All the Single Ladies (36 page)

‘No! God, no . . . Look,’ he says, holding up his hands and clearly not wanting to go down this route. ‘I know I was at fault for an awful lot. I know that. But . . .
let’s not apportion blame. Please. I’m simply saying that things weren’t as great after six years as they were in the beginning.’

I gaze into the middle distance. He’s right, of course. Things weren’t like they were at the start. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other. We had a few rows.
But the odd disagreement doesn’t change how good a couple are together. Rowing is normal.

‘Jamie, we had our ups and downs. But I never even looked at another man. Never. Unlike you.’ I realize what I’ve said. ‘Not another man, obviously. I meant another
woman.’

‘I know what you meant.’

He looks at me as if this is the most difficult confession of his life. ‘Dorrie and I were always close, but until a few weeks before you and I split up, it’d never been anything but
platonic. I promise you.’

‘So what changed?’

He swallows. ‘When things got difficult between us, I suppose I confided in her.’

‘So instead of talking to me about our problems, you went running to another woman.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Oh?’

He closes his eyes and, despite a trembling lip, tries to compose himself. ‘Not at the beginning. It was just that . . . being able to talk about it was a release. And she became . . .
easy to be with.’

The word makes me blanch – not only because of the implication that I was the opposite, but also because it hurls my thoughts briefly to Ben. To how I feel about him. ‘Go on,’
I insist.

‘Somewhere along the way, my feelings for her became confused and . . . we did stuff we shouldn’t have. Not just – you know,’ he flashes me a glance.

‘Yes, I know, Jamie,’ I reply with a steely glare.

‘I mean,’ he continues, pretending he hasn’t seen me, ‘I mean, planning to go away together. She’d wanted to go to South America for ages, anyway. We weren’t
eloping or anything. She just kind of invited herself.’ He closes his eyes. ‘Look, I’m not blaming Dorrie; I know this was my fault. I was the one in a relationship. But I need
you to believe me when I tell you, Sam, that I knew it was never going to work out with her. I knew I still loved you.’

‘What?’

‘I knew that even before you tried to persuade me to come back.’

I can feel myself trembling, afraid to admit how good this is to hear.

‘Sam . . . you were right. You are the love of my life. Not Dorrie, not anybody else. And while I want more than anything not to be stuck in this shit job, I’m prepared to do it to
be with you.’

He falls to his knees and crawls towards me, reaching for my hand and clasping it so hard my knuckles go white. ‘Sam, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.’ He says each word so firmly it
hurts my ears. ‘I was an idiot. But I went full circle, Sam,’ he adds, his face contorted with emotion. ‘Before I came back to you, I told Dorrie I didn’t want to see her
again. That was my decision. I love you, Sam. You.’

I snatch my hand away from him, unable to take everything in. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that my reaction to the discovery that you dumped me for another woman – that you were
sleeping with someone else and were planning to take her on your grand trip abroad . . . are you really suggesting my reaction should be: “No hard feelings”?’

He shakes his head and stands up, walking to the window and glaring out. I sit in silence. Eventually, he turns to me.

‘You’re right,’ he says flatly. ‘You’re absolutely right. There’s only one way to deal with this, isn’t there?’

I tense my jaw.

‘The only way is for me to leave again. For good, this time.’ Another tear spills down his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so ashamed. You don’t deserve
this.’

I stare at him, totally numb.

‘I’ll pack my bags,’ he whispers and leaves the room.

I cannot move and I cannot say anything. I can do nothing but listen to the sound of him thudding up the stairs. Gathering his belongings. Pausing in the hall for a few brief moments. Opening
and shutting the front door. His footsteps on the garden path fading to silence.

I can do nothing.

I can only sit, alone again, as hot tears spill down my face and pure pain seeps into my heart.

There’s only one person I need right now. Not want, but need.

‘Is Ellie there, Alistair?’ I’m trying not to let him hear how croaky my voice is, despite feeling as if I have a handful of grit in my mouth.

‘Hi, Sam. She’s getting out of the bath. Let me give her a shout.’

He’s gone for more than a minute before he comes back to say, ‘Um . . . Sam. Sorry about this, but she’s tied up. She asked if she could phone you back.’

The urge to cry is overwhelming. I hold the receiver a foot away and am absolutely incapable of stopping the tears. Then I remember I need to finish this call.

‘No problem, Alistair. Thanks.’

I’m about to put down the phone, when Alistair’s voice stops me. ‘Sam?’

The television that was on in the background is no longer audible; he’s moved into a different room.

‘Yes?’

‘Is everything all right between you and Ellie?’

I swallow, not knowing what to say. My mind is swirling with possible responses, the most prominent of which is: No, Alistair, everything is not all right. And by the way, have you noticed that
the mother of your child is an alcoholic?

Instead, I manage a weak: ‘What makes you ask that?’

He hesitates. ‘I don’t know . . . It struck me you hadn’t been round much lately. And Ellie’s been acting a little . . .’

‘What?’

‘Oh it’s nothing. Forget it. Sorry – I’m going to have to go, Sam. I think Sophie’s awake.’

I phone Jen next.

‘Oh God . . . I’m so glad you phoned,’ she says breathlessly before I can start to tell her what’s happened. ‘I can’t stay on for long because I’m at
work and we’ve got a staffing crisis.’

‘What’s up, Jen?’ I ask, almost on autopilot.

‘I’ve got to split up with Dan. It’s the only way.’ I say nothing. ‘Sam . . . are you there?’

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘We went out for dinner last night and he started banging on about how frustrating it was for him to have still not found “the one”. So I came out with it and said,
“Where do I fit into all this?”’

‘Right.’

‘He started squirming and said, “Well, I really like getting together with you and . . . I think you’re wonderful, just wonderful . . . but, well, I like what we’ve got.
You don’t want a big full-on relationship, do you?”’

Jen continues for the next two minutes and she’s clearly upset, but I’m of no comfort. I don’t even get round to interrupting her frantic conversation to tell her what happened
with Jamie.

‘Look, I really do need to go. Is everything all right with you, Sam?’

I’m about to answer, but she interrupts again. ‘Oh God – sorry, honey. There’s an emergency here. And I’m due to see Ellie again tonight. I’m determined to
get her to see sense. I’ll text you if there’s news.’

For the rest of the evening, I feel as if my house is not my own. Nothing is going to mend today. Not a million-pound lottery win. Not a lifetime’s supply of Jimmy Choos.
Not God deciding I can eat as much cake as I want for the rest of my life and never put on weight.

I wander round the house aimlessly, considering possible ways of cheering myself up. But the music on my iPod just hurts my insides and the Galaxy bar in the fridge has never been less
appetizing. I pour a glass of wine, but can’t touch it. I just look at it and think of what it and its kind have done to my best friend.

So I follow an urge that grabbed hold of me the second Jamie walked out of the door and hasn’t left since. I race upstairs to my laptop and, sitting on my bed as I wipe away tears, I
frantically log on. I go straight to Facebook to see if Ben is online – and my heart sinks when he isn’t. I pick up my phone and stare at it, wondering if I should confide in him about
this. This man for whom my feelings remain so complicated.

I am about to press call, when a new status update appears. It says he’s at Panoramic – one of the city’s best restaurants – with Mildred Muldoon.

I frown. Mildred. That’s his elderly cat-owning neighbour, is it not?

As I click on to her profile picture my heart is thrashing. And what I see manages to make me feel even worse than I felt already. Which, frankly, I hadn’t thought possible.

Mildred – who, Ben jokingly said on our first date, ‘might want to marry’ him – is not a seventy-four-year-old, blue-rinsed, varicose-veined pensioner as I had assumed.
Mildred is a twenty-four-year-old pseudo-supermodel, whose public profile boasts no fewer than 372 pictures, not one of which makes her look less than jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Frantically, I flick to Ben’s page, and am confronted by a sentence that hits me like a freight train.

By the time I get to my mum’s, it’s gone ten o’clock, and she opens the door with something in her hand which, on closer inspection, turns out to be a novelty
shoe horn fashioned in the shape of a piece of broccoli.

‘It’s Aunt Jill’s birthday next week and she’s so tricky to buy for. So I got something that I thought would have universal appeal,’ she says, apparently
seriously.

She sits on the sofa and starts wrapping the gift as I plunge into the chair opposite. I close my eyes briefly and wonder if I can actually confide in Mum. It’s not something I’ve
ever done before.

‘Jamie and I have split up again.’ The words tumble out surprisingly easily. ‘I haven’t told anyone yet.’

I wait for her to respond with the ‘all men are bastards except your father’ speech. Except it isn’t forthcoming. Instead, she stands up silently and walks towards me, perching
on the arm of the chair and pulling my head to her chest.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ she whispers, rubbing my back. ‘I really am.’

I pull back and take in the look on her face. The concern, empathy, unconditional love. I feel suddenly and significantly better.

‘What happened?’

I fill her in on the details and she listens calmly, offering the occasional word of support and advice. After everything else tonight, it feels low-key, undramatic – and exactly what I
need.

‘Stay here tonight, if you like,’ she tells me.

I smile. ‘I might take you up on that.’

‘Good, because—’

She’s interrupted by the sound of a key in the door, and I compose myself, expecting it to be Dad back from the pub. It isn’t Dad, though; it’s Julia.

In every other way but one she looks her usual self: stylishly dressed, beautifully made-up. But when she enters the room this evening she almost skulks. It’s so unlike her usual elegance
that it changes her entire demeanour, and reminds me of how miserable she’s looked since the news that her birth mum wants nothing to do with her.

Mum straightens up. ‘Is everything all right, Julia?’

‘Just thought I’d stop and say hello on my way home from tonight’s concert,’ she replies. ‘What are you doing here, Sam?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ I ask.

I don’t know what it is about the way I repeat the story, but Julia’s reaction is unbelievably emotional. She wipes away a tear and throws her arms around me, then beckons Mum to
join in. It’s like a rugby scrum, but with less mud and more oestrogen.

‘Look,’ says Julia, her lip trembling. ‘No matter what happens, we’ve got each other.’

‘That’s the corniest thing you’ve ever said,’ I reply. ‘But totally true.’

‘If Jamie doesn’t want you, Sam, that’s his loss. That’s what I’ve told myself about my birth mother,’ she adds. Now I realize what’s eating her.
‘The more I think about the outright “no” I got from her, the more I fail to comprehend what sort of woman she must be. I’m better off without her.’

Mum pulls away and goes to sit on the sofa. Julia follows and sits next to her, squeezing her hand.

‘Mum,’ she continues. ‘I’m so sorry for everything I put you through. The rejection – from my own mother – has totally reinforced what I’ve got with
you. I can’t imagine why any woman would want nothing to do with her daughter, can you?’

I am struck by a sensation that this animosity towards a woman she’s never met isn’t doing Julia any good at all.

‘Maybe she has her reasons,’ I say weakly.

‘Like what?’ she replies, agitated. ‘There’s no good reason.’ A tear comes from nowhere and slides down her cheek. ‘I swing between telling myself it
doesn’t matter . . . and feeling, I’ll be honest, awful. About my mum. About me. About what I could possibly have done to her. About why after, all these years, she can’t bring
herself to even say hello.’

She turns to me again, and I’ve never seen her so upset.

‘Does she hate me or something? I’m coming to the conclusion that she must.’

The silence is suddenly so oppressive that, when Mum breaks it, her words almost echo off the walls. ‘She doesn’t hate you.’

Julia whips round her head to glare at her. ‘What?’

Mum’s jaw tightens. ‘She doesn’t hate you.’

Julia’s eyes are blazing. ‘You know who she is, don’t you? You know.’

Mum looks away and stares into the middle distance, shaking her head. But she isn’t denying Julia’s question. She simply has no idea what to do or say – and, clearly, neither
does my sister.

‘Mum,’ I say insistently. ‘Do you know who Julia’s mother is?’

She swallows hard and, with glazed eyes, turns to look directly at Julia. ‘I do.’

For a moment my sister seems to stop breathing. ‘Then who the hell is she?’ she erupts.

Mum closes her eyes, filling her lungs with air, attempting to find strength.

‘She’s me, sweetheart,’ she replies. ‘She’s me.’

Julia and I sit numbly, trying to work out what we’ve missed. Dissecting Mum’s words and trying to make sense of them. We reach the same conclusion.

‘Mum,’ she says, ‘you know you mean as much to me as any biological mother. But I’m talking in literal terms. I’m talking about the woman who physically gave birth
to me.’