My Single Friend (20 page)

When the item is over, I lean back and close my eyes in relief.

Then something strikes me: I ought to say thank you to Drew. Little of this was a result of anything he did, but he was the one on the ground today and not to say something feels petty.

I pick up my BlackBerry and start typing.
Drew – saw the piece and it was great. Thx again.

I’m about to press send, when the BlackBerry flashes, showing that an email has arrived. When I open it, it’s from Roger to Drew. I am cc’ed.

Drew, I watched the news and wanted to congratulate you on an excellent piece of work. This is particularly the case given it wasn’t your client. I understand it was important that their Chief Executive was interviewed – so to get her on screen for so long was a masterstroke. Your star is rising rapidly in this company. Many thanks, Roger.

‘Bloody hell,’ I splutter. ‘Bloody, bloody hell.’

‘Something the matter?’ asks Henry.

‘Don’t ask.’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘Okay,
do
ask.’ I’ve got to get this off my chest. I am halfway through the story, when the BlackBerry flashes again and I open it up. It is Drew’s response.

Thanks, Roger, glad to know my efforts haven’t gone unnoticed! The client also seemed delighted with what I’d arranged! It makes all the hard work worthwhile! Drew.

The addition of three cheery exclamation marks makes me want to drive to his house and take a bread-knife to his tyres.

‘What is it now?’ asks Henry, concerned.

I sigh. ‘I think tonight might be a chocolate trifle night.’

He smiles. ‘Fine. I’m celebrating anyway.’

‘Oh?’

‘Rachel called. I’ve got a date.’

It is more than a week since I heard from Paul and abundantly clear that another promising relationship is nestling miserably in my emotional wheelie-bin, awaiting collection.

It’s so demoralizing. When did I become so unattractive? I’m sure I never used to be. What’s ironic is that my diet, with the exception of the chocolate trifle, has been going splendidly. If I stand in a certain position on the scales – on one foot and leaning slightly to the left – I’ve lost at least five and a half pounds, often more after I’ve been to the loo.

‘Lucy, you are
not
unattractive. On the contrary, you are gorgeous,’ Dominique tells me on the phone on the way home from work. I’ve been with her all day but this isn’t a conversation to be had in the presence of your colleagues. ‘Some men wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit them in the face.’

‘I haven’t tried hitting them in the face.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ she laughs. ‘Seriously though, you mustn’t blame yourself for this. I mean, you played it cool this time, didn’t you?’

‘Ummm . . .’

‘What do you mean, “ummm . . .”’

‘I mean, yes,’ I say decisively. ‘I was an ice maiden.’

‘So you didn’t phone him?’

‘Ummm . . .’

‘
Lucy!
How many times?’

‘
Twelve,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘Thirteen maybe. I’ve lost count.’

‘Good God,’ she says, taken aback. ‘I hope you did 1571 to make sure your number didn’t show up?’

‘Of course. I might be desperate but I’m not stupid.’

‘You are NOT desperate,’ she howls.

‘No, you’re right.’ I bang my fist on my steering-wheel. ‘Oh God, I
hope
you’re right. I don’t want to be desperate, honestly I don’t. It sounds so pathetic. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting worried. How can I not be? At this rate I can pencil in my next snog at about the time I’m starting the menopause.’

‘Here’s my advice, Lucy: forget about Paul. If he can’t see you as the fabulous, intelligent woman you are, then he needs a new pair of his own specs.’

I nod, determined to feel determined again. ‘You’re right. If a man stands you up on a date and then doesn’t bother to phone you for more than a week afterwards . . .’

‘Then he’s a prize-winning prick,’ she finishes my sentence.

‘Quite right,’ I agree. ‘Even if he
begged
me to go out with him after this, I wouldn’t.’

‘Good girl,’ says Dominique, as if toilet-training a puppy.

‘Right – thanks. So, where are you and your hot date off to tonight?’

Since meeting Justin, Dominique has been unusually absent. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she was looking dangerously like someone in the early stages of a proper relationship – a concept as alien to my friend as facial depilation to Father Christmas.

‘We thought we’d stay in and chill in front of the TV,’ she says casually.

I pause to check I’ve heard her right. ‘That’s not like you.’

‘I know,’ she whispers, as if she can hardly believe it herself.

Usually, Dominique’s idea of a date involves an expensive dinner
à deux
, a wild night on the tiles and then rampant carnal relations at least until dawn the next day and often the day after.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’ She sounds weird. ‘Yeah, it is.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘So how are things with Justin?’

‘You know, hon, good. Really good. He’s . . . I don’t know what to say. He’s lovely.’

I almost swerve across the road in shock. I’ve never heard Dominique describe a man as ‘lovely’. It’s not in her vocabulary. ‘Well-hung’, yes. ‘Loaded’, no problem. But ‘lovely’? Something’s going on.

‘You really like him, don’t you?’

There’s a silence.

‘I’d better dash – someone’s at the door,’ replies Dominique. ‘Don’t worry about your love-life, Lucy. You never know what’s round the corner.’

When I arrive home, I throw my keys on the side table, then stop and smile. Classical music is melting through the apartment like warm caramel: Henry is playing the piano.

As I quietly push open the living-room door, he is completely absorbed. I stand watching him, fondness sweeping through me. Sensing my presence, he stops and turns. ‘Hey, Luce – I didn’t see you there.’

‘Don’t stop on my behalf. What are you playing?’

‘Debussy.
Clair de Lune
.’ He starts up again. ‘Do you like it?’

I throw myself on the sofa. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

He stops again. ‘How about a newer one?’

‘Feel free.’ He launches into another piece.

‘Justin Timberlake? Henry, you’re such a smartarse. Nobody’s meant to be as good at as many things as you are.’

‘Not everything,’ he corrects. He doesn’t have to spell out what he’s referring to.

‘Well, all that’s about to change. Are you excited about your first date?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘I am.’

For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I feel a stab of something I can only describe as – and I hate myself for this –
jealousy
. Jealousy that Henry, like Dominique, is about to go out with someone he really likes when I’ve been dumped again and will be stuck all by myself at home.

I force myself to smile. He smiles back and returns to his piano, resuming his Debussy. I drag myself off the sofa and head to my bedroom to get changed out of my work clothes, appalled at this nagging feeling.

I can’t really be jealous of Henry, can I? How
the hell
can I be jealous of Henry? My lovely, wonderful friend who’s finally found a woman who fancies the pants off him? Can I really be such a selfish, horrible person that I can’t feel 100 per cent happy for Henry – just because nobody wants me? Dear God, don’t make me so desperate for a man to like me that I resent—

My mobile is ringing.

‘Lucy Tyler,’ I say.

‘Lucy, it’s Paul. How’re things?’

I know what I said I’d do if Paul asked me out again. But that was before he did. Besides, the prospect of being alone on Saturday night while everyone else is out was about as appealing as an Ann Summers party at my grandma’s house. So I agreed to another date, probably too easily.

I would have liked him to come up with a brilliant excuse for his no-show at the business awards. Sudden death in the family, accidental amputation of a limb, major earthquake causing widespread structural damage to his property – all would have been acceptable. That and a grovelling apology for not phoning for more than a week.

In the event, he never mentioned the issue and I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t press him. It was a betrayal of every post-feminist bone in my body but, desperate that he didn’t change his mind, I took the easy option and kept my mouth shut. My self-respect is in tatters but at least I don’t have to sit in watching
Britain’s Got Talent
.

‘Come on, Ivana Trump, show us what you’ve bought,’ says Mum.

Obviously, I also had to find a new outfit, just a modestly-priced one – nothing over the top. I might have known it’d be a mistake to stop at my parents’ house when I’m carrying shopping bags, though. Particularly when there are six.

‘None of it was expensive,’ I tell her, wondering why I feel the need to justify myself.

‘Oh yeah,’ she says sarcastically, examining my Coast skirt. ‘Looks just like it came from a charity shop.’

The kitchen door flies open and Dave walks in. He’s carrying nine shopping bags.

‘Good God!’ exclaims Mum. ‘We can safely say you two are getting through the global recession unscathed. You appear to have more disposable income than Elton John.’

‘All right, Mum,’ says Dave, plonking his bags at the table and heading for the fridge. ‘Got anything to eat?’

Dave is permanently eating, and not especially healthily either. If he ever stopped weight training, he’d assume the Great Buddha look within weeks.

‘There are a couple of things in there,’ says Mum, ‘but for God’s sake don’t touch the pork pie, your father’ll go ballistic and—’

Dave spins round, revealing a mound of pastry in his mouth like a suckling pig. He takes a bite. ‘Tell him I’ll owe him one,’ he says between mouthfuls.

Mum rolls her eyes. ‘What have you bought? Come on, let’s have a look.’

‘None of it was expensive,’ he says innocently.

‘There’s a Reiss bag there,’ I point out.

He pulls a face. ‘So what?’

I shrug. ‘I’m just saying, it’s hardly cheap in there.’

His eyes widen in exasperation. ‘You’ve been to bloody Whistles. Bet there weren’t any customers in there who’d come straight from the Job Centre.’

I frown. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Exactly my point, you dope.’

I’ve already donned my best grotty fifteen-year-old’s face in preparation for my next comment, but Mum beats me to it. ‘Give it a rest, you two. Are you still going to be like this when you’re in your eighties?’

I stand and pick up my bags.

‘I’m off now anyway, Mum,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

When we reach the hall, I remember something. ‘Oh, I haven’t asked – how was your salsa class?’

She looks at her nails. ‘It was a bit naff. I thought it would be.’

‘Naff?’

‘Well,’ she sniffs, ‘not really my thing.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘All those gyrating hips, everyone getting worked up, it was all a bit . . .’

‘A bit what?’

‘Over the top.’

‘Right. So you didn’t enjoy it?’

‘Not especially.’

‘So you’re not going again?’

She shrugs. ‘Well, I
wouldn’t
, but Denise is absolutely insisting.’

‘You enjoyed it,’ I blurt out.

‘I did not.’ You’d think I’d accused her of GBH.

I am about to leap back in and reconfirm the fact of which I’m certain, but instead I content myself with a knowing smile.

Mum opens the door for me. ‘I don’t know what that funny face is all about. Cough and you’ll get stuck like that.’

I’ve been in a few ‘brainstorms’ in my time, but none like this.

‘How about
chivalry
?’ says Erin. ‘Those little touches like opening doors for her, pulling out the restaurant chair – and simply being a perfect gentleman. That’s really important.’

‘Brilliant!’ Dominique jabs her permanent marker in the air and spins round to add the word to her flip-chart. She’s getting into her training co-ordinator role and today’s tutorial is one of her favourite topics: how to behave on a date. ‘That’s a good one, Henry. Mind you, I reckon that’ll come naturally to you. Let’s recap.’

Henry is concentrating hard. Now that he’s secured a date with Rachel he’s determined not to blow it. As he sits on our sofa before a list of dating rules – the result of our ‘blue sky thinking’ – Dominique has his full attention.

‘Number one:
listen
to her. Most men end up jabbering away about themselves and there’s nothing more offputting. Ask about
her
for a change. Where she grew up. Her job. Her likes and dislikes. You get the picture.’