All the Single Ladies (12 page)

‘Erm . . . that would be me,’ I reply coolly.

‘I’m on table three and wondered if we could order some more wine, please. I asked one of the staff members in the striped jackets – but that was twenty minutes ago.’

I smile with what I hope is warm professionalism. ‘No problem at all, sir. I’ll have some sent over right away.’

‘Thanks,’ he replies and goes to walk away. Then he turns back. ‘Oh, and could you point me in the direction of the toilets?’

‘Sure,’ I say chirpily, pointing to the Portaloos.

I realize my mistake even before the bag of doggie detritus leaves my hand. He realizes my mistake as it takes flight in a spectacular arch I’m confident will be unmatched by any of the
volleys on centre court this afternoon.

And we both watch, dumbfounded, as my fresh haul of bagged-up canine poo flies through the air . . . taking an age to land . . . directly on the top of my handcrafted table plan – where it
perches, intact, on a decorative lily of the valley border.

I take a deep breath and turn to my guest as if this was completely intentional and meticulously planned, a see-through ziplock bag full of dog dirt being precisely what I’d envisaged as
the finishing touch to my marquee design.

‘Right,’ I smile brightly, clapping my hands. ‘That wine will be right over.’

I’m finally relieved of tennis tournament duties at seven thirty on Saturday evening. Anything I haven’t sorted now can be picked up on Monday morning. I know that
what I should do is go home, run a relaxing bath and do nothing but chill. But, since I’ve been single, spending Saturday night alone has become inconceivable.

It’s not that I used to spend every Saturday gallivanting with Jamie. If his band was playing, I’d be lucky to see him at all during the weekend. And there have been plenty of
Saturday nights when I did nothing more exciting than devour a box of Maltesers in front of
X Factor
. But now the thought of staying in, listening to a series of tuneless renditions of
Whitney Houston ballads is too much to bear.

Not that I have a choice. Jen’s new love interest – the waiter from the Quarter – was only available for an afternoon-coffee date today as he’s working tonight. And
Ellie’s about as likely to spend Saturday night at home with a Horlicks as she is to circumnavigate the globe in roller skates.

‘Doesn’t your man ever want you to spend Saturday night with him?’ I ask as I meet her and Jen at the Shipping Forecast on Slater Street. More low-key than the other bars in
this part of town, it’s full of musos and thoughtful types who spend too much time twiddling with their guitar strings.

‘I cooked a romantic dinner last night,’ she says indignantly. ‘Mind you, he had bought me flowers out of the blue last week, so he deserved it.’

‘That’s so sweet,’ says Jen.

‘I know,’ shrugs Ellie. ‘I don’t take it for granted.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ I point out. ‘No man has ever bought me flowers.’

‘Really?’ they both say in unison.

‘Oh come on – it’s not Jamie’s style. He’s romantic, don’t get me wrong . . . just, in other ways. So what did you cook?’ I ask Ellie.

‘Paella followed by home-made profiteroles. I can be a domestic goddess when I want. Turned into a late one, actually. You know when you eat too much, drink too much and end up dancing
round the kitchen to your old CDs? Oh . . .’ She suddenly realizes that this ode to being a couple might not be what I want to hear. ‘Sorry, Sam.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply dismissively. ‘I don’t expect people to tiptoe around. It’s not as if anyone’s died. Besides, hopefully Jamie and I will do a
bit of kitchen dancing again one day. Not that we ever liked the same music. He nearly put his head in the oven one day when I put on Michael Bublé.’

‘You don’t look like a woman who’s spent the day nursing a hangover,’ says Jen, giving Ellie the once-over. Ellie looks sensational in a short All Saints dress, sky-high
heels and piled-up hair.

She almost outshines Jen. Only ‘almost’ because every man in the room has singularly failed to remove his eyes from our friend’s legs. Unfortunately for them, she’s
smitten again. Despite having met the man in question only four days ago.

‘How’s the waiter shaping up?’ I ask.

‘Adam. And he’s perfect. I never normally go for younger men, but maybe this is where I’ve been going wrong all these years. He’s very intelligent. The waiter’s job
is only a stopgap.’

‘Before what?’

‘He’s not sure yet. He’s got such charisma. He’s so funny and sweet and has . . .’

‘Muscles, we know,’ Ellie finishes for her. ‘I knew the second I saw them that he didn’t stand a chance with you around.’

‘Am I that predictable?’ she laughs. ‘Anyway, what made you choose here, Sam?’

I shift in my seat and sip my Cuba Libre. ‘I thought it’d make a change.’

The look on their faces tells me I’m fooling no one. The truth is that I’m here because this is one of Jamie’s favourite places. Not that we ever came together; this was
reserved for nights out with his band. At least, the start of nights out with his band. I never used to ask where they ended up on the basis that what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt
me.

It’s never been my type of place, in all honesty – until now. Now it has my full attention and no mistake. My eyes have been glued to the door since we arrived, despite the fact that
nobody interesting has walked in. By which I mean Jamie hasn’t walked in.

‘Well, Sam, you’re looking exceptionally good at the moment,’ Ellie tells me. ‘Being single suits you.’

‘Very funny. I’ve lost a bit of weight, that’s all,’ I tell her, but I know that my slimmed-down thighs and bum are but the start of my transformation.

I now spend my life imagining that there’s a possibility of bumping into Jamie and – in contrast to my normal state of being – make sure I’m looking as good as physically
possible at all times. Which is exhausting. But for the first time since I can remember, the effort I put into my appearance pays dividends. As we’re shunted from bar to bar by Ellie, who
can’t bear to stay in one place for more than two martinis, I become aware that I’m attracting an above-average amount of attention, something that continues as I order drinks in the
Hard Days Night Hotel.

I can sense somebody gazing at me from the other end of the bar. I don’t look, at least not properly; I simply flash a half glance his way. But I can tell from just that that he’s
attractive. I can sense it. I can smell it. It’s in his alpha-male swagger as he approaches, puts his elbow on the bar and leans in.

‘Bloody hell you’re looking hot, Sam.’

I spin round, startled, and come face to face with Luke – Jamie’s best friend. With the possible exception of bumping into the man himself, I couldn’t be more excited. But for
a very different reason than Luke is used to.

I haven’t seen Luke since the break-up, and the issue that’s uppermost in my mind is how to quiz him about the emotional state of my ex-boyfriend. Which probably
makes this the first time in Luke’s life that a woman in a bar isn’t fixated on him.

The term ‘red-blooded male’ was invented for him. No female fails to fall for his charms, the least of which are his muscular frame and killer smile. Did you spot the mention of
muscles? Obviously, Jen’s been there; she was swept up in a three-week whirlwind of his irrepressible magnetism and lust that left no room for argument.

If ever a relationship was doomed to failure, it was theirs. By the time she was musing about the colour of bridesmaids’ dresses, he’d moved on to his neighbour’s cousin,
Heidi, a zoologist from Sweden, with whom he was more than happy to give his animal instincts a whirl.

The fact that Luke is so likeable is a source of constant inner turmoil for me and my sense of sisterhood. Frankly, I should disown him. But I can’t – even if justifying my affection
for him is increasingly challenging.

‘What have you done to yourself?’ he asks, looking me up and down with a grin.

I roll my eyes. ‘Could you make that sound less like you think I looked like a compost heap beforehand?’

He tuts. ‘Oh Sam, the only thing in my garden I’d compare you with is an English rose. Lovely, fragrant . . .’ he shrugs, ‘slightly thorny at times.’

I suppress a smile. ‘Gee, thanks. I have a right to be thorny, anyway. I’ve been dumped.’

His expression changes and he looks serious all of a sudden. It’s quite unnerving; the Luke I know is as shallow as a leaky paddling pool. ‘If it means anything, I’ve tried to
tell him he’s making a mistake. And not just because you look fabulous,’ he winks, pulling himself together.

I shake my head. ‘I know I’m single, but it doesn’t mean I’m available.’

‘Paying you a compliment, that’s all.’

‘Fine. Thank you. So what’s he said? And how is he? And is he still sleeping in your spare room? And—’

‘Wooahh, slow down,’ he replies. ‘One question at a time, please. But let me buy you a drink, first.’

‘I’ve already got them.’ I go to give a note to the barman.

Luke pushes down my hand. ‘No, you don’t. Like you say, you’ve been dumped. You need to be looked after.’

‘Oh purleease.’ I tut while he grins and hands over a twenty. ‘But thank you, anyway.’

‘Who are the other two drinks for?’

‘Jen and Ellie. They’re over there.’

‘Jen’s here?’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘Bring her over. It’s been a while.’

I narrow my eyes and glare at him. ‘Do not go near my friend again. Or. I. Will. Kill. You. Is that clear?’

‘I was only going to say a friendly hello.’

‘I’ve seen where your friendly hellos lead and so has Jen. Besides, she’s happy and has a new man.’ Luke doesn’t need to know that she first set eyes on him on
Tuesday, when he served her cappuccino. ‘Do me a favour and stay away, eh?’

‘You have such a low opinion of me, Sam,’ he tuts.

‘Can’t imagine why. Listen – wait here. I need to speak to you about some crucial matters.’

‘There aren’t many women I’d hang around waiting for at a bar, you know,’ he calls after me.

I must be gone less than two minutes, but when I return, Luke’s already chatting to another woman. She’s ludicrously pretty, a no-less-than-five-hours-to-get-ready type, with smoky
eyes and endless hair extensions that look as though they’ve been harvested from an Appaloosa pony.

I scold myself for such mean-spirited thoughts and almost hope that the conversation I’m walking in on is about the dissertation she’s producing for her PhD.

‘It’s true,’ she squeaks in an accent so thick you could spread it on your toast. ‘Cheryl Cole used to be an HGV driver. She keeps it quiet these days but my dad’s
been on the lorries for years and he knew her when she was only twenty-three and would stop at the same Little Chef. She couldn’t half put away a fry-up, apparently. You’d never guess,
would you?’

‘Lynne . . . that is fascinating,’ Luke smiles in a way that would be totally convincing to her even if she wasn’t so cerebrally challenged. ‘Twenty-three? How old is she
now?’

‘My dad reckons early fifties,’ she replies. ‘Looks good for her age, doesn’t she? It’s the eyelashes. They take years off.’

I cough. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Oh hi,’ says Luke, straightening his back. ‘Where are your friends?’

‘They’ll be over shortly. I wanted to get you by yourself first.’

I look at Lynne-Nice-But-Dim, hoping she takes the hint. But she’s no longer looking overly nice. In fact, she’s throwing daggers. And is patently not in the mood to move.

‘If I could discuss something with you privately . . .’ I add.

Luke and I glance at Lynne but she couldn’t be less likely to leave if her hem was pinned down with tent pegs.

‘Well,’ I begin, regardless. ‘Jamie. Seriously, I need to know how he’s been.’

Luke takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to say, Sam. He’s torn up about what happened. There’s no mistaking that.’

‘Has he mentioned me?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ he frowns. ‘He mentions you all the time.’

‘Do you think he misses me?’

Luke is about to answer when Lynne-Not-Very-Nice-But-Dim yawns pointedly.

‘He does. Definitely. Look, let’s have a proper chat at some point, shall we? Now,’ he says, leaning into Lynne. ‘Where were we?’

She looks as if someone’s told her tomorrow is Christmas. I’m going to have to act.

‘One more question, Luke,’ I continue sweetly.

Lynne rolls her eyes so far back into her head it looks like she’s about to have a fit.

‘How did that chlamydia test go?’

I’d feel guilty about this course of action if it wasn’t for two justifications: A, she was annoying, and B, I’m saving her from future heartache, so in fact
I am doing her a favour. Luke doesn’t quite see it like this.

‘I was in there!’ he says, exasperated, after Lynne has made her excuses and left.

‘She was a bimbo,’ I say dismissively.

‘And . . .?’

‘And I think you could do better,’ I continue.

‘Of course I could. But that’s not the point. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with getting yourself checked out every so often. It was clear, by the way.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

He shakes his head. ‘You’ve got entirely the wrong impression of me, Samantha. Deep down, all I want is a nice girl who likes me for who I am. Someone to settle down with. Someone
special.’

‘But, in the meantime, you’re going to get plenty of practice, eh?’

‘Why the hell not?’ he grins.

‘How’s it going, handsome?’ says Ellie, kissing Luke on the cheek. There’s a slight slur in her words that suggests she sneaked in an extra drink while I’ve been
over here. ‘Broken many hearts lately?’

Luke tuts. ‘My reputation is in tatters, I see. It’s a good job I think you’re wonderful, Ellie Sanders.’

‘What reputation?’ asks Jen.

‘Jennifer, lovely to see you,’ he says, kissing her slowly on the cheek. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Because you never phoned,’ she points out.

‘Didn’t I?’ he asks innocently. ‘Phone trouble. Ah, we could have been so good together too.’