these crap uniforms?’ Deana pouts as she finally turns her attention to my request.

I rarely use the terrible twosome at events, preferring to keep them apart when inflicting them on members of the public. But we are short on staff so it’s all hands to the pump.

‘I’m afraid you did,’ I reply firmly, twisting the leg so frantically I nearly sprain my wrist.

‘I don’t see what harm it woulda done for us to get a bit tarted up. Did Piers authorize this? I mean, look at this jacket. It’s –’ she pauses to search for the
precise adjective, like a sommelier describing fine wine – ‘shite.’

The uniform to which she refers consists of cream trousers, flat shoes and a tailored jacket with pistachio stripes. Not green, you understand. Pistachio. Which may or may not be one of the
factors that gave the manufacturers carte blanche to charge an arm and a leg. Not that they’re not worth it; in spite of Deana’s damning verdict, they’re perfect for this event.
And even with the overdone fake tan, overdone fake nails and overdone fake eyelashes, she and Natalie look the part.

‘I look like I should be selling bloody ice creams,’ shrieks Natalie. It’s how they sound that I need to work on.

Deana and I heave the table back into place. ‘Now, ladies,’ I begin, thinking a little pep talk might generate some enthusiasm, ‘I really appreciate the effort you’re
both putting in today. I’ll make sure head office knows all about it in your next personal development reviews.’

They gaze at me with lobotomy eyes as if wondering why they would give a toss about their next personal development reviews.

I continue, unperturbed: ‘I need you both to remember what I said about smiling, and being aware of the guests’ needs. If I’m called away to another area it’s you two
who’ll make sure the champagne isn’t running low and everyone’s happy. I know I can count on you.’

Deana raises an eyebrow as if to say: ‘What gave you that impression?’

‘And if you do a good job I’ll give you both the next set of VIP tickets I get hold of for a new bar opening.’

‘Oooooh,’ they reply, perking up.

As the guests arrive, two hours before the sporting action begins, my tempo steps up a gear. Between checking on the catering, answering queries from the groundsmen and trying to persuade the
sporting VIPs to strike a variety of naff poses for the local press, it’s non-stop.

Fortunately, everyone seems to be having a fantastic time, and as dessert is served I begin to relax – always a bad sign.

‘Ewwwwww,’ I overhear Deana exclaim to Natalie.

My ears prick up. ‘What? What’s the matter?’

‘It was a mistake having this in a park,’ tuts Natalie, as if she has any expertise in event coordination beyond purchasing the office paper clips.

‘What is it?’ I repeat.

Natalie purses her lips. ‘Poo.’

‘Look,’ I say, starting to get annoyed. ‘We’re in the middle of this event now. Please stop complaining about your uniforms.’

Natalie looks baffled. ‘Warraya on about?’

I frown. ‘Warra— What are you on about?’

‘There’s a big dog poo near the entrance. I saw it when I nipped out for a ciggie,’ Deana informs me matter-of-factly.

I start to hyperventilate – and not only at the thought of Deana standing at the entrance with a fag hanging out of her mouth. ‘This place was supposed to have been cleared and
inspected this morning. Did you get rid of it?’

Their faces nearly implode. ‘Ewwwwww. You are joking,’ splutters Natalie.

I’ve always lived by the motto that says if you want something done, do it yourself; but right now it’s never sounded more hideous.

I scuttle between tables and out of the marquee, heading for the kitchens, where I elbow my way through catering staff until I locate the head chef, who furnishes me with the closest thing to a
poop-a-scoop bag we can find: the ziplock bags he uses to keep the Camembert fresh.

The non-corporate spectators are starting to arrive, so I know I’ve got to be subtle. But as I hover at the entrance, hoping that, in the process of locating the offending article, I
don’t impale it on the heel of my Kurt Geigers, I can’t help thinking that subtlety is a luxury I can’t afford.

When the passers-by peter out, I scan the ground with the stealth of a Serengeti lioness, and as I pinpoint the item in question, my stomach turns over. I check for observers before stooping
down, grimacing as I carefully attempt to negotiate it into the bag. I’ve seen Auntie Jill do this with her dog Dyson’s offerings and the entire process takes milliseconds. She simply
whips a blue bag from her pocket and deftly swipes the item away.

Deftness is not the term you’d use to describe my manoeuvre. I don’t know if it’s that Auntie Jill has more experience, or if it’s the speed I attempt to employ –
but I’m hit by a bout of cack-handedness that leaves me muttering expletives and so red in the face that it’s clear my blood vessels are sizzling.

Eventually, I have the item in the bag in preparation for a sprint to the bins. But, as I spring triumphantly to my feet and attempt to zoom in on my destination, something blocks my view. A
two-piece suit. A very nice two-piece suit, now you mention it.

‘Hello. Are you one of the organizers?’ The voice is deep and confident. I look up and hear myself gulp in the manner of a character from the
Beano
. He’s about six foot
two and broad-shouldered, with tanned skin, pre-Raphaelite lips and twinkling sable eyes that could get a woman into trouble with one look.