All the Single Ladies (23 page)

I cross the lawn, scanning faces, and it strikes me how nervous I am.

I know I shouldn’t be. After four dates, I should be an old hand – even if every one of those was totally uninspiring (with the exception of Juan, who was too inspiring for
comfort).

I spot Ben sitting on a bench. He is in jeans and a striped cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. My insides flip so violently I am almost queasy, but the reflex action feels strangely
good.

He’s far more attractive than in his pictures – and more good-looking than I remember from the tennis event. But, beyond that, he’s sexy too, with that strange and wonderful
quality that’s about so much more than the way someone looks.

My stomach clenches into a knot as I approach him. While the last thing on my mind is actually starting a relationship, the simple fact of being here with someone so gorgeous – on a date
– arouses a rush of exhilaration. Part of me loves it. The other part wants to go and hide behind a bush.

He stands up as I approach and greets me with a slow, confident smile and a kiss on the cheek.

‘Sam. Lovely to meet you.’ He pulls back and doesn’t remove his eyes from mine.

‘You too,’ I reply, shrivelling up with self-consciousness.

‘I hope you don’t mind the unusual choice of venue.’

‘Not at all.’ I can hear my voice wobbling. This didn’t happen on any of the other dates. ‘It’s a great choice, actually. I’ve certainly never been on a first
date here before.’

He pauses. ‘You’ve been on many, then?’

‘Oh . . . only one or two,’ I clarify hastily. ‘Three, maybe. Or four.’

‘Not that it matters,’ he laughs softly. ‘None of us would be doing this if we weren’t looking for the right person. And the chances of the first person you stumble
across being the right one are slim, don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely,’ I reply, feeling my throat dry up. I suddenly wish I could think of something witty to say, but anything vaguely amusing, entertaining or intelligent escapes me.

I take a seat on the bench and Ben disappears briefly to buy ice creams. As he returns, his powerful thighs striding across the lawn and his handsome face breaking into a smile, I wonder about
something.

What’s someone like him doing on a dating website?

There must be something wrong with him. And my top bet is that – exactly like Juan – he’s a player. He oozes it, and it’s more than just his good looks that make me say
that. It’s his confident swagger. The overt eye contact. The unashamedly flirtatious smile.

He’s in the same category as Luke, I just know it. They could’ve been separated at birth. This guy probably has a matching Laura Ashley toilet-roll holder in his downstairs loo. Not
that that matters, of course. His motivation is irrelevant; the only issue is the reaction he’s capable of provoking in Jamie.

When Ben is six feet away, with two cups of ice cream, I notice that his pace slows slightly.

‘Is something the matter?’ I ask.

‘I . . . No,’ he says, shaking his head, before peering at me again. ‘Have we met somewhere before?’

‘So do you mind me asking your surname?’ Ben says. ‘That’s the thing about this online dating – you don’t get to find out some fairly
rudimentary details.’

‘Brooks,’ I reply.

‘Samantha Brooks,’ he muses. ‘That’s a lovely name. And it suits you.’

I smile. ‘Good job, really. How’s Mildred’s cat?’

He grins and rolls his eyes. ‘Fighting fit again. I think Mildred may just want to marry me as a result.’

I laugh and his eyes glint in the sunshine. We’ve moved from the bench to a prime location on the lawn in a bid to stay in the sun. He insisted I sat on his sweatshirt, despite my
protestations, which weren’t just motivated by the potential grass stains, but also by the idea of those stains being in the shape (and size) of my bum cheeks. It doesn’t matter that
I’ve lost weight. I could be the size of a hamster and still worry about my bum cheeks.

‘How long have you been single, Sam?’ he asks.

‘Oh . . . not long really. I split up with someone a couple of months ago.’

He takes this in. ‘Had you been together long?’

I nod, trying to look as if this fact is as inconsequential as the colour of my ex’s favourite socks.

‘Your decision or his?’

The temptation to fib is suddenly overwhelming. While I know that everybody’s been dumped at some point in their life – and if you haven’t there’s probably something
wrong with you – I still feel as if admitting it puts me in a category where I’d rather not be. Loser. Victim.

However, I’m such a pathetic liar that I’m aware that if I attempt to say I ditched Jamie in the same manner Alexis Carrington might dump her sixth toy boy of the year, he’d
realize instantly. And given that I’ve already had to confess to being the woman who catapulted a pile of dog poo through the air, I’d be expecting way too much for him to overlook that
as well.

‘It was his, I’m afraid.’

‘I see. Then . . . isn’t it a little early to be on a dating website if you’ve just had your heart broken?’ he asks gently.

‘Oh he didn’t break my heart,’ I insist, with an annoyingly unconvincing twang. ‘My heart’s fine. Everything about me’s fine. Fine, fine, fine.’ I sound
like I’m yodelling.

‘Glad to hear it,’ he replies, clearly not believing a word. ‘So what made you take the plunge and sign up to the site?’

‘I was roped into it by my two best friends.’

He suppresses a smile. ‘Ah. Another one who was coerced.’

‘You had a similar experience?’

He nods. ‘My sister, Kate, insisted I signed up. Though “insisted” might not be the word. She’s very bossy. In fact, she’d have been at home in Stalinist
Russia.’

I laugh. ‘Have you been single for a while?’ I ask.

When he returns my gaze, our eyes lock momentarily and time stands still, for no reason I can put my finger on. One thought runs through my head as fast as the blood pumping in my veins: I
so
want this man to find me attractive. I am more bothered about his opinion than I was about that of any of the others.

‘About six months,’ he replies. ‘And, since I haven’t lived in the UK for a while, I was largely starting from scratch.’

‘You haven’t been living in the UK?’ It’s only then that I become aware of how much my situation has dominated the conversation. I rectify that by grilling
Ben-who’s-far-from-a-minger for the next hour and a half.

It turns out he’s spent the last five years living in Australia. He moved back to the UK – to Aigburth, about a mile from me – to be close to his parents; his father is being
treated for cancer.

‘Not quite as glamorous as Sydney,’ I say.

‘Maybe not,’ he concedes. ‘But, despite the circumstances, I’m enjoying being back in the UK. My dad’s getting better and his prognosis is pretty good. Plus, the
practice where I’m working is great; there’s a really nice crowd of people there.’

Ben goes on to tell me that he’d always wanted to be a vet, despite never having pets of his own as a child (his mum is allergic to anything with fur).

‘Do you have lots of friends still in Liverpool?’ I ask.

‘Not as many as I’d like. There’s hardly anyone I went to school with still around. Certainly nobody I’d consider eligible. Lisa Smith, who I used to sit next to in
geography when we were thirteen, did get in touch and offer to show me a good time. She’s a lap dancer these days,’ he grins.

‘And you turned her down? That sets the bar high for what you expect from a woman.’

‘Ha! Well, I don’t want to scare you off so soon,’ he grins. ‘No lap dancing is required – until at least the third date.’

When he kisses me on the cheek at the end of the date, the tingle of his lips lingers on my skin. I drive home smiling from ear to ear and with the radio turned up so high my indicators are
vibrating.

I pull up at some traffic lights and find my mind drifting to his sparkling eyes and luscious mouth, the gentle and oh-so-sexy contours of his face. A certainty rushes through me: this is him.
I’ve found the man who’s going to help me win Jamie back.

I just pray he wants a second date.

I put the car in gear and am pulling away, when a familiar spluttering noise is emitted from the engine and my beloved car judders to an excruciating halt.

An almighty beep from behind jolts me further and I glance in my mirror to witness a middle-aged man, with teeth shaped like toe separators, shaking his fist. I frantically put on my hazard
lights and grab my phone to contact the AA yet again.

I’m about to type in the number, when a text beeps and I open it with a thrashing heart. It’s from Ben.

‘You need a new car, Sam,’ Ellie tells me the following night. ‘I’m glad there’s a possible new man on the horizon too, of course – but I
can’t help thinking your automotive needs are becoming more pressing.’

‘I love that car,’ I say, squirming because I know she’s probably right. ‘It’s perfect for me.’

‘Apart from the fact that it doesn’t go?’ she points out, glancing up from her compact mirror as she puts the finishing touches to her eyeliner. She perches on the edge of the
sofa in the stunning Merlot-coloured gown she bought for Alistair’s awards ceremony in Manchester tonight. He’s in line for some psychotherapy award, so she wants to look the part.

‘You’re exaggerating. It’s temperamental, that’s all.’

She sniggers and takes a slug of wine. Ellie always has a drink, or several, when she’s getting ready, claiming she can’t put her eyeliner on straight without doing so. ‘So,
Ben sounds like a hot prospect.’

‘He’s nice,’ I shrug. ‘Though I’m clearly not the only one who thinks so. We made friends on Facebook today and you should see his wall. It’s covered in
messages from fawning females thanking him for saving their pet poodles.’

‘You’ve got competition, then?’

‘Looks that way. So, young Sophie,’ I say, as Ellie’s little girl scuttles into the living room in cute pink pyjamas, the effect of which is marred slightly by a trail of snot
on her top lip that resembles an exotic mollusc. ‘It’s you and me tonight. Would you like some milk?’

‘No,’ she replies, while Ellie wipes her nose with a tissue. ‘I like a lollipop.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got lollipops. Wouldn’t milk do?’

‘Only lollipops.’

I frown. ‘Well, how about we get you some milk, and if you don’t want it you can leave it?’

‘Only want lollipops.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Pretty certain about this lollipop business, aren’t you?’

Ellie snorts with laughter.

‘Are you nearly ready for bed?’ I attempt instead.

‘NO BED, Auntie Sam!’ she says, as if I suggested she becomes a practising Satanist. ‘It not bedtime.’

‘I think you’ll find it is bedtime,’ Ellie interjects, scooping her up and kissing her soft curls.

‘No not!’ replies Sophie determinedly, trying not to giggle.

‘Well, if it’s not bedtime, what time is it?’ I say, deciding there’s no way she can get out of that argument.

She thinks for a second. ‘Party time.’

Ellie laughs and, after another kiss, hands her over. ‘Good luck,’ she winks, as she and Alistair slip into the night, leaving me to deal with an insomniac two-year-old who’d
rather have a rave than a good night’s sleep.

In the event, she goes down quietly. At least, I think so for a couple of minutes, until I realize that I’ve forgotten to turn on the baby monitor. She is in fact pumping out a medley of
nursery rhymes from her cot bed, accompanied by a dance routine that’s part cancan, part JLS.

When she finally drifts off, it’s into such a deep sleep that I feel slightly anxious every time I look in to check she’s still breathing . . . about every four minutes. I’ve
got no reason to think she won’t be breathing; she’s never decided to stop in her entire two and a half years, so I don’t know why I’m worried that she’ll change that
policy on my watch.

As I close the door to her very pink bedroom, I have a flashback of the first time Jamie and I met her. It was at Liverpool Women’s Hospital, fourteen hours after she’d entered the
world.

‘Jamie, you’re insane,’ I told him, as he stumbled to the hospital carrying an enormous teddy that we’d squeezed onto the back seat of the car – where I’m
still not sure it sat legally without a seatbelt.

The bear wasn’t Jamie’s only gift. There was an enormous box of chocolates for Ellie, a crocheted cardigan for Sophie from his mum (Jamie’s mother is always crocheting baby
cardigans, even if nobody she knows is having a baby), and the promise of a well-earned pint for Alistair. I’d got used to Jamie’s preposterous level of gift-buying over the years, but
even by his standards this was something else.

I’d love to say that Ellie looked radiantly maternal. But she looked like she’d survived a natural disaster and was waiting for the Red Cross. After I’d given her a kiss and
gently hugged her squashy midriff, tiny cries came from the cot at the end of the bed.

Jamie was looking down at Sophie. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She’s not bad, my girl, is she?’ beamed Ellie, happier than I’d ever seen her.

‘Does she need feeding?’ he asked, as her cries became more insistent.

‘I’ve just done that. And changed her nappy,’ Ellie frowned.

‘Shall I give her a cuddle?’ said Jamie.

‘Why not?’ she shrugged.

He reached into the cot and picked up her tiny frame with the confidence that only an uncle with enough nieces and nephews to cast the stage version of
Annie
could possess. Sophie settled
immediately, soothed by his assured rocking, while he gazed into her cloudy newborn eyes.

An hour later, as Jamie turned the key in the car’s ignition, I kissed him on the cheek. ‘What was that for?’ he laughed. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

‘Nothing. Sure you weren’t getting a little broody in there?’

‘Me? Nah,’ he grinned, pulling out of the car park. ‘Kids are great and I love them. But, fundamentally, I’m just like you, Sam: happy to give them back.’