All the Single Ladies (15 page)

I’m cringing as I say this; it feels outrageously over the top. This is the sort of behaviour you’d expect from those women who engage in antics peddled to the tabloids by Max
Clifford.

‘Oh,’ he says, looking surprised. ‘Well . . . gosh.’

Then he does something I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man do. He blushes. In fact, he’s so flustered that he drops his twenty-pound note – into his pint of lager.
‘Oh shoot! Oh . . . sugar! Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lord.’

He frantically dips his hand into the glass, sploshing beer onto the bar, which he then mops up with a napkin, apologizing profusely to an unmoved bar tender.

‘Are you here by yourself?’ I ask, attempting to reconnect.

‘Er . . . no. I-I’m with my friend, Terry,’ he stammers, looking simultaneously terrified and as if he’s about to explode with excitement.

‘So what’s your name?’ I ask, leaning in a little closer.

‘Gordon.’

‘Gordon,’ I repeat, raising a seductive eyebrow. ‘As in Ramsay? Are you as . . . fiery as he is?’

He gulps. ‘I don’t think so. Nobody’s ever said that. Not so far, anyway. Definitely not. Well. Hmm.’ He looks away awkwardly.

‘Oh,’ I giggle, flicking back my hair, ‘maybe they just haven’t seen that side of you. I wonder if I could . . . bring it out?’

He looks as though his brain is about to melt.

‘So . . . are you from Liverpool?’ I continue, deciding to tone things down a little.

He picks up his drink with trembling hands and takes a large mouthful. ‘Runcorn.’

‘That’s not far,’ I smile. His body is so broad and hard you’d think he’d been born in a gym and never left. ‘So you’ve probably been to this place a
few times before.’

‘Not really,’ he replies, gulping again. ‘It’s my mother, you see. She doesn’t like me going far.’

‘Oh. So you just go out in Runcorn?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

This isn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped.

‘I rarely go out. Except Mother’s in hospital having a hysterectomy so I came here with Terry straight from visiting. She’d needed quite a lot tonight – grapes, her
Reader’s Digest
crossword books and some sanitary towels. The ones at the hospital weren’t up to standard.’

This is all wrong.

The physical manifestation of this man simply does not correlate with his brain. He is without question the sexiest-looking bloke in the place, yet I cannot think of a less sexy conversation,
short of him filling me in on further elaborate details of his mother’s women’s troubles.

But as I glance at Jamie on the other side of the room, I feel a rush of determination. I’ve got to stick to my guns.

Besides, Jamie never has to meet this guy and discover that he has all the charisma of a decomposing corpse. He only has to see me with him – and hopefully imagine I’m succumbing to
a seduction technique that could teach James Bond a thing or two.

‘What do you do for a living?’ I ask, brushing dust off his shoulder. It’s an old chestnut but it seems to work. He gulps again.

‘I’ve just got a new job. As a salesman at Carpets R Us.’

‘Fascinating,’ I breathe, deliberately making my pupils dilate. He is momentarily fixated by my mouth and I take the opportunity to run my tongue slowly across my lips and flutter my
eyelashes. He takes another gulp of beer. Then gulps once more. This man could gulp for his country.

‘I don’t know how long it’ll last,’ he says anxiously. ‘Selling isn’t my forte.’

‘Really . . .?’ I murmur, looking over to Jamie again. ‘A gorgeous guy like you?’

At this, he splutters out his beer and launches into a coughing fit that makes me consider calling a paramedic.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Um . . . yes,’ he replies, his eyes bloodshot and watery. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, carpets. Well, Terry got me the job. But I’ve been doing it for two weeks and have sold
only one. And that was . . . well, the management weren’t very happy. I took down the measurements wrong. It was a foot too small. It was a lovely shagpile, as well. I felt awful.’

I glance up and realize that Jamie’s looking in our direction. He’s parted from the brunette slightly, as if something else has caught his attention. I sincerely hope it’s me.
Then a brilliant thought hits me.

‘What do you think of my flower?’ I say, deliberately forcing him to look at the rose at my neckline.

It makes his knees buckle.

‘Ummmmm . . .’ he says, averting his eyes, mortified.

‘It’s not wilting, is it?’ I add, flashing a look at Jamie. It’s a split-second look, not long at all. But long enough to notice that he has abandoned the brunette and is
on his way over.

‘Right!’ I say, hastily grabbing my bag. ‘Hold that thought – I’m going to the loo.’

I’m about to leave, when I feel compelled to spin round and add, ‘Do you mind if I make an observation?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You are lovely – I meant what I said. You should have a bit more . . . belief in yourself.’

He straightens his back and looks as if this is the nicest thing anyone’s said to him in a year. Which is a tragedy, but one I can’t hang around thinking about.

I glide across the room – spotting Julia chatting to a woman I recognize as one of her old school friends – and weave through the crowds in the direction of the toilet, slowly enough
to give Jamie a chance to catch up. Then I hear two words that send adrenalin rushing down my spine.

‘Sam, wait!’

I try to look shocked. I suspect Cate Blanchett won’t be too concerned about her next Oscar bid, but it’s the best I can do.

‘Jamie! Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Yeah, weird,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’d never normally dream of setting foot in a place like this, but the guys from work wanted to come. What are you doing
here?’

‘I went to see Julia at the Phil and she wanted a drink. We stumbled on this place. Coincidence, eh?’ I laugh. ‘So . . . the girl you were chatting to – is she new at
work?’ I can’t help myself.

‘Oh that’s Lauren. She’s the little sister of Michael, our new manager.’ He says this dismissively, but I feel distinctly un-reassured. ‘What about you? Who were
you with?’ He looks over my shoulder.

‘Oh . . .’ My mind whirrs, not least with fears about my newfound competition. ‘That’s . . . Demitri.’

‘Oh,’ he says, raising an eyebrow.

‘He’s a friend,’ I shrug, in a way that I hope looks distinctly suspicious. ‘I know him through Julia.’

‘So he’s a musician?’ he asks, not looking nearly jealous enough.

‘Er . . . no. He lives near her. No, he’s got a far more exciting career than that.’

‘Oh?’

My brain spins with possibilities as I attempt to choose the most envy-inducing job on the planet. Underwear model? Cardiac surgeon? Owner of an upmarket boutique hotel? None seem nearly
impressive enough. Then a flash of inspiration bursts into my head – and straight out of my mouth before I can gag myself.

‘He’s a spy.’

Jamie snorts and looks at me like I’m demented. ‘A spy?’

We turn to look at Gordon as he enthusiastically blows his nose on a napkin, then examines the resulting contents.

‘Obviously, he doesn’t do it any more,’ I splutter. ‘I mean, that’d be ridiculous – because I’d have told you all about it and blown his cover.’ I
try to compose myself and look cool again. ‘No . . . those days are over for Demitri. He, er, runs a property company these days. He’s done very well for himself.’ I decide that
this is a far more manageable lie.

‘Oh. He looks young,’ replies Jamie.

‘Yep. Early thirties and a millionaire . . . Can’t be bad, eh? He drives, er . . . a Lambrini.’

Jamie blinks. ‘You mean Lamborghini.’

Shit. ‘That’s the one!’ I reply. ‘He’s not shallow at all, though. Very modest. Such a nice guy.’

Something catches Jamie’s attention on the other side of the bar and I panic that I’m starting to lose him. That my crap about Gordon the carpet salesman hasn’t had anything
like the desired effect. I take another large gulp of my drink and hope I’m being paranoid just because I’m tipsy. And I really am tipsy. You know how, on some evenings, you can drink
and drink and not feel drunk, then it hits you in a word-slurring, head-spinning, need-to-sit-down-before-I-fall-down sort of way?

I feel just like that. Although I haven’t exactly drunk and drunk. I’ve only had three – the last one a double – but the effect appears to have been magnified by the fact
that it’s ten hours since I ate.

‘Well . . . I think the guys want to move on shortly,’ he says.

‘What?’ I blurt out. ‘Oh . . . it feels like ages since we had a chat.’

He looks into my eyes and goes quiet. He looks glazed and serious and I get a surge of hope that I’ve made a connection with him again. But I know it’s not enough. I’ve got to
act. Having a twinge of regret isn’t enough. I need Jamie to feel as desperate for me as I am for him. The problem is that I haven’t a clue how to make that happen.

At that very moment, my guardian angel arrives.

He’s an unlikely guardian angel, admittedly, but these things come in all shapes and sizes. Including carpet salesmen.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said,’ says Gordon, looking significantly more nervous than 007 ever did in front of a woman. ‘You know, the last thing you said to me.
About—’

‘Yes – I know,’ I interrupt.

‘Well,’ he continues, taking a deep breath and apparently oblivious to Jamie’s presence. ‘Would you like to dance?’

If I was going on my instincts alone, there’d only be one answer and that would be a definite no: A, because of my chronic aversion to dancing, and B, because I’m standing here with
the love of my life. Yet, when a flicker of disquiet appears on Jamie’s face, I know that this is my chance. So I reply in the last way he’d ever expect. With an enthusiastic smile and
a small but unprecedented sentence: ‘I’d love to.’

I can’t decide whether the alcohol that’s passed through my empty stomach and is now coursing through my bloodstream is a help or a hindrance. On the one hand, I
know what booze does to my coordination. On the other, Dutch courage is an absolute necessity in this situation. Put simply, I couldn’t do this unless I was on my way to being – to put
it poetically – slightly lampshaded.

Under normal circumstances, my heart would be racing in panic as I step onto the dance floor. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s personal.

I can feel Jamie’s eyes burning into my back as Gordon takes my hand, and, knowing the role this is playing in my quest to win him back, I decide there’s only one way to handle it:
with bullish self-belief.

As the Black Eyed Peas song trails off and is replaced by another, I close my eyes, determined to submit to the music. To just go with it . . . whatever it is. The first beats begin and my eyes
ping open. I can barely believe my luck: it’s Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’.

The opening track on my
Belly Dance Abs Blast
DVD!

Every woman on the dance floor ups her game immediately – it’s just one of those songs – and I know I’ve got serious competition.

But, for the first time in my life, I’m confident of stepping up to the mark. Gordon sways self-consciously as I get myself in position and launch into the only dance I’ve
ever
learned, courtesy of repeated instruction by Princess Karioca in my living room.

I know I’m capable of the wiggly hips and sashays but, under the circumstances, I also feel the need to . . . soup it up a little.

So I don’t just shimmy . . . I shimmy like a Brazilian street dancer whose toes are on fire. This is no time to be shy and retiring: this is the time to give it everything I’ve got.
And boy, do I. My hips go up and down, round and round; they swivel so madly you’d think they’d been given a squirt of WD40.

Princess Karioca’s words are shrieking through my brain: ‘Keep them loose! Keep them loose!’

My hips are as loose as a Weightwatcher’s Gold Member’s trousers. And together with my pouts, hair flicking and eyelid batting every time I glance at Gordon, he’d have to be in
a coma to not be left with the (totally false) impression that I want to rip off his clothes.

Of course, I’m not following the
Belly Dance Abs Blast
DVD to the letter. Nothing like it. I’m going with the flow, frolicking so fast and energetically that I can see the
reaction of no one – until I hone in on my partner. Whipping my shoulders back and forth while I simultaneously muster up the most seductive look I can, I drape one hand on Gordon’s
shoulder and the other around his waist.

It’s like the move Olivia Newton-John did on John Travolta at the end of
Grease
, only more overtly sexy: a soft-porn version of Sandra Dee. Gordon’s eyes pop so far out of his
head I’m convinced they’re going to land in someone’s drink.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ I murmur.

He nods, wide-eyed, as I let go and start twirling . . . and twirling . . . and twirling. It feels amazing . . . then not – as I stumble into a bloke behind me, nearly breaking several of
his toes.

He pushes me back into position, while I hope I’ve managed to make it look like a perfectly choreographed move. I launch again into the routine that’s technically brilliant for
toning up your six-pack – but is doing a damn good job now too.

I deliberately don’t catch Jamie’s eye, despite him being at the front of my mind.

When the song reaches a crescendo, I fling out my arms and fall to my knees, significantly more enthusiastically than I ever do in front of my DVD. But it feels like the only fitting end to what
I’m confident is a spectacular performance.

It’s Julia’s voice I hear first in the commotion.

‘Honestly, I know what it looks like, but I promise you . . . my sister is not the type to do drugs.’

I stand up, feeling slightly more woozy than I expected.

‘There’s no way that exhibition was solely with the aid of a couple of Bacardis and Coke,’ says the bouncer. ‘Now, come on. Out. Both of you. And don’t let me see
you in here again.’

Within minutes I find myself outside the club, burning with a sense of injustice.