All the Single Ladies (16 page)

‘What on earth washh all that about?’ I ask.

‘I might ask you the same question,’ says Julia, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘
Are
you on drugs?’

‘Don’t be ridiculoush. I was dancing!’

‘You weren’t just dancing,’ she says disapprovingly, holding her arm out to flag down a taxi. ‘It looked like someone had booked a stripper.’

‘I was belly dancing. That’s how you do it,’ I tut. ‘I’ve got a DVD. Honestly, I’ve got a DVD.’ I don’t know why I thought saying it twice would
convince her any more.

‘I don’t care what DVDs you’ve got . . . that did not look like belly dancing.’

I try to come up with a robust response. Only one thing springs to mind. ‘I’m telling you . . . I’ve got a DVD.’ Three times a charm. ‘Was Jamie
watching?’

We climb into a taxi and she gives the driver our addresses. ‘Everyone was watching,’ she answers.

I grin. ‘Was he impressed?’

She stands up from her seat opposite and comes to sit next to me, putting her arm around my shoulders. ‘Oh Sam.’

‘What?’ I ask.

She gives me a big squeeze. ‘That hug is because I won’t be there when you wake up tomorrow morning. When you are so going to need one.’

I am never, ever drinking again. That’s never. I am struggling to convey the level of mortification with which I wake the following morning but will simply say that it
hangs heavily in my head, like a dark, festering blanket, poisoning my every thought.

This is not just ‘the fear’, when I worry that I’ve done or said something inappropriate. This is beyond fear; this is a certainty.

As I drag myself out of bed and start getting ready for work, a text from Julia lands.

I let out a groan that sounds like the hounds of hell on the cusp of a full moon, before pressing the call button.

‘What does that mean?’ I rasp the second Julia answers.

‘Good morning,’ she replies. My sister is never hungover. Largely because my sister never gets drunk. In fact, she never acts with anything but total decorum. I wish it ran in the
family. ‘How’s your head?’

‘Come on. What does that mean? Was I that bad?’

‘Actually,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘“bad” isn’t the word. There were a lot of people in that room who thought you were pretty damn good.’

‘Really?’ I straighten my back, feeling a vague swell of optimism.

‘Mainly the men,’ she clarifies. ‘Particularly the sleazier ones. They loved you. The women generally weren’t as keen.’

‘What are you saying?’ I ask defensively. ‘I was trying to . . . let go a little, that’s all. To really get into it.’

‘If that was your objective I can say categorically that you achieved it.’

‘You’re trying to imply I looked like a slut,’ I say, hoping she’ll deny it.

‘Was it only an implication . . .?’

‘Ohhhwwww!’

‘Oh come on, Sam. I’m only kidding. You’re right: it wasn’t that bad. Your technique itself was pretty accomplished. If you ever find yourself out of work, there are
several lap-dancing bars that’d give you a job like a shot.’

‘Do you have to?’ I sob. ‘Oh God . . . Jamie’s going to hate me. He’s going to think he was shacked up with a slapper for the last six years. He’s never going
to want to look at me again. He’s going to—’

‘Actually, Sam,’ she interrupts.

‘Yes?’

‘I wouldn’t worry. He looked as jealous as hell.’

I hear from Jamie that evening, when I’m lying in the bath. I’d cracked open the aromatherapy gift set that I got last Christmas, which has, until now, never seen
the light of day. It consists of a satin eye masque that looks like the sort of thing that Margot from
The Good Life
would wear to bed, and several little bottles of oil.

I couldn’t decide whether to go for the lavender, to try to relax me (as I’ve felt anything but all day), or the grapefruit, to energize me (ditto). So I went for broke and threw in
both. The result is that I feel slightly schizophrenic and definitely no better.

When my phone lets out a little bleep I jolt out of my fitful snooze, splashing water over the edge of the bath as I grapple with my masque and fling it on the floor, then scramble to the sink.
My hands are still wet when I read the text, which isn’t ideal, but the second I see it’s from Jamie I can’t even think about bothering to dry them.

‘What the hell does that mean?’ I say out loud. But I know what it means. At least I think so. It means my plan is really starting to work.

Over the next week, Jamie becomes an almost constant presence in my life. It’s as if he’s never left. Whether he’s round at the house to pick up more clothes,
or popping into work to drop off some random household paperwork, I’m starting to see more of him than I did when we lived together.

Then, a week after the Mathew Street incident, he texts to ask if we could grab a coffee at lunchtime. I don’t pick it up until three o’clock, when I phone him straight away.

‘Is after work any good?’ I ask.

‘Umm . . . yeah, sure. I was supposed to have something on but . . . yeah.’

We meet at a pub near his work called the Fat Pheasant.

It’s a tiny, dingy hovel of an establishment, the sort of place Jamie finds mysteriously appealing. He describes it as having ‘character’. Which basically means it features a
variety of grubby blokes looking as if they’ve developed cobwebs in their ears and the toilets are cleaned with a level of attention you’d expect in a Vietnamese prison.

He’s at the bar when I arrive. I’m flustered and red-faced after my last meeting of the day overran. He kisses me on the cheek and I inhale his smell and close my eyes briefly. God,
he smells so good. Particularly compared with the rest of the clientele.

‘What are you drinking?’ he asks.

‘Diet Coke,’ I say firmly. The never-drinking-again rule is sticking, believe me.

He has a pint of bitter and pays for the drinks as I look for a seat by the door. I like to have a visible escape route when in places like this. And, apart from the dubious patches on the seats
and jammy rings of lager that have clearly adorned the table for several days, it’s perfect.

‘Great boozer this, isn’t it?’ he muses in all seriousness as he sits next to me.

‘Hmm,’ I reply.

Then there’s a silence. Another of those awkward ones.

‘I haven’t really mentioned last week at Mathew Street,’ I find myself announcing. ‘I was sooo drunk.’

‘I know,’ he replies with a half-smile. ‘You were a lot more . . . gregarious than I’ve seen before.’

I let out a little laugh. ‘Well, there’s a euphemism.’

‘Whatever happened to the girl who didn’t like dancing?’ he asks softly.

I’m tempted to say, ‘
Belly Dance Abs Blast
is what happened’, but manage not to. ‘I suppose a few things have changed about me lately.’

‘Really?’ he asks with a flash of anxiety.

I shrug. ‘I think I’ve worked out that life goes on, with or without you. That I’m determined to be the happy and positive person I always was.’

He suddenly looks sad. Unbelievably sad.

‘I still wish you were in my life, though,’ I reply. And when he responds with a smile I feel a swell of pure unadulterated love for him.

‘Oh Sam,’ he murmurs, and I notice his lip trembling. As our eyes meet it feels as though there’s an electric current running between us and I’m overwhelmed with an
absolute conviction that I can never be without this man. Not ever. ‘Sam . . . I don’t know where to begin.’

I reach over to take his hand and he squeezes it back so hard it hurts my fingers.

‘Sam, I’m so confused,’ he whispers.

‘Still?’ I say.

He nods, his face tortured. ‘Some days I know exactly what I want, I know exactly what I’ve got to do . . . and that’s South America.’ He glances at me, then looks at his
drink. ‘Then other days, or nights . . . like last week in Mathew Street . . .’

‘What did you want last Thursday?’ I prompt, convinced that if I don’t ask he’ll say nothing.

He looks up. ‘I wanted you. Unequivocally, I wanted you.’

I swallow, feeling tears well in my eyes. ‘Then come back to me, Jamie. It’s not too late.’

He nods. ‘Can I ask you something, Sam?’

‘Of course,’ I say, breathless with anticipation.

He inhales deeply. ‘I know you’ve got men chasing after you left, right and centre. You always had.’

This isn’t remotely true, but I’m more than happy for Jamie to maintain the fantasy.

‘And on Thursday night, when I saw how much attention you were attracting . . . well, it was a wake-up call.’

‘I didn’t mean it to be,’ I say as convincingly as possible. ‘I was a bit drunk and—’

‘You don’t need to explain,’ he interrupts. ‘It was nice to see you letting loose a little. And you looked . . . well, you looked amazing.’

Julia would disagree.

‘The point I’m making is that . . . Oh look, things are far from settled in my mind. I’ve booked my flight and everything but . . . flights can be cancelled.’

‘What date do you leave?’ I ask.

‘Tuesday the thirteenth of December.’

The timescale isn’t news but I still feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach.

‘I know you could go out and get another boyfriend tomorrow if you wanted,’ continues Jamie. ‘And you’re perfectly within your rights to do so. I suppose what I want . .
. what I’m asking, Sam . . . Look, I need you to leave the door open for me. I need you to not shut me out. Just while I get my head together and work out what I want and need.’

Despite wanting Jamie more than anything, I feel a twinge of indignation at this request. I mean, he’s dumped me. He’s announced he’s leaving me. Yet he still wants me to leave
the door open?

Then another question explodes into my mind: if Jamie is essentially asking me to not go out with anyone else, what is his situation on this front? Is he allowed to see other women while
we’re in this state of limbo?

‘It goes without saying that I haven’t even thought about seeing anyone else,’ he says softly, as if reading my thoughts.

I feel stupidly pleased about this, but make sure I don’t let it show. And I think back to my original plan. I can’t make this too easy for him. I can’t let him think
I’ll just drop everything for him and be there whenever he decides to pull himself together.

‘Jamie, I will leave the door open for you,’ I tell him. ‘But not unconditionally. If you’re asking me to not go near another man while you try to make up your mind over
the course of the next few months, then . . . I’m not sure that’s reasonable.’

He looks as though someone’s stabbed him in the chest. But I had to say this, even if the truth is that I couldn’t even look at another man. I’ve got to give him some incentive
to want to get back with me.

He nods. ‘Is there someone else?’

‘No! No, of course not. I’m talking about the principle,’ I say. ‘Plus, you know . . . while I’m willing to leave the door open, as you put it, that can’t
mean me sitting at home alone, praying that you’re going to see the light of day.’

‘O-of course,’ he stammers. ‘I’d never expect you to.’

‘I need to get out there. In case you don’t make the right decision.’

I glance up at him, desperate for him to leap in and say, ‘But I will! I will make the right decision! Sod all this messing about. I already know what I want and I’m not prepared to
risk letting you go.’

He catches my eye and smiles. ‘I understand, Sam. And that’s totally fair enough. Do you want another drink?’

In the five days that follow, the contact Jamie makes with me starts to tail off. I’ll admit I start to worry. It’s not that he doesn’t get in touch at all,
because he does. However, it’s definitely more intermittent.

But when I speak to Lisa on the phone on Tuesday, as I’m heading to the car park after work, she’s convinced that I remain uppermost in Jamie’s mind.

‘Oh he’s just been on a bit of a bender for a few days. The band were playing at the weekend,’ she explains. ‘But he had a day off today so he popped over to play with
the kids. And I’ll tell you this: I know he’s bought the plane ticket but, seriously, there’s hope. No doubt. He’s thinking about you all the time. I can tell.’

‘Why . . . what did he say?’ I ask.

‘It wasn’t what he said so much as a feeling I got.’

‘How can you get a feeling if it wasn’t from what he said?’

‘Intuition,’ she replies knowingly.

‘He didn’t say anything about bumping into me in Mathew Street?’

‘Er, no.’

‘What about meeting me in the pub after work on Thursday?’

‘Not that, no.’

‘Did he ask about whether you’d seen me lately?’

‘Well, no.’

I sigh. ‘Did he say anything whatsoever about me, Lisa?’

She pauses. ‘Strictly speaking, no. The idiot. This was despite my best efforts.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Well, I asked him if he wanted to share some thoughts with me because, if so, I’d be more than happy to give my honest and forthright opinion. And if anybody knows about holding a
relationship together, it’s me. Dave and I are solid as a rock and always will be. Admittedly, I’ve got
Hot Sex
volumes three, four, five and six partly to thank, but
that’s irrelevant.’

I’m about to change the subject before she gets on to Dave’s toe-sucking techniques, but she does it for me.

‘I mean, if the only person he’s going to for advice is Luke, then God help him.’

When the call ends ten minutes later, it’s that sentence that stays with me. Lisa’s right about Luke. He isn’t just Jamie’s landlord at the moment; he’s his best
friend and, presumably, confidant as well.

Given that even a sniff of anything approaching commitment brings Luke out in a rash, I can’t help worrying about his influence. The second I get Lisa off the phone, I dial Luke’s
number, hoping that, for once in his life, his diary is free tonight.