All the Single Ladies (26 page)

‘So . . . how do you feel about me kissing you?’ He’s suddenly behind me with his arms round my waist, his still-hot lips tenderly making their way up the back of my neck as he
presses his body against mine.

What I feel couldn’t be clearer. What I feel is this: outrageously horny.

But given that I’ve just delivered a speech that gives the impression I have a wardrobe full of chastity belts upstairs, I can hardly let him know. I turn round and let him melt into me.
‘Um . . . absolutely fine with that,’ I manage, as his mouth devours mine and I fight a growing desire for him to lift up my skirt and continue this kissing session on my inner
thighs.

Fortunately, I’m saved by the bell. Well, not quite the bell – but my mobile phone, whose ringtone makes me leap out of Ben’s arms.

I pick it up and see Jamie’s number.

‘Give me a minute,’ I mumble, scurrying to the next room as I answer it. I shut the door behind me and try to sound natural. ‘Jamie, how are you?’

‘Hi! Great, thanks,’ he replies. ‘Listen, I’ll be driving past in five minutes and wanted to stop by and get some sheet music for my guitar. You haven’t thrown it
away, have you?’

‘Of course not,’ I reply in a hushed tone. ‘Does it have to be now?’

I know I’d wanted Jamie to think I had a new man on the scene, but seeing him at our house is a step too far, surely? The only conclusion he’ll come to is that I’m sleeping
with Ben – and given that I’ve gone to the trouble of abstaining, that’s not an impression I want to give.

‘I’m on the way to a practice session with the band and need to get some, that’s all. Why? Are you . . . busy?’ He emphasizes the word ‘busy’ to make it clear
that we both know what he’s implying.

‘I am slightly . . . busy,’ I reply, deliberately vague. ‘But if you just want me to have it ready for you . . .’

‘I won’t stay.’ His voice is tinged with sulkiness and suspicion. ‘I’m only round the corner, so if you could have it ready I’d appreciate it.’

When I put down the phone, I haven’t even got time to politely keep Ben abreast of developments. I simply race upstairs to get the music – and to check my make-up is in tact.

The doorbell rings as I’m racing down and, before I can pause to think, I fling the door wide open.

Jamie’s expression is thunderous as he takes the music from my hand. ‘I won’t stop,’ he says, glancing over my shoulder. The wine Ben brought is on the table with two
glasses and a bowl of olives sitting significantly next to it.

‘Probably best not,’ I tell him, biting my lip.

Tension hovers in the air before he backs away, looking distraught. For a split second, I’m not even thinking about the fact that I have another man in my kitchen, a man who’s about
to demolish my salade niçoise before smooching with me for the rest of the afternoon. I only want to run after Jamie and say, ‘It’s not what you think. This is all for you!
It’s you I want, for God’s sake!’

Then I remind myself that he knows where I am if he wants me. He knows all he has to do is say the word – and I’ll drop everything and be his again.

He knows all that and yet he still backs away down the path, albeit looking like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘So did Jamie not see Ben at all?’ asks Ellie, swiping a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.

We’re at a corporate networking event the following Monday at the Tate Gallery in the Albert Dock. The room is a vast white space housing modern art that’s being idly gazed upon by
the top team at DLB Harrow law firm – my clients – and their clients.

The evening is going smoothly, especially since no one heard Deana complaining that my request for her to remove her Hubba Bubba amounted to a breach of her human rights.

‘No, but he knew he was there,’ I reply. ‘Ben’s car was parked outside and Jamie could see the wine and olives on the living-room table.’

‘Olives? Ooh. Dead giveaway. That must’ve hurt.’

‘Hey, go easy on that champers, will you?’ I tell her. Ellie only stopped in on her way home from a course in the city centre; I hadn’t counted on her helping herself to half
the drinks list. ‘It’s not me paying.’

‘Oh don’t be such a spoilsport,’ she tuts, taking a large mouthful. ‘Anyway, I need a drink. The new class of GCSE students I’ve been assigned are an absolute
nightmare. They’d drive anyone to alcoholism. Besides, I’m a valid person for DLV Barrow lawyers to network with, aren’t I? If I need a lawyer in the future they’ll be my
first port of call.’

‘DLB Harrow,’ I correct her. ‘And as for you being a potential customer . . . they only deal with big multinational companies or private individuals with more spare cash than
the average Russian oligarch.’

‘I’ll buy a lottery ticket this weekend, then,’ she winks. ‘So isn’t Ben beginning to suspect anything?’

I’m about to say no, but pause and think back to the date. He did seem a little on edge afterwards, though not for any reason I can put my finger on. ‘Hmm. I don’t
know.’

‘And what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Are you not getting attached to Ben?’

‘God, no,’ I splutter. ‘He’s a lovely guy and one hell of a kisser. But, no. I know who the love of my life is and that isn’t going to change, even if it remains
unrequited for the rest of my days.’

Ellie screws up her face. ‘There’s nothing big and clever about unrequited love, Sam. It only makes a woman feel shit about herself. There comes a time when you’ve just got to
get over it.’

I tut. ‘Well, we’re far from there yet in Jamie’s case.’

She touches my arm. ‘I know, sweetheart. And from what you say, he’s coming closer to realizing what a terrible mistake he’s made. But . . .’

‘What?’

‘When I suggested this thing in the first place, I rather thought he’d have his grand realization a bit sooner. The fact that he hasn’t . . . I’ve got to be honest, Sam.
I’m starting to think that maybe you ought to cut your losses.’

‘Ellie,’ I hiss, disbelievingly. ‘This is not some bloke I’ve been dating for a few weeks. This is Jamie. The man I want to spend the rest of my life with. He’s not
that disposable, I’m afraid. Besides, lots of couples have periods apart and get back together. It makes them stronger. Look at Prince William and Kate. He dumped her for a few months and now
look at them. It made him realize what he’d lost. I’m only looking to bag Jamie, not the future heir to the throne.’

‘You’re right,’ she nods. ‘It does happen. I’m sorry, gorgeous, but I’ve only got your best interests at heart.’

I know this is true, of course. Ellie is the best friend anyone could ask for, which is probably why I say nothing when she proceeds to get comprehensively sloshed and falls down the stairs in
full view of DLB Harrow’s managing partner.

Nevertheless, the following day, when I’m at the dentist waiting to have a filling, I can’t help pondering my friend’s words about Jamie – and wishing she hadn’t
uttered them. My grim mood isn’t helped by my location, of course. I’m not good with dentists. I can tell myself till I’m purple in the face that it isn’t going to hurt (and
it never actually has, unless you count the near-shattering of my knuckles from gripping the chair). But the musty whiff of freshly drilled enamel is enough to set my heart flapping so hard
I’m convinced I’ll hover ten inches off the chair one day.

I pick up a three-year-old glossy magazine and marvel at its longevity, despite being thumbed by hundreds of anxious patients trying to take their mind off the tasty injection of local
anaesthetic they’re about to be served.

The magazine features a health special, with a ‘well-being’ quiz designed to ascertain what shape you’re in. Judging by my results, it’s amazing that I’m still
alive.

My trans-fat levels from all the ready meals I’ve consumed – even in these post-Jamie days – should by rights have left me as one giant walking blob of cellulite, unable to
make my way through revolving doors or into the seats of budget aircraft.

My brain-boosting Omega 3 is so low it’s a wonder I scraped a single GCSE, and – tsk! – I’ve never even had a colonic irrigation. How my bum’s still functioning
I’ll never know.

Fortunately, I’m not classed as an alcoholic; although what Ellie’s results would be don’t bear thinking about. The woman is unstoppable. She always has been unstoppable, but
these days she can’t go near a glass of wine without instigating a full-scale party.

‘Miss Brooks.’ The dental nurse is in her mid-forties with an air of Norman Bates, which has done nothing to put me at ease. I’m about to stand to meet my fate, when my mobile
rings.

‘Hey, Sam. It’s Ben.’

‘Hi, there! I can’t really talk at the moment.’

‘I’ll be quick. I know this is short notice, but I wondered if I could return the favour and invite you for lunch today. I’ve taken a day off and you said you were planning to
go home after the dentist because you’re owed so much lieu time.’

Mrs Bates taps her foot impatiently. ‘If you come over when you’re done,’ he continues, ‘we could go out to get some supplies, then I’ll impress you with my
culinary skills.’

‘Oh Ben, it’s lovely of you to offer—’

I’m about to refuse because I’ve got a lot on today; even though I had planned to go home, it was to catch up on a mountain of paperwork.

Then something strikes me. Jamie does his shopping at the supermarket on Allerton Road every Tuesday. It’s his day off for working at the weekend and this is literally the one and only
element of routine in his otherwise unpredictable leisure time. I haven’t had a text from him since the other day, and I realize this could be my big opportunity because, ultimately, having
Ben around is pointless unless Jamie sees a little more of me with him.

The only time he laid eyes on him was in the pub – and he could have come to the conclusion that it was a meaningless fling. The fact that it
is
a meaningless fling is irrelevant.
Jamie needs to be reminded that he has competition.

‘Ben, that’d be great,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll be over in an hour.’

When I arrive at Ben’s apartment, I’m slightly late, having made a brief detour home to grab some make-up and sort out my hair, which was in danger of having a
flock of baby eagles setting up home in it.

I’m looking as I always try to appear these days: hot and happy. I read that that’s the look Victoria Beckham advises any woman to master when times get tough. I’m fully aware
that, technically, Posh Spice isn’t really up there with the world’s great philosophical gurus, but on this particular issue I think she’s one hundred per cent right.

The only problem, however, is that, following my anaesthetic, my face is temporarily as wonky as a three-wheeled shopping trolley. When I attempt to smile, or talk or do anything involving my
mouth, one side stays put.

Which means that, despite the carefully applied foundation, skinny jeans and on-trend boots, I’m not looking nearly as hot or as happy as I’d like.

‘I’ll come down to you and we’ll go straight off,’ says Ben into his intercom, while I stand in the foyer of the apartment block he calls home. He arrives thirty seconds
later looking gorgeous – in jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a Berghaus gilet that makes him look fantastically outdoorsy.

‘Hello, there,’ he says when he appears, kissing me on the lips. This would undoubtedly be pleasurable if I could feel them. He pulls back and looks at me, registering. ‘Oh.
You okay?’

I hold up my hand to my mouth self-consciously. ‘Had a filling. I’ll be back to normal in the next hour or two.’

‘Okay,’ he smiles, taking me by the hand as we head to the car. ‘Let’s go and get this food.’

When we pull into the supermarket car park, I scan my surroundings. While Jamie always comes to this place on a Tuesday morning, narrowing it down any further isn’t easy. There is a window
of several hours and, despite my world-class talent for shopping, even I’d struggle to stretch out a trip to Tesco that long. So I’m hoping and praying that, for once, luck might be on
my side.

As we push the trolley round the store, Ben picks up a variety of foodstuffs: bits and bobs from the deli, a walnut loaf, olive oil. But I can’t concentrate on the food. All I can
concentrate on is scanning the aisles for Jamie. Except, by the time Ben’s finished his shopping, he still isn’t here.

‘Do you mind if we look at the books? I’ve finished the one I’m reading and need a new one.’

In fact, the collection of unread books on my bedside table is vast. I have good intentions with my reading material. I see a book, read the blurb and know I’ll love it . . . then never
quite get round to opening more than about forty per cent of the ones I buy.

I promised myself recently that I’d stop purchasing so many new ones until I’d read those I already own – but that resolution is irrelevant in this context. The only issue is
that the books section is at the front of the store, with a grandstand view of the entrance.

I flick through the new Jackie Collins, or pretend to, while Ben looks at the new Lee Child. Then I move on to a Paige Toon novel, glancing anxiously at the door. After ten minutes, Ben appears
at my side.

‘Anything take your fancy?’

‘Oooh. Spoiled for choice. Can I have a couple more minutes?’

‘Sure – take your time.’

But, as I return the paperback to the shelf and pick up another, something catches my eye and I glance up, drawing a breath.

It’s Jamie, pushing a trolley. And heading directly towards us.

I’m frozen to the spot as Jamie sails past us, heading towards the toiletries. I can’t make it obvious that I’m following him; this must be done with the
subtlety and stealth of a preying jaguar.

‘I need a pumice stone!’ I announce, flinging the paperback onto the shelf.

Ben looks at me as if I have Tourette’s.

‘This way!’ I hoot, grabbing the end of his trolley and thundering up the aisle, past the DVDs, vases and mops.

My heart is break-dancing around my ribcage as I approach the toiletries aisle. I take a deep breath and head round the corner. Except – Jamie isn’t there!