All the Single Ladies (29 page)

I type the question into my laptop early on Saturday evening before Jen and Ellie arrive for a girls’ night in.

Ben and I have been chatting online most nights since we made friends again last week. I’ve confessed everything to him about my strategy to win Jamie back. It was the only way. And
he’s been totally understanding. Instead of getting annoyed at me for the part I forced him to play in it, he’s accepted my – truthful – reassurances that there was more to
it than that. I told him that I genuinely enjoyed his company and I genuinely saw him as my friend. And that’s something I’d love him to still be.

I pop to the kitchen briefly, and when I return there’s a new reply from Ben.

There’s a pause.

I roll my eyes and continue reading.

I bite my lip and start typing.

I sit up and take a sip of wine.

I burst out laughing.

I grin.

I smile to myself.

‘Goodnight, my friend,’ I say out loud as I close down the chat box. It’s at the exact second that his picture disappears that I am assaulted by a vivid flashback of
Ben’s kisses as we sat in that noisy bar. His mouth is pressed against mine, his tongue brushing my lips and gently pushing into my mouth. It sends a rush of butterflies through my insides
and I groan, momentarily giving in to the pleasure.

I shake my head and take a deep breath.

‘This is what celibacy does to a girl,’ I scold myself. ‘Get a grip, Sam.’

Ellie and Jen arrive together twenty minutes later, having shared a taxi. Ellie enters first, in stripy tights, a tiny miniskirt – and with two bottles of wine.

‘Good God, Ellie! This is meant to be just a quiet night in,’ I laugh.

‘It’s been a tough week,’ she grins. ‘Believe me, I’ll have finished both of those single-handedly by about nine o’clock.’

I pop to the kitchen for nibbles and wine glasses, and when I return she’s enquiring about Jen’s paediatrician – the one without the muscles. The absence of Jen’s usual
physiological requirement does nothing to dampen our friend’s enthusiasm. ‘He. Is. Gorgeous. Nothing less. You’d so approve.’

‘So what’s happening?’ asks Ellie, munching on a Kettle Chip. ‘Fill us in.’

‘What’s happening is . . . bugger all!’ she replies, exasperated. ‘We go for coffee, we sit next to each other in the cafeteria, we chat in the staff room. That’s
it! And the reason is that, having read
Make Him Fall for You
, I daren’t text him, contact him, or do anything that could be construed as neediness. I can’t bloody move without
thinking I’ve broken the rules.’

‘I’m not sure I’d go along with this book,’ I say sceptically.

Ellie throws me a look. ‘It’s working, isn’t it?’

‘It’s
not
working! He hasn’t asked me out!’ cries Jen.

‘He will,’ says Ellie confidently. ‘In the meantime, he’s buying you coffee, going for lunch, seeking you out. Normally after – what? – three weeks of knowing
someone, by now you’d have asked them out, slept with them and they’d have moved on to someone else.’

‘Well, that’s a bit harsh,’ tuts Jen. ‘Completely true, but harsh.’

Ellie leans over and hugs her. ‘Sorry, gorgeous. You know I think they’re crazy to let you go.’

‘No, you’re right,’ Jen sighs. ‘Actually, I can’t believe what I was like before. I’m embarrassed for myself. But, no more. I’ve seen the
light.’

‘You’re doing the right thing,’ says Ellie. ‘Give him some space.’

‘I had the same advice today, funnily enough,’ I tell her.

‘Oh,’ she replies. ‘Who from?’

I fill them in on some of my conversation with Ben – specifically, his advice about what my next move should be.

‘Your lover knows what he’s talking about,’ says Ellie.

‘Not my lover,’ I wince. ‘We never . . . you know. Now he’s my friend.’

‘Whatever,’ she shrugs. ‘I think he might be on to something.’

With those words ringing in my brain, a thought engulfs me, and it’s difficult to continue with the rest of our evening until it’s been addressed.

So, with my two best friends tucking into snacks, and, in Ellie’s case, so much wine I’ll be surprised if she remembers her own name by the time the night’s out, I decide I
am
going to address it. I pick up my phone, excuse myself and wander through to the hall. And I dial Jamie’s number.

I arrange to meet Jamie the next morning at a cafe on Allerton Road, but he phones to say he’ll come to the house instead. He’s rehearsing in the afternoon and
doesn’t want to traipse round with his guitar, which to him is the equivalent of a Ming vase.

He arrives twenty minutes late, but that doesn’t faze me. Not this time.

There’s been a subtle but distinct shift in my attitude since Ben gave me his advice. My head is clear and unclouded. And for the first time since I embarked on this process I feel a tiny
sense of . . . que sera sera. I need to let fate take its course.

All I can do is state my case and leave him to it. It’s his turn now to grapple with this issue and come to a decision. I can only pray that it’s the right one.

When he arrives on the doorstep and I let him in, it strikes me how it feels wrong for him to be ringing the bell of a house that was his for so long. We never owned it together, but it was
still as much his home as mine.

He steps through the door uncertainly and kisses me on the cheek. We say our hellos and he makes his way into the living room while I go to the kitchen to make us a cup of tea.

As I’m about to return, music stops me in my tracks. Jamie is playing his guitar. I close my eyes and momentarily lose myself in the music. It’s a track by one of his favourite
bands: the Vomiting Giraffes. They’re an ensemble that have never been famous and are never likely to be, unless pretentious crap ever becomes fashionable.

Jamie’s version is even more off-key than the original, if I’m entirely honest. But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s not perfect, but it’s Jamie. And
it’s a sound that belongs in this house.

He stops when I walk in. ‘You wanted to have a chat?’

‘Yes,’ I say, taking a seat.

‘It’s about the guy you’ve been seeing, isn’t it?’ I realize his lip is trembling.

‘Sort of.’

‘It’s too late for me, isn’t it? That’s what you want to tell me. I knew it the second I saw you in the supermarket. I could see the way he was looking at you.’

‘We’re not together any more,’ I reply calmly, thinking how good it feels to be telling the truth for once.

He looks at me as if he is holding his breath. ‘Really?’

‘Really. Jamie . . . there are just over two months until you’re supposed to fly out. I’ll be straight with you. I want you back. No more games. I want you back for all the
reasons I told you in the first place.’

I put down my tea and walk over to where he sits on the sofa, on the other side of the coffee table. But I don’t kiss him. I simply hold his hand and look at him directly.

‘You told me once that you and I would be together for ever. You told me that because you believed it. I believed it too. In fact, Jamie, I still do. But I can’t wait around for
ever. I’m a survivor, Jamie, and if you’re going to do this, if you’re going to leave, then so be it. But I need to know one way or the other.’

‘The thing is—’

‘Wait,’ I say gently. ‘Don’t answer now, Jamie. Just think. Give it a couple of days . . . a week. But you need to come to a decision.’

He pauses and nods.

‘As long as you come to the right one, obviously,’ I tease gently.

He looks into my eyes. ‘That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.’

Dr Dan has asked Jen out to dinner. You would think he’d asked her to shack up in a spacious home in Cheshire complete with babies, swimming pool and view of the Welsh
hills.

‘God, I’m so nervous!’ she shrieks down the phone as I arrive home from work on Friday.

‘I thought you’d been on so many dates you didn’t get nervous any more?’

‘That’s before I read
Make Him Fall for You
. The rules are different now. I can’t sleep with him, for a start. Which is a total bloody drag, let me tell you. I’m
nearly climbing the walls.’

‘It hasn’t been that long since you last . . . you know.’

‘Long enough. I also can’t talk about certain things. Like “the future”. Or my previous break-ups. Or his. Or whether I want kids. Or whether he wants kids.
Or—’

‘What are you going to talk about? You’ll have exhausted the weather in the first ten seconds.’

‘I’ve made a list. So far, I’ve got the political situation in Pakistan, NHS funding cuts, the new Kings of Leon album, football—’

‘You hate football,’ I tell her.

‘So?’

‘So you know nothing about it. And knowing something about it tends to be a prerequisite of making it central to your conversation.’

‘Oh I’ll just ask him what he thinks about the top of the Premiership at the moment and let him go. In my experience men can waffle on for hours about that.’

‘That’s hardly going to be much fun for you. Plus, what if he asks you what you think about it?’

‘I’ll nod and tell him I agree wholeheartedly with whatever he said. Anyway, I’m not too worried because it isn’t really a first date: I’ve been for coffee with him
dozens of times . . .’

Jen is midway through her sentence when my lights start flickering like I’m in a scene from
Poltergeist
. Then they go out entirely.

‘Are you still there?’ she asks.

‘Yeah. But there’s a power cut.’

‘Oh I heard on the news tonight that some of south Liverpool is affected by that. It should only be temporary.’ The lights flicker back on. ‘What are you up to tonight?’
she asks.

‘Ben’s coming over. I’m cooking dinner. At least, I am if the electricity stays on.’

She pauses. ‘I thought it was all over with him?’

‘It is. But he’s become a friend.’

‘Well, good for you. Right, have a lovely evening. Not as lovely as mine – hopefully! – but lovely all the same.’

The reason I’m particularly glad of some company is that, since Jamie left the house last Sunday morning, I’ve been consumed by the question of what he’s
going to do. Of what he’s thinking and feeling. Of how much I wish he’d get a move on. I keep telling myself I need to stop obsessing about this, but it’s easier said than
done.

When Ben arrives at seven thirty, I feel strangely nervous. We’re both totally clear that our relationship is nothing but platonic now. But although we’ve chatted loads online, we
haven’t seen each other in the flesh or spoken on the phone since the day in the supermarket. The day I’d rather forget.

The second I open the door, however, I’m instantly at ease, thanks to his familiar, generous smile – and the bouquet of flowers he produces from behind his back.

‘What are these for?’ I laugh incredulously, taking them as he kisses me on the cheek. They’re gorgeous and a million per cent nicer than my normal supermarket bunches, without
being remotely flashy. Just a tasteful, generous and utterly lovely arrangement of gerberas.

‘Well, you’re cooking – and it was technically my turn.’

I roll my eyes and squirm. ‘Given that it was my fault that “your turn” never took place, I’ll let you off. Thank you, anyway.’

‘I wonder what happened to our trolley of food?’ he muses as he enters the living room and sits on the sofa.

‘It was still there weeks later. I went to pick it up today. That’s what you’re having for dinner: mouldy olives and walnut bread you could break a window with.’

As he laughs, I find myself momentarily rooted to the spot.

I’d forgotten how handsome Ben is. But it’s more than that. His features are a blaze of contradictions: strong, masculine bone structure; gentle, kind eyes.

‘Nice picture,’ he says, nodding at the wall. ‘Is it new?’

I put the New York picture back up yesterday. The wall looked empty without it – a fact that’s been nagging at me since the day I slid it under my spare bed. Plus, there’s a
part of me that thought: if Jamie doesn’t like this, I can have that debate with him if he moves back in. Until then, he relinquishes all say over my home furnishings.