All the Single Ladies (21 page)

‘Inexperienced?’ I offer.

‘Fussy.’

He proceeds to tell me about a succession of dates he’s been on. They haven’t been just up and down the country; there have been three international ones too. If ever you needed
proof of a man’s desperation, the fact that three weeks ago he was prepared to fly to Rio de Janeiro to meet someone has to be it. This, despite her emailing the day before he left to warn
him she had a bout of cystitis and wasn’t feeling tip-top.

‘It was worth it, though,’ he says earnestly, ordering a fourth pina colada.

‘Why . . . are you still seeing her?’

‘No, no,’ he says. ‘The distance would have made it impossible. But I’ve made a pen pal for life.’

I don’t ask how many times she’s responded. I don’t think I need to.

‘So do you think we’ll see each other again?’ he asks boldly.

I glance at my drink and decide the only option is to be honest.

‘Jonathan, I think you’re a lovely person. But . . . probably not.’

He takes a violent bite of his pineapple chunk.

‘I knew you were going to say that. It’s my fault, I know.’

‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ I reassure him. ‘But, when two people meet, either there is chemistry or there isn’t. And there’s nothing either of them can do
about it. But you’ll meet someone one day, I’m sure.’

‘Really? You’re such a good listener.’

Three hours, nine pina coladas and a full-blown counselling session later, I’ve done so much listening that my ears are nearly bleeding. As I walk out of the Living Room towards the car
park, I feel a combination of emotions. Disappointment. Pity. And a deep relief that at least my love life isn’t as disastrous as some.

Date number two is the following lunchtime and it’s with Juan, the social worker originally from Barcelona.

Unlike Jonathan, he does look like his picture – better, in fact. He’s six foot, with Bublé eyes. But, given the thick Lancashire accent, it’s apparent that the
‘originally from Barcelona’ translates as ‘hasn’t lived in Barcelona since he was three weeks old’.

Still, this guy has potential.

‘Do you mind if I sit next to you?’ he smoulders, sinking into the seat and pressing his thigh against mine. We’re only in Subway (his choice), so although it feels slightly
strange that we’re not opposite each other, it’s not as if I need to worry about him getting too amorous. Or so I thought.

‘Not at all,’ I reply, feeling a rush of heat. I know my mind is firmly focused on Jamie but it’s simply impossible not to feel some stirrings when an unbelievably gorgeous
bloke makes overtures. ‘Have you been on many dates?’ I ask, attempting to negotiate an overstuffed chicken wrap.

He smiles and puts his arm around the back of my chair. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he smiles, gazing into my eyes. His manner is way too sexy for comfort – but I’m so
stunned, flustered and hot, I can’t think about moving away.

‘Right,’ I gulp. ‘Any successes?’

He shrugs slowly. ‘It depends how you define . . . success.’ Despite having met this person less than eight minutes ago, his lips are within striking distance of mine. And I’m
mesmerized by them. They’re full and sumptuous and outrageously sensual. Plus, they keep getting closer. His pupils are dilated. And – at only eight and a half minutes – I’m
totally convinced he’s going to kiss me.

‘Er . . . did any of them turn into girlfriends?’ I ask, edging away.

He smiles and sits back. I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. ‘One or two, no more than that.’ He looks at me again and brushes a strand of hair from my face.
‘I have high hopes for you, though.’

I take a bite of my wrap and a dollop of onion relish drops into my lap; I proceed to flip it onto the floor. It’s the most unsophisticated movement imaginable, blowing any efforts to look
elegant. Yet it doesn’t seem to matter. His eyes are on me as I look up at him.

‘I didn’t mean to unsettle you,’ he murmurs.

‘You didn’t,’ I splutter, composing myself. He parts his lips.

Jamie and I didn’t do a huge amount of getting down and dirty in the final months of our relationship. I didn’t think much of it, only that everyone goes through periods in their
life when their sex drive dips.

But, having been without any action for months, it’s only now – as I sit before Dirk Diggler’s digglier cousin – that I feel the sort of sensations it usually takes an
episode of
True Blood
and half a bottle of wine to induce.

Which feels plain wrong: First, because I only met him in person less than ten minutes ago; second, because I’m still in love with Jamie; and third, because we’re in Subway with
‘Barbie Girl’ being piped through the speakers, the pungent fragrance of meatballs in the air and tattooed staff members shouting colourfully at each other in the background.

I shift away and try to concentrate on my wrap. But I become aware of him focusing on my mouth as I take a bite, honing in on my parted lips like I’m starring in one of those old Flake
adverts. It isn’t quite the same with pieces of chicken teriyaki.

‘So tell me about you,’ Juan breathes.

I put down my wrap. He hasn’t touched his.

‘Um . . . like I said when we spoke, I’m an events coordinator and I live in Allerton.’

‘You’ve just split from your boyfriend,’ he says. I nod. ‘Broken heart?’

‘Oh I’m all right,’ I shrug.

‘You must miss . . . human touch, though. Am I right?’ He’s so close now I can feel his breath on my face – and realize the same must be true for him. I wish I’d
passed on the onion relish.

‘I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it . . .’

‘Until now?’ he says and puts his hand on my leg, squeezing my flesh.

I freeze and glare at it as several facts whirr through my mind.

We are in Subway. It is lunchtime. We met – I glance at my watch – twelve minutes ago. Yet this stranger has his hand on my thigh. Who the hell do I think I am . . . Belle de
flipping Jour?

Yet, ridiculously, I don’t remove it. In fact, I don’t move at all. Because – and I return to my original point – he is gorgeous. As sexy as hell. Or maybe I’m just
in shock. I can’t decide which.

‘You know what?’ he says, moving in closer. ‘I wanted to kiss you the second you walked through the door.’

‘Did you?’ I squeak.

‘In fact, I wanted to do a lot more.’

I’m swallowing, my mind and blood swirling, when I am distracted by a voice I recognize instantly.

‘Look, babes, when I said I wanted salad, I didn’t mean three poxy bits of cucumber. I want the works: lettuce, pickles, tomatoes, the lot. Oh soz, love – I’ve got Sydney
on the line.’ Lorelei Beer is at the front of the queue and I’ve never felt more relieved to see anyone in my life.

‘There’s someone over there I need to go and speak to,’ I babble, grabbing my bag and abandoning my wrap.

‘What?’ asks Juan incredulously. ‘You’re leaving? What am I supposed to do with this?’

He points at his crotch to display a bulge that is admittedly magnificent but also – given it’s now only thirteen minutes since we met – inappropriate to a frankly terrifying
degree.

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ I smile, darting out of the door before Lorelei spots me.

‘Is that what they call one of those “intimate encounters”?’ muses Ellie, when I phone her on the way home that night.

‘Absolutely not!’

‘Well, if I was single I’m not sure I’d complain about being propositioned by a tall Michael Bublé with a zip-straining bulge in his pants.’

‘It was very sleazy,’ I reply disapprovingly.

‘But you stayed?’

‘Only for thirteen minutes,’ I clarify.

Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about what went on today, and what’s been happening to me lately. Since I’ve been single, I’ve started to experience a variety of,
well, stirrings. Ones that never happened in the latter days of being a couple. My libido, twisted creature that it is, has decided to kick-start itself at the exact time when I can do nothing
about it.

‘Imagine what might have happened if you’d stuck around for twenty,’ she sniggers. ‘So who’s next?’

‘This is the problem. It was supposed to be the vet – Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger – but I cancelled. At least, I tried to cancel. I requested a read receipt on the
email I sent him, asking if we could rearrange, but he hasn’t even read it.’

‘So you’re going to stand him up?’

‘Oh I can’t, can I?’ I sigh. ‘He might be a minger but he doesn’t deserve that. I’m going to have to go. I might need you to phone me twenty minutes into the
date with a fake emergency, though.’

As it turns out, the issue with this date is not that Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger is in fact a minger. The issue is that he stands me up. The bloody cheek. He’s
the one who’s undoubtedly a minger, for God’s sake!

I come to the realization that this is what’s happened when – after fifteen minutes, a packet of pork scratchings and several tours of the pub – there is still nobody here that
fits his description.

His description being that he’d be wearing jeans, carrying a copy of
The Times
(corny but effective) and wearing a dark blue T-shirt. Nobody here comes close. Not the two women in
the corner still in their Tesco uniforms, not the large group of students next to the loos, and not the elderly gentleman who hasn’t removed his hat or mac. I briefly wonder whether the dark
blue T-shirt might be under the mac but decide not to investigate, and give the whole evening up as a bad job.

As I get home twenty minutes later and pop my M&S meal in the microwave, I can sense my hope about this strategy disintegrating. So far, I’ve had one OCD victim, one pervert (who,
admittedly, I fancied), and one who stood me up. If I don’t deserve a medal, I at least deserve a refund.

I finish my dinner and log on to the laptop to see if there are any other hot prospects – though it’s with a very heavy heart.

As soon as I enter the website, however, I’m surprised to see that there is a response from Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger.

I’d love to say the dates with Kyle, the video-conferencing salesman, and Phil, the mechanic, are any better.

They’re not. It’s not that they’re disastrous, only that neither Kyle nor Phil is my cup of tea. Kyle is a little too talkative (I said about three words during the whole
date); Phil a little too opinionated (on everything from immigration to breast implants).

Still, my experiences so far have led me to one conclusion about online dating: despite me finding nobody I’d be able to realistically present as a gorgeous new boyfriend, I have no doubt
about why it works for so many people.

There are definitely women out there who are future soul mates for Juan, Kyle, Phil – and even Jonathan, God love him, though I suspect he’s more likely to meet her on his next stint
in the Priory.

Having said all that, my optimism for other women – including Jen, who so far has been on two dates (with the same person), prompting Ellie to have another round of ‘the talk’
with her – hasn’t materialized into anything for me.

So, on Friday night, as I log on to the website to check if I’ve had any winks lately, it’s without much hope. I flick back and forth between the dating site and Jamie’s
Facebook page, on to which I’ve drifted so many times lately that even I recognize my behaviour as unhealthy. It’s not as if I don’t know what he looks like.

But, despite telling myself that moping over pictures of the two of us in New York and Ibiza is helping nobody, I can’t stop myself. Particularly when there are updates on his page, such
as the one I stumble across tonight:

‘Who the hell is Natasha Waterfield-Jones?’ I splutter, scrutinizing her picture. She’s exceptionally pretty and exceptionally thin – two reasons to
despise her immediately.

Moreover, she’s got that look – that slightly grungy bohemian look – that I never quite mastered convincingly, but which I know Jamie adores. My mind swirls with possibilities
before I eventually phone Ellie.

‘So? She could be anyone.’

‘But she’s gorgeous!’ I whimper.

‘So are you!’ she argues. ‘Oh Sam . . . Seriously, you can’t get your knickers in a twist over stuff like this. Chances are, she’s absolutely nobody –
she’ll be someone who’s recently started at work or someone he knows from way back. Whatever you do don’t quiz him about it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I tell her. ‘I might feel like a Facebook stalker, but I’m not going to act like one.’

‘Put her out of your mind. I’m serious. This is a red herring.’

She’s right, of course. I know she’s right. And, given we’re not even together, Jamie arguably wouldn’t be doing anything wrong even if she wasn’t. The thought
kills me.

Sulkily, I drag myself away from Facebook and back to my email inbox, where a new one has landed from Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger. It has the subject matter ‘As promised x’
and when I click on the link it takes me to his dating website profile, onto which he has tonight posted several photos.

I take them in with wide eyes and note that they represent two major surprises. First, Ben-who’s-undoubtedly-a-minger is, in fact, no minger. Far from it. And secondly, we have met before.
I only wish I hadn’t been holding a bag full of dog poo at the time.