My Single Friend (12 page)

Only, he doesn’t move. After what feels like ten minutes, but is probably less than ten seconds, I feel distinctly awkward.

‘Soooo,’ I muse, ‘exactly how long have you been an opti—’

I’m interrupted by Paul’s lips, which are suddenly on mine, kissing me confidently, roughly. A wave of desire rushes through me as I breathe in his smell: sultry aftershave, mints and red wine. As I kiss him back, my unquenched libido goes into overdrive. I don’t care that people in the bar can see us. He moves his mouth to my ear and brushes away my hair.

‘The bar’s closing soon,’ he whispers. ‘Come back to my place.’

Adrenalin courses through my body. ‘I . . . I don’t know. I should get back.’

He stops, leans back on his stool and shrugs. ‘Okay.’

I am hit by a wave of disappointment. I could kiss, I tell myself – just to continue our chat.
Talking
to him won’t break the first date rule. We could continue kissing, but nothing else. That’d be all right, surely?

‘Maybe I could consider it,’ I whisper, meeting his lips again. He returns my kiss as my pulse goes wild. He pulls away, stands up, grabs my coat and then my hand.

‘Follow me,’ he says, as I feel a flash of relief that I attended to my bikini line this afternoon.

I don’t end up sleeping with Paul. I always knew I wouldn’t, but sometimes I surprise myself by how old-fashioned I am.

Instead, when we get back to his house, the two blokes he shares it with are competing with their girlfriends at SingStar. Never missing an opportunity to crucify an Abba track, I join in with gusto. We sing and drink until 3 a.m. At least
, I
sing; Paul abstains coolly, which would make me feel self-conscious if I was sober. When the others disappear to bed, things get steamy again on the sofa. Look, I never said I was a complete angel.

I reluctantly call a halt to proceedings at five-thirty, determined to leave him wanting. This requires every bit of willpower I can muster – a challenge, given that my willpower is largely obliterated, along with my ability to walk or talk properly. I sometimes wonder how I’d have coped in the nineteenth century, when you had to wait until your wedding night before reaching the inner sanctum of your beloved’s trousers. Still, they didn’t have tequila slammers in the nineteenth century, so that probably helped.

As I stagger out of my taxi and weave up our path and into bed, my mind is swirling with a combination of booze and excitement. I’ve been on a date
and it went well! Really well! Unbelievable!

I have a long lie-in the next morning and am woken by the sound of Henry’s piano music meandering through the flat. Henry’s a fantastic pianist – he plays everything from Beethoven to Black-Eyed Peas – but we have a rule in the flat that at the weekends he’s not allowed to touch it before midday. It therefore means I’ve slept in rather a long time. When I finally get up, Henry’s in the kitchen having clearly had a more industrious morning than me.

‘It went
really
well last night,’ I announce. I’m so hungover I could sand the floorboards with my tongue, but I still manage to dance round the kitchen.

‘I gathered. You haven’t been home that late since you accidentally got on the night bus to Blackpool. Do you want some coffee?’

‘Yeah, go on. God, Paul’s nice. And I really think he likes me.’

Henry flicks on the kettle and spoons coffee into the cafetière. ‘That’s fantastic, Lucy.’

‘Isn’t it. Hey, are you okay?’

‘Of course. A bit anxious about tonight.’

‘You’ve got nothing to be anxious about. You know the theory now. All we’ve got to do is put it into practice.’

‘I suspect the practice will be rather more challenging than the theory. Dominique and her flip-chart won’t be much use tonight.’

‘True. But she’s right when she says it’s about attitude.’ I sit at the kitchen table and do battle with the plastic bag containing the newspaper supplements. ‘Go in there thinking you’re the hottest thing on two legs and people will believe it. You walk in thinking you’re a saddo who’s never going to get a girlfriend and people will believe that too. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

He nods.

‘Besides,’ I continue, opening the listings magazine, ‘I’ll be there the whole time – and Erin and Dominique.’

‘That’s partly what I’m worried about.’ He pours the boiling water into his cafetière. ‘I could do without the audience.’

‘
Support team
,’ I correct him. ‘No one expects you to be perfect first time. In fact, it’d be odd if you were. But flirting and body language are practical-based subjects, Henry. Just like tropical medicine.’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘We could sit around all year studying the theory,’ I lecture him, ‘but until you get out there and have a go, we’ll never get anywhere.’

‘I can’t help thinking that epidemiology is simpler.’

‘Look, in a few months’ time, when you’ve snogged a handful of girls, been out on a couple of dates and possibly become intimately acquainted with someone’s inner thighs, you’ll be wondering what you were worrying about.’

‘When did you stop worrying about the opposite sex?’

I reach over and take a bite of his sandwich, stumped for an answer again.

Erin is having a wobble – and I’m quite relieved. It’s not normal to be as stoic as she was when you’ve been dumped.

‘I’m not sure I’m coming out tonight after all,’ she announces despondently when we speak on the phone at three in the afternoon. ‘I don’t feel up to it, Lucy.’

‘The worst thing you could do is stay in and mope about Gary. You need to get out. You’ll feel better being with your friends than sitting in front of
Last Choir Standing
.’

‘
Strictly Come Dancing
, actually. But I take your point.’

‘Besides,’ I tell her, ‘Henry needs all the immoral support he can get.’

‘I know. But what if I see Gary? I don’t think I could cope.’

‘If we do, we deal with it. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding, on the offchance you’ll bump into him.’

There’s a pause. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. Thanks, Lucy. Pick me up at seven-thirty?’

By eight o’clock,
Team Henry
is in a taxi on the way to the city centre and I get a sense that my words of encouragement earlier didn’t entirely dispel his malaise. He’s hiding it well, but I can tell Henry finds this experience about as enjoyable as having his chest hair waxed by a chimpanzee.

Dominique, however, is full of confidence. ‘Henry – you look gorgeous. If I saw someone looking like you walk into a bar, I wouldn’t hesitate to make a move.’

Henry smirks.

‘Of course, it would depend on the competition,’ she clarifies. ‘I mean, if Matthew McConaughy walked in behind, I’d have to think twice. Or Johnny Depp. Al Pacino in his
Godfather
days. Ditto De Niro. But, all things being equal, I wouldn’t hesitate. Really.’

‘That’s very reassuring,’ Henry says politely.

‘How are you finding your new contacts?’ asks Erin, applying lip gloss. ‘You look so much better without glasses.’

It’s nice to see Erin glammed up. I was starting to worry about her this afternoon, but I’m sure tonight is what she needs. She certainly looks the part. Tousled hair, Missoni top, cowboy boots . . . If The Lovely Gary could see her now, I’m sure he’d reassess how exciting he found her.

‘The contacts are fine,’ replies Henry. ‘They took a bit of getting used to, but so did the clothes and hair. I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of everything yet.’

‘If it seems unnatural, don’t worry,’ says Dominique. ‘In time, it’ll be second nature. Now, let me clear something up: is this the first time you’ve tried to pick someone up?’

Henry frowns. ‘Yes, Dominique. Until I met you I was a lonely recluse who rarely emerged from my dungeon.’

‘It was only a question,’ she says innocently.

He smiles. ‘I’ve had plenty of nights out with the rugby squad after matches. But if you mean, is this the first time I’ve circulated with the express intention of leaving on the arm of a female, I’d have to say yes. It’s not as if I haven’t
wanted
to do so before, it’s just—’

‘Let me get this straight: you go out with a rugby team regularly and you’ve never misbehaved?’

‘And as you know,’ he continues, ignoring her, ‘Lucy and I also go out together a lot.’

‘Perhaps that’s why you haven’t had much action,’ she replies. ‘Rule number – what are we up to? – don’t stick like glue to another female. Anyway, here we are.’

The taxi pulls into the Albert Dock and we step onto the cobblestones. The dock looks beautiful at this time of night, the lights from the bars and restaurants shimmering on the water as they start to come alive.

The bar we choose is far busier than usual, though I have no idea why. It also seems to have attracted so many glamorous women you’d think Paris Fashion Week had relocated here.

I try to read Henry’s expression and find myself taking in his appearance. Dominique was right. He does look hot. Which is amazing. Unfeasible. Odd, if the truth be told.

His old features are still there – blue eyes, full mouth, tiny scar from the football stud that impaled his chin when he was a teenager. But perhaps that’s why it’s so difficult to compute how drastically different he looks with a few simple tweaks.

I’d hoped when we embarked on this makeover that we’d be able to turn my old, lovable Henry into something approaching passable. But he’s beyond passable.

‘What are you smiling at?’ asks Henry.

‘Me? Oh nothing.’ I snap out of my daze. ‘Who’d like a drink?’

Dominique’s attention to
Project Henry
dwindles within twenty minutes. Not through any lack of commitment, she’s keen to point out, but because a six-foot-three-inch Johnny Depp lookalike walks in and – well, we can’t say she didn’t warn us.

Instructing Henry to ‘watch and learn’, she sashays across the room in her skyscraper heels and touches Johnny D on the elbow in a way that couldn’t be sexier if she had an NVQ from the Moulin Rouge.

Dominique cares not that he is ensconced in conversation with a group of eight. She cares not that, as she tosses her hair bewitchingly, she almost knocks someone’s gin and tonic out of their hand. She cares even less that, as she introduces herself, the women around him glare at her so intensely you can almost see daggers.

Within seconds, she’s deep in conversation with the best-looking man in the room – and he’s lapping her up.

Henry shakes his head in amazement. ‘If that’s the standard I’m working to, I might as well give up now.’

‘There are lap dancers who’ve yet to reach Dominique’s standard of brazenness,’ I reassure him. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time. Is there anyone you like the look of?’

Henry leans back on the bar, surveying the room. ‘There are lots of attractive women, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘Who do you fancy?’

‘It’s difficult to say. Surely fancying someone is about so much more than what they look like.’

‘You’ve got to start somewhere.’

‘I know. Only, what if I choose someone who’s physically attractive then spend the next half-hour talking to them, only to discover they’re dull? Or stupid? Or a white supremacist?’

‘Welcome to my world. You’ll never find anyone unless you give them a try. Now, who do you think is good-looking?’

‘Ummm . . . her?’ He points to a woman with soft brown curls and a plunging top.

‘She is,’ agrees Erin. ‘But I heard her saying in the ladies that she’s here on a hen night – she’s the bride.’

‘Even Dominique might agree that’s ambitious,’ Henry says.

‘What about her?’ I point to a stylish redhead at the bar.

‘Isn’t she out of my league?’ he frowns.

‘No,’ I reply truthfully. ‘But if you want to try someone else, how about
her
?’

‘She looks . . . loud.’

I am about to object, when the woman in question roars with laughter and slaps her friend on the back as if trying to dislodge something from her windpipe.

‘What about over there?’ Erin points. ‘She’s with a friend. I’m sure they won’t mind you going over to chat.’

‘Perfect,’ I decide. ‘What do you think, Henry?’

The reality of what he’s about to do hits him and colour drains from his face.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Hmmm?’ he says distractedly.

‘Do you need to sit down?’ asks Erin.

‘I . . . um . . . er . . .’

‘How about some water?’ I’m getting concerned now.

‘I’m fine,’ Henry insists, taking a deep breath. ‘And I’m going to do this.’ He knocks back his bottle of beer, slams it on the bar and strides off decisively.

Then he stops and turns round, heading back to us. ‘But I need another beer first.’

Erin and I nod. ‘Fair enough,’ she says.