All the Single Ladies (25 page)

‘I’m good. Thanks for asking,’ I reply. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m great. Listen, lovely to see you both and, sorry, but I’ve got to dash. Take care, won’t you?’ she adds as she focuses on me and squeezes my arm.

And as she heads into a shop, I realize that the emotion her eyes betrayed as she looked at me just now was unmistakable: it was pity. Oh God, help me.

As Lisa is the High Priestess of Speculation, I know better than to read too much into her words, determined as she was. Until, that is, I bump into Luke in the
newsagent’s the following morning on the way to work.

‘Have you really got another bloke?’ he asks, screwing up his nose. ‘Jamie said he saw you with someone on Friday.’

I swallow. ‘I . . . he’s . . . I was on a date, that’s all.’

Luke raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, Jamie’s been a pain in the arse ever since. He’s in such a bad mood.’

‘Really?’ I reply, feeling my heart surge.

‘Really. I made a nice dinner last night to cheer him up, but he turned up about five hours late from work,’ he says, clearly torn between indignation and sympathy. ‘He’s
obviously upset, but really.’

‘Well,’ I shrug. ‘Jamie would do that sometimes if something was getting to him.’

He tuts. ‘It’s not a trait I’d put up with. Anyway, Sam, I need to talk to you.’

I feel my heartbeat double in speed, but it turns out that the impending revelation is absolutely nothing to do with me, Jamie or indeed anyone else but Luke.

‘I’m in love,’ he declares, like a bewildered puppy.

‘You are joking.’

‘I’m not,’ he says, grabbing a pack of gum. ‘It’s bloody terrifying.’

I scrunch up my nose. ‘Why the fear? I thought all you wanted was – and I quote – “to settle down and find someone special”.’

‘I do,’ he protests. ‘But I have no idea if she feels the same way.’

‘Have you told her you love her?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘I texted her at half past two on Saturday night, after I’d had a skin full.’

I roll my eyes. ‘How romantic. What did she say?’

‘That I was a knobhead.’

I snigger. ‘Sounds like my sort of woman.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be a good listener. The thing is, she’s friends with a woman I once went out with. Well, two, actually. So she knows about my . . . you know . .
.’

‘Sordid past?’

He frowns. ‘The point is that she’s wary. Even though she has no reason to be. I’m interested in nobody but her. I haven’t looked at another woman. In all honesty,
I’m worried about myself.’

‘Luke, you’ll just have to play it by ear and see how things develop. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,’ I tell him sagely, feeling like Yoda addressing Luke
Skywalker.

I’m heading back to my car when a text arrives from Jamie.

I smile and take a deep breath. This is his fourth since last night. Which – along with Lisa and Luke’s feedback – brings me to one conclusion about the
prospect of more dates with Ben: they can only be a good thing.

So when one of his emails ends with him asking me out again, I don’t hesitate to say yes.

Date number three is at the Taverna, a romantic shabby-chic place in south Liverpool. It’s perfect – except for a small point: we don’t bump into Jamie.

Date four is lunch at Tabac, an arty coffee-shop-cum-bar filled with people putting the world to rights. It’s also perfect – except we don’t bump into Jamie.

Date five is at 3345 next to the Parr Street studios, a second home to musicians and, again, perfect – except we don’t bump into Jamie.

This is despite the fact that these venues are Jamie’s favourite spots, places he’s virtually lived in for the last few years. I’m not saying I expected to see him every time,
but I didn’t think once was asking too much.

Even on date six, when I casually suggest a stroll in the park and we detour past Luke’s house (whoops-a-daisy, how did that happen?), he’s nowhere to be seen.

Short of suggesting that the next date takes place in the entrance of Phones-A-Go-Go, I’m at a loss.

Still, I persevere. Although ‘persevere’ is the wrong word because seeing Ben is about as far from the definition of a chore as you could get. He is lovely. This is a conclusion I
came to early on and it is reinforced every time I see him. I find it hard to stop myself from telling him this and yet I must. However, I’m conscious that keeping my thoughts a secret is not
only a terrible travesty, but it must also raise questions in Ben’s mind.

Not least, why we haven’t kissed yet. On the couple of occasions he’s attempted it, I’ve pretended not to notice; instead, I peck him on the cheek and hastily move on to
something else. Giving into it would be a step too far, given how badly I still want Jamie back. But it’s an odd situation, I can’t deny it, and I’m aware that it’s
ultimately not sustainable.

Date seven is at a bar in the Albert Dock because I heard from Luke, who is now emailing regularly for romantic advice, that Jamie has gone to a gig tonight at the arena next door. He’s
only there for the support act, who’ve apparently kept it more real than the band everyone else is there to see.

I have positioned us at an area of the bar with a panoramic view of the entrance. The prime location means I am quite prepared to live with a defective stool boasting one leg shorter than the
others; it’s a fault that’s left me rocking from side to side as if I’m on a playground ride.

But Jamie has singularly failed to turn up for a pre-concert drink.

‘So what’s the deal between you and me, Samantha Brooks?’ asks Ben.

The door pushes open and someone wearing a jacket that looks like Jamie’s makes his way in. My heart loops the loop . . . until I realize he’s thirty-five years older and sporting a
toupee that looks as if it crawled into place.

‘Hmm?’ I say, snapping out of it.

‘The deal. Between you and me.’ His eyes are glinting mischievously.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, sipping my drink. ‘What deal?’

He grins and crosses his arms. ‘Well, both of us presumably went on that website to find someone with whom we had . . . chemistry.’

‘Er . . . yes.’

‘So have we got chemistry?’

I ponder the question. ‘I think we have. That’s a funny thing to ask, though,’ I smile, raising an eyebrow.

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s been a while since I dated, but that sort of analysis is meant to be a woman’s domain, isn’t it?’ I tease, rocking back on my stool.

‘I’ll admit it’s a new one for me. Then may I ask another question . . . if it’s not too personal?’ It might sound as though he’s going to quiz me about
something deep, but it’s said so light-heartedly that I’m convinced he’s about to tell a joke.

‘Ask away!’ I whisper, grinning as I rock forward.

‘I will!’ he responds with a laugh. Then he stops laughing. The light gives Ben’s skin a warm glow and as his eyes gaze into mine it strikes me how badly I wish Jamie was here.
To see a man like this looking into my eyes . . . it would’ve sealed the deal.

‘Is there a reason we haven’t kissed?’

I rock backwards on my chair leg, but so violently this time that the stool decides it’s going with me. Momentum gathers as I plunge back with Bugs Bunny eyes, squawking like a strangled
flamingo.

As Ben dives forward in slow motion and grabs me by the hand, the stool clatters to the ground. Were karma on my side, I would no doubt bounce up daintily into the safety of his arms, completely
retaining my dignity.

Instead, I drag him on top of me until we’re scrambling in a heap on the floor as though we’re taking part in a hideous, bastardized version of
Total Wipeout
. My skirt has
bunched round my thighs and Ben attempts to avert his eyes. Unlike the barman. He gazes lazily at us while polishing a wine glass as if contemplating some sort of modern art installation.

‘Yet another beautiful response,’ mutters Ben, getting to his feet and helping me up. ‘I’d better give up on you, hadn’t I?’ he adds.

‘No!’ I leap in.

‘Oh Sam, I know when to throw in the towel.’ He swaps stools to give me his, clearly considering me not sufficiently responsible to be left in charge of the wobbly one.

‘Don’t throw in the towel,’ I add, panicking. ‘I mean it. The towel should stay where it is. Very much so.’

He looks serious. ‘But . . . where is the towel?’

I swallow, desperately thinking of something to say – or do.

I know there’s only one option. With adrenalin racing through my veins, I stand up slowly, brush down my skirt and tentatively move towards him until I’m so close I can feel the
warmth of his breath on my face.

This man, who could probably have his pick of women, shows a rare flicker of vulnerability. He doesn’t move, not even an inch, while, exhilarated and terrified, my face draws towards
his.

‘The towel,’ I whisper, ‘is here.’

Before our lips touch, all I can think of is the fact that this will be the first time I’ve kissed a man other than Jamie in six years – and I’ve forgotten how. I’m
suddenly a teenager in a woman’s body. I’m consumed with insecurities about what to do with my tongue . . . where to put my hands . . . whether to close my eyes.

As his mouth presses against my trembling lips, those thoughts melt away. I’m instantly lost in the kiss, the sublime sensation of his tongue brushing mine, the strength in his hand as it
presses against the small of my back, pulling me into him. I’m completely oblivious to onlookers. My heartbeat fills the room as his mouth explores mine. Blood rushes through my veins,
leaving me tingling with feelings I’d forgotten existed.

When I eventually pull away, I am elated, reeling, a little bit overwhelmed.

‘Hey . . . okay?’ he smiles, his warm fingers wrapping around my hand.

I can only manage to nod and breathe: ‘Okay.’

And it strikes me that my quest to win back Jamie isn’t all hard work, after all.

Kissing is all I’m ever going to do with Ben, but I still feel guilty. Even though I’m technically doing nothing wrong, I can’t shake the feeling of betrayal.
Because, while I’m fully aware that kissing is not sex, I’d forgotten how intimate it can be. It can blow your mind if you let it, and cause sensations that I’m finding all the
more intense because it has been so long since I did it with anyone but Jamie.

It’s with these thoughts uppermost in my mind that I prepare lunch at my house for Ben and myself on Saturday, although I’m still tingling from the glorious, mind-blowing kiss he
gave me the second he walked in the door.

It isn’t the first time Ben’s been to the house. We ended up back here after our last date, and on that occasion, between the drinks and conversation, he methodically worked his way
round the house, fixing all those bits and bobs I’ve never got round to fixing. I was torn between disbelief, gratitude and amusement.

The cabinet door is now perfect. The wonky shelf in the living room is now straight. The curtain rail I’ve been meaning to put up is secured with screws, rather than Blu-Tack. I never
asked him to do this; but, since he offered, I felt as if only a masochist would say, ‘Oh don’t worry. I love the wobbly headboard that gives me concussion every time I lie
down.’

Today, he’s sorting out the spotlights in the kitchen as I put together a salad.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind doing that?’ I ask, frowning, when he steps down from the ladder.

He brushes his hands and moves towards me, taking me in his arms and gently kissing my lips, sending ripples of pleasure down my spine.

‘Of course not. Why would I?’

His lips sink onto mine again, making my breath quicken and my body melt into his. While I know Ben isn’t pressurizing me to go further, desire seeps from his every pore. I have an
undercurrent of concern that this can only go on so long. So I decide to introduce one or two excuses.

‘Where did you go to school, Ben? I don’t think I’ve ever asked,’ I say idly, as I prise myself away from him and toss tomatoes into the salad bowl.

‘Oh just the local comp.’

‘I went to a church school,’ I announce meaningfully. ‘A super-strict one. Strictness is a good thing in my book. It’s certainly played a big part in shaping my
values.’

‘Right,’ he says casually. He’s wearing a checked shirt and jeans that make his bum look like it should be framed and hung in the National Gallery. ‘Good for
you.’

I add some dressing to the salad. ‘I’m not a religious nut or anything – just old-fashioned about certain things. Very old-fashioned.’

‘I see. What sort of things?’

‘Well,’ I swallow, turning back to concentrate on the rocket leaves. ‘Mainly . . . sex.’

He coughs. ‘Sex?’

‘Mmm. Yep,’ I reply brightly.

‘I see.’ Without even looking, I can tell he’s smirking. ‘So what are you saying? You think sex is evil?’

I straighten my back and turn around, still unable to meet his eyes. ‘Not between a loving and committed couple, obviously. But I think it’s important to wait a while.’

Despite the enthusiasm with which I slip into the role of Ms Pro-Chastity, it’s not an image that those who knew me at university would recognize. I’m not saying I’ve slept
with loads of people. Fewer than Ellie and Jen by a long way – though, admittedly, Jen would have the sex life of a Trappist monk if she always waited until the fifth date.

But I can’t claim that before Jamie was on the scene I had a will of iron on this front. When I met someone for whom I had the almighty hots, all it might take was four bottles of
Budweiser before my determination to keep it zipped up would disappear quicker than an ice cube in a cup of Ovaltine. To listen to me now, you’d think I’d never been near a set of man
bits in my life. Not that Ben needs to know the truth. He can’t.

‘Well . . . I think waiting a while’s fine too,’ Ben says, taking a sip of tea. ‘But I don’t think it makes anyone who doesn’t a bad person. As long as
they’re doing it safely.’

‘Agreed. I’d never judge anyone. These are just personal choices. My personal choices.’ I turn my back on him and open a drawer to take out some cutlery.