Year of Being Single (32 page)

She hadn’t planned anything for her birthday. She’d been so caught up in Richard, she’d almost forgotten it was coming. And after it had all gone so tragically wrong with him, she’d rather it didn’t. Her friends hadn’t mentioned it either. For women who’d decided to simplify things by ditching men from their lives, they all seemed to be losing the plot.

Imogen gazed out of the train window and sighed. She was
so
not up for tonight. It was completely wasted on her that Marcia had booked the best table at The Summer Garden. That strings had been pulled. Marcia knew the maître d’ there, some old flame of hers she’d had a passionate fling with twenty years ago. She’d never forgotten him. Imogen suspected Marcia had had a string of passionate flings with unforgettable men.
And there was no danger
any
of them had forgotten
her
.

Marcia had strong-armed Nicholas Longbottom (Imogen couldn’t wait to have this physical attribute confirmed or denied) into giving them the best and most fabulous table in ‘The Alcove’, a cosy, candlelit nook of the restaurant usually reserved for celebrities and Ronnie Wood. And Imogen had drummed into her how lucky they were to get a table there.

‘Darling, it’s fabulous,’ Marcia had said on Tuesday, as she sat at her desk flicking through headshots. Imogen was at hers, under the eaves, catching up dejectedly on some paperwork. That morning Marcia had noticed Imogen’s birthday on the calendar, was horrified nothing had been arranged and got straight on ‘the blower’ to The Residence. ‘It gets booked up way in advance. You’re lucky I could wangle it, at this late notice. Tell your friends to dress up. I know you anti-men lot like to wear sackcloth and ashes, but you must go full
glamorama
.’

‘I don’t think I’d suit sackcloth and ashes,’ Imogen had said, sighing and looking down at her crisp navy suit with the nipped-in waist. ‘And it’s not as though we’re going to flog ourselves with birch twigs at the sight of any men. A nice dress and some heels – will that do you? What are
you
going to be wearing?’

‘Oh, I’ll be hoisting the mainsail to full mast, sweetie, don’t you worry about that.’

Whatever that meant, thought Imogen, though no doubt Marcia’s enormous bottom would be clad in some kind of huge, chiffony skirt and she’d have a whole treasure chest full of costume jewellery on.

‘You look like you need feeding up a bit,’ said Marcia, ploughing on; Imogen had a sudden image of her roaring round a field in a blinged-up combine harvester. ‘You can’t be all frugal-
stroke
-hessian-
stroke
-lesbian at The Summer Garden, you and your man-hating friends. We’ve got to stuff our faces and drink buckets of alcohol. You won’t be able to get wheatgrass shots there, you know.’

‘When have I ever drunk wheatgrass shots?’ spluttered Imogen. ‘And we’re not
lesbians
. We’re just normal women who don’t need men in our lives.’ Less than ever, she thought miserably.

Marcia looked at her pointedly and then burst out laughing. ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ She suddenly seemed to remember something, grabbed her Dictaphone from her desk and coughed, ‘Deluded’ into it, followed by the louder, ‘
Deluded
. New play At the South Bank. Stephen Mathers or Nigel Pendleton-Smith? Pink sky it tomorrow,’ then threw it back down. ‘We’ll have cocktails in the bar and then dine,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s your birthday, Imogen! Celebrate!’ And she actually swivelled right over to Imogen on her chair, grabbed Imogen’s right cheek and gave it a little squeeze.

‘Bog off, Marcia!’ said Imogen, swatting her away. ‘Squeeze your own cheeks!’

She couldn’t bear to tell Marcia she didn’t feel like celebrating, or what had happened with Richard. She’d never mentioned him to Marcia – there was no way she could, after confiding in her about all that single for a year guff. And thank goodness she hadn’t, now Richard was gone.

The train lurched and Imogen’s bag slipped from her lap. She grabbed it just in time, before her favourite lip gloss clattered to the filthy floor. She’d worn it on the lunch date with Richard, she recalled despondently, as she stuffed it back in her bag. That bastard. She couldn’t think about that, or him, now.

The three friends were glammed up, just as Marcia had hoped. Imogen – black leather jeggings, high ankle boots and a charcoal grey silk loose-fitting blouse with a pussy bow. Frankie – capri pants, black T-shirt and tuxedo jacket – she looked great. And Grace – soft gold shift dress – amazing as ever.

They all looked slightly away with the fairies, though, Imogen thought. Grace looked miserable and had her mouth set into a firm line as she stared vacantly out of the window at passing fields. Frankie looked like she was permanently trying to suppress a massive grin and had a silly look on her face, like Worzel Gummidge when he was thinking up a plan.

They all looked like they had things they should be telling each other, but there was no way Imogen was
ever
telling them about Richard. They’d both quizzed her about the man they’d seen outside her house, especially Frankie, who was very sceptical about it being the gasman. She said she could have sworn she’d heard a man’s voice the night before, but Imogen told her it was the taxi driver, helping her into the house as she was drunk, and that the gasman just had a very strange uniform. She didn’t care if they believed her or not. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more.

She just wanted to forget the whole sorry episode – another tragic blip she should never have succumbed to. If she told her friends what had happened, she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t burst into mascara-ruining tears, for falling for Richard so badly and so heavily, for sleeping with him, for entertaining the entirely ridiculous notion that he could love her back. She couldn’t do it. She would not and
could
not succumb to being a pathetic woman wailing over a man.

The train trundled on. Fields gave way to the backs of terraced houses with huge satellite dishes, which gave way to the O2 ex-Millennium Dome and the Olympic Park, and finally, Liverpool Street station. As the train came to a stop, they all looked at each other and smiled. Grace’s was tight-lipped, Imogen’s was fake and Frankie’s was wide and beaming.

What on earth had happened to them all?

Chapter Thirty-two: Frankie

She and Rob were back together. It was just like starting over. Frankie had to tell Imogen and Grace at some point, but she didn’t dare just yet. She couldn’t collapse the sisterhood, break the charter, let the side down, whatever, especially not today.

For the sake of birthday harmony – not that Imogen seemed too bothered about it, and Frankie was slightly ashamed she’d forgotten all about it too, until Imogen had rung to say Marcia had booked a swanky restaurant for tonight – she would have to pretend that Rob was still persona non grata, man-us horribilis, ex under fire. She could do this. Pretend she wasn’t filled with enormous relief, renewed love and massive hope for the future. Pretend she didn’t have a man again, a
new
man. He
was
a new man: Rob really did seem to have changed, and she had to take a chance on him. She’d enjoyed being single but she wanted her family reunited more.

She would toast to independence, female solidarity and telling men to sod right off, but keep her delicious secret to herself. And at the end of their no doubt fabulous evening, she would go home to Rob and her children. Tomorrow they’d have the sort of Sunday she’d really missed – chaos and mess and mayhem (but not
too
bad; they were having new rules, remember?) and snuggling up on the sofa to watch something fun like
Ghostbusters
. She couldn’t wait.

Rob had moved back in last night, after days of constant texts between them saying, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘No, are you sure?’ He’d arrived on the doorstep with the same bags he’d left with, but there seemed to be less in them and they were packed better. When she’d opened the back door, he’d flung them to the ground, smiled his lovely, familiar smile and said, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home.’ She had virtually jumped on him,
Dirty Dancing
style and had dragged him into the house. She’d laughed at the burrs like beads of Velcro stuck to his shoulders – his car was parked in the next street and Frankie was making him use the back alley until she had a chance to tell Imogen and Grace he was back.

The kids were thrilled, mostly. Frankie told them they weren’t going to Daddy’s flat any more, and that Daddy was coming home. Harry had looked a bit disgruntled; Dad had an Xbox. ‘Dad can bring it home with him,’ she pointed out. And Josh had pulled a bit of a face about leaving Jonathan behind, but Frankie had promised he could come for tea. Without
Jen
.

‘Will our house be Daddy’s house again?’ asked Tilly. She was feeling better, though she looked awful. She had bright red, blistering spots all over her face and body. A finger wandered up to her cheek to a particularly angry-looking one.

‘Don’t scratch your spots!’ pleaded Frankie. ‘Yes, darling, it will. We’re all getting back together.’

Was he sad to let his flat go? she’d asked him, last night.

‘Of course not,’ he’d said. ‘I’d rather be here, with you, than anywhere else in the world.’ They were snuggled up in bed. She didn’t mind the rucking up of the covers, or the way he’d created a chilly space when he’d rolled to the side to turn off his phone when they’d first got in.

She still believed in the Single for a Year Club, in theory. She liked its ethos. She would use it to help her devise a new framework for life with Rob. She wouldn’t be taking any more nonsense. She wouldn’t be treated like a servant or a doormat. She wouldn’t put up with mess, laziness and selfishness. The worm had turned. By the same token, she would no longer be a martyred screaming fishwife. If she had a grievance she would air it, in a calm and measured manner. She would stand up for herself with
reasoned
arguments. She and Rob would operate in compromise, collaboration, co-operation. There was going to be discipline and sticker charts and boundaries and guidelines and love. They were both going to try really hard, and so were the children (whether they liked it or not.) They were both determined to put the romance back where it belonged… And they were going to go running together again.

‘Looking good, Franks,’ Imogen said as the three of them met at the station.

‘Thanks.’ Frankie grinned. Her face looked all-aglow tonight, she knew, and her eyes were shining. She felt happier than she had in months – years! – yet, she tried not to grin too broadly or have her eyes look too sparkly. She didn’t want to give the game away just yet. She knew she looked great, though. She felt it from the top of her newly washed head to the bottom of her strappy sandals.

It was lovely having a night out in London together, actually. What Frankie’s mother would call a ‘bit of a jaunt’. Frankie smiled to herself, imagining her mother’s reaction when she told her she and Rob were back together. Her mother would be
ever so pleased
. She’d think things were back to their rightful place, the status quo reactivated, the world restored to its natural order. The posting of snippets could be resumed. That service had stopped in the last few weeks, a (welcome) silent protest, Frankie knew. Now she and Rob were back on track, the ‘helpful’ hysterical missives about the perils of modern technology would start up again.

They got on the train. Imogen started a caustic, dryly hilarious monologue about Marcia, warning them all she was like a rolling thunderball. Frankie was dying to meet Imogen’s work partner-in-crime; she’d heard all the stories. It was going to be enormous fun, tonight. Just girls, food, wine and chat. Perfect. And she would have her New Rob to go home to at the end of it.

Imogen was different tonight, Frankie noted. Usually she laughed and waved her hands around while she told her tales of Marcia. Tonight she was sort of muttering and, funny though she was, she looked a bit miserable and scowly. Imogen had insisted there’d been no man at her house the night she’d come home from Ascot, but Frankie didn’t believe her. Grace looked miserable, too. After Imogen’s speech about Marcia, they all quickly fell silent. Neither Imogen nor Grace seemed to be sharing Frankie’s enthusiasm for the night ahead. She tried to start several conversations about what had been on telly that week, but each time they trailed to nothing. She hoped her friends would perk up when they got there. Especially the birthday girl! Good Lord, you’re only forty-one once!

They took a taxi from Liverpool Street to The Residence, which was opposite Green Park. As they neared the huge, elegant hotel, flanked by bay trees in enormous pots, a woman who Frankie presumed was Marcia, from all Imogen’s descriptions over the years, was standing outside the main entrance. Her head was lowered, sunglasses were perched on top of her head and she was having a good old rummage in an enormous mustard-coloured bag. She pulled out a gold compact, shouted, ‘There’s the bugger’ and turned to the man loping next to her in a bright turquoise suit and white shirt with ruffles on it, who looked like an over-coiffed Italian gangster. As he leant his waxen face towards her, she patted him enthusiastically on the nose with a powder puff.

‘Oh God, she’s brought Tarquin Soprano with her,’ hissed Imogen in a sotto voice, as they crossed the road to the hotel. ‘What the hell has she done that for?’

‘Tarquin Soprano? You are kidding, right?’ said Frankie, suppressing a gigantic giggle.

‘Gosh, look at him,’ asked Grace, a little too loudly, as they arrived on the pavement outside The Residence. Tarquin had topped off the turquoise suit with a pair of really shiny spats and was carrying a kind of clutch bag. His hair was styled to within an inch of its life.

Marcia was equally overstated. She was wearing a
huge
teal green shawl flung dramatically over one shoulder and fastened with an enormous elephant brooch. Underneath Frankie could see navy taffeta. She also noticed that Marcia had the tiniest, tiniest feet, squeezed into weeny red suede peep-toe court shoes. A slightly twisted red toe peeped accusingly from each hole, like tortoises’ heads from their shells.