My Single Friend (27 page)

I look at Will and gulp. He looks at me and smiles. But his smile lasts less than a second. Soon he’s frowning. Soon his expression becomes very strange. His face very . . . red.

‘Cchhrrr!’

‘Are you all right?’ Panic sweeps over me.

‘Chhrrr!’ He grabs his oesophagus.

Paralysed, I watch as Will coughs and splutters, his cheeks an alarming shade of purple. He stands up and starts gesticulating wildly to the lower part of his throat, as guests on the next tables wonder what’s going on.

‘Oh God!’ I shrill, leaping up and knocking over my wine.

‘He’s got something stuck in his throat,’ yells the waiter, perceptively.

‘Do something!’ I cry.

‘Chhhecrrhrhrhh!!’ says Will.

‘I know the Heimlich manoeuvre!’ A large, middle-aged woman from the next table barges forward.

She lifts Will up, grabs him from behind and wraps her arms round his ribcage. She then starts thrusting backwards and forwards, tightening her arms around his body as his face turns even brighter and he wheezes like a burst bagpipe.

The woman pauses to gather her forces, before putting every last bit of might into another thrust. Will’s head flies forward and my nail shoots from his mouth as if powered by a jet engine.

She releases him and he slumps down into his chair.

‘God, Will . . . are you all right?’ I kneel to look at him, praying that he’s come through this unscathed. He’s panting like an asthmatic greyhound and tears are pouring down his face, but he manages to nod.

‘What
the hell
was that?’ asks the waiter.

Diners and staff start scrambling on the floor to try to work out what almost killed a man. I look at Will and see that he’s recovering rapidly. I seize him by the elbow and murmur. ‘I think we should go.’

‘W-what?’ he wheezes. ‘Well, yes but . . . give me a minute.’

I look at the door, biting my lip.

‘Ready now?’ I ask, hoping I don’t sound unsympathetic. I mean, I
am
sympathetic – honestly, I feel terrible. But I only have one chance of escape.

Will is wiping his face with a napkin, pouring out some water.

‘It’s a nail!’ shrieks someone from the next table. ‘It’s one of them bloody fake nails! Was that in his food? This place should be shut down.’

I catch Will staring through bloodshot eyes at my middle finger – the only one with a short, stubby nail, covered in half-set glue – and I know I’ve been busted.

Again.

I pray Henry’s around when I arrive home after ten. I’m desperate to talk about what happened tonight and he is the only person who’ll do. Aside from the fact that Dominique and Erin are out, they’re not as good at listening as Henry. No disrespect to them, but no one is. And after tonight’s shenanigans, I need someone to do some
serious
listening.

I remind myself, however, that it’s Saturday night and Henry hasn’t been around on a Saturday night since dinosaurs roamed the plains of east Africa. At least it feels like it. The point is, I’m not holding out much hope.

As I put my key in the door and push it open I spot Henry’s coat on the rack in the hallway, hanging next to mine. The sight makes my heart skip with happiness. Henry’s home and I know I’m going to be all right.

His keys are on the side table, next to his mobile phone. I pick it up and look at the screensaver, a daft shot of him and me taken on the beach last summer. I can’t help smiling, though I’ve seen it a thousand times.
Thank God I’ve got Henry.

I head for the living room, assuming he’s watching telly, and push open the door. I couldn’t be less impressed with the sight before me if I tried.

Mercifully, they’re fully clothed. Yet, the position of Henry and this woman – whoever she is – is so intimate, she might as well be fellating him.

Henry is lying on his back, biceps resplendent with a hand behind his head, as this She-Devil with glossy black ringlets and a skirt up to her crotch is leaning on his chest, impossibly toned legs entwined around his. She’s gazing at him, her expression oozing awe and lust. In his hand is a battered paperback entitled
Love Poetry of the Eighteenth Century
.

‘My poor expecting Heart beats for thy Breast,’ Henry murmurs with a tongue-in-cheek smile, ‘in ev’ry Pulse, and will not let me rest. A thousand dear Desires are waking there . . .’

He stops and looks up. ‘Oh Lucy, hi. I didn’t see you there.’

The siren scrambles up and pulls down her skirt. Thankfully, I no longer have an eyeful of her lacy black knickers (cheap-looking, I couldn’t help but notice).

‘Hi! Sorry to interrupt. I’m Lucy. Lovely to meet you.’ Beaming, I march over and hold out my hand to the woman, determined not to make my resentment apparent.

‘Hi!’ she replies brightly, sitting up and straightening her top. ‘I’m Davina. Henry’s told me a lot about you.’

She’s pretty, with a winsome smile, a stick-thin body and breasts that could double for space hoppers.

‘All good, I hope.’ I breathe in and subtly stick out my chest.

‘Of
course
,’ he says smoothly.

Then we all stare at each other, smiling politely.

‘Well, you’ve got a lovely place here,’ says Davina awkwardly.

‘Oh, this?’ I reply. ‘We’ve been here a while, haven’t we, Henry?’

‘Four years.’

We carry on staring at each other, grinning.

‘You’re home early,’ Henry says. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Oh.’ I look at my watch and pretend I hadn’t noticed the time. ‘Oh, yeah. Fine.’

‘Did you have a date?’

‘Hmmm? A date? Well, yeah, kind of. Not really. I was out with people from work. It was dull, to be honest.’

‘How come you’re home at this time?’

‘I wasn’t feeling well.’ I trot out another lie.

‘Oh?’ asks Henry.

‘A bit . . . queasy,’ I improvise. ‘Quite a lot queasy actually. Can’t imagine what it could be.’

‘Oh God,’ breathes Davina, ‘my flatmate came home early last Saturday feeling queasy and she’s discovered she’s pregnant.’

I glare at her.

‘It’s spooky,’ she continues. ‘She said exactly the same as you: that she felt queasy but couldn’t imagine what it could be. Found out three days later she’s expecting.’

‘I’m not pregnant,’ I say flatly.

‘Are you
sure
?’ asks Davina, looking genuinely concerned. ‘Are you retaining water?’

‘No,’ I reply firmly.

‘You know, my friend was the last person I’d ever suspect would get pregnant, yet she has. I’d double-check if I were you.’

‘Really, I’m not pregnant.’ I laugh, as lightly as possible.

‘You can get the tests from the supermarket these days – they’re less than a tenner, which is worth it for the peace of mind.’

‘I don’t need peace of mind – I’m not pregnant,’ I tell her.

Davina looks at me pityingly. ‘Only, if you are then they say it’s best facing up to things early on. That way, you can keep your options open. Being in denial is the worst thing for it – that’s what they say.’

‘Honestly,’ I insist, feeling rather frustrated now. ‘I’m one hundred per cent certain I’m not pregnant.’

‘Well, that’s what Lucinda thought, but—’

‘Look,’ I shriek, throwing my arms up, ‘I’ve had about as much sex lately as the founder member of a pro-chastity group, so unless there’s been an immaculate conception I AM NOT PREGNANT!’

The room falls silent. Davina is dumbfounded. Henry shifts uncomfortably.

‘Perhaps we should get out of your way.’ He stands and takes Davina by the hand. ‘I was planning to show Davina my . . .’

Henry stops speaking as it dawns on him that I may not want to know what he’s about to show Davina.

‘No.
I’ll
get out of
your
way.’ I back out of the room. ‘Sorry, I . . . I’m sorry.’

As I get to my bedroom and throw myself onto the bed, I look at a crack in the ceiling, feeling thoroughly depressed. A minute later, there’s a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I say, sitting up.

Henry walks in and shuts the door behind him.

‘Haven’t you got a guest to entertain?’ I ask as he sits at the end of the bed.

‘She’ll be okay for two minutes. Did something happen tonight?’

‘Oh Henry, don’t ask,’ I say, then regret it immediately because I’m desperate to talk. ‘I had another crap date. The worst. I nearly killed someone.’

‘Are you serious?’ His eyes widen. ‘What did you do?’

I fill him in on all the gory detail and he sits, listening as patiently and sympathetically as ever. ‘The worst thing is,’ I say, ‘it was going so well before the false nail disaster. He’d even asked me to go fencing with him . . .’ My voice trails off.

He frowns. ‘Fencing? That’s an odd choice of date.’

‘Hmmm . . . yes,’ I say sheepishly.

A look of recognition flashes on his face. ‘You told him you could fence.’

‘I . . .’ I am about to protest but realize immediately that there’s no point.

‘Lucy, can I make a suggestion?’ he asks.

‘Why not?’ I shrug.

‘The thing with the nail was unfortunate, but sometimes things happen that are beyond your control – and there’s no point worrying about them. It’s the things that
are
in your control that you need to think about.’

‘What do you mean?’

He looks me in the eyes. ‘You’ve got to stop lying to these people, Lucy.’

The bluntness of the statement punches me in the stomach. I suddenly feel embarrassed – and defensive.

‘I don’t lie, Henry,’ I protest. ‘I just . . . just . . . okay, I admit I have been known to
exaggerate
. Slightly. But it’s no more than that.’

He frowns. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Of course I’m—’ Then I stop, mid-flow, and sniff. ‘No,’ I say meekly. ‘I’m not sure. You’re right, Henry.’

Tears well in my eyes and he leans over and holds my hand.

‘I don’t know what makes me do it,’ I whimper. ‘Desperation, I suppose. I just want one of these bloody dates to go well. For someone to think I’m special enough to want to see again.’

‘Lucy, what have I been telling you?’ Henry says. ‘You’re special enough
as you are
. Lying gets you nowhere – can’t you see?’

‘In the cold light of day, of course,’ I mumble. I look down at his hand, squeezing mine, then back at his eyes. He lets go and stands up.

‘I’d better get back to Davina.’ He heads to the door. ‘But think about it, won’t you? Face up to what you’re doing – and stop it.’

‘Okay,’ I sniff.

He looks into the hall, then back at me. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

I nod. ‘Course. Get back to your . . . to Davina.’

He smiles and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I’ve never felt so desperate to continue talking. To analyse this ludicrous compulsion I have to tell giant porkies to everyone I go out with. And I’m desperate for Henry to tell me that, despite everything, he still loves me; that I’m still his best friend in the world.

But as the sound of Davina’s giggling seeps through the cracks in my door, I pull my pillow over my head and curse myself for ever having thought up
Project Henry
.

Thanks to my bright idea, my one successful relationship with a bloke is slipping through my fingers. And I can’t do a thing about it.

Something strange is going on with my mother.

It’s Monday lunchtime and I’ve nipped into John Lewis. I’m testing out a Clinique lipstick when I glance over and there she is. My mum. At Elizabeth Arden. With not one but
three
items in her hand.

I know most people wouldn’t find this suspicious, but my mother does not frequent upmarket cosmetic counters at department stores. She buys her make-up from her mate Julie down the road and always has. Her idea of a luxury skin product is a bottle of Skin So Soft from Avon, which she’s been buying since about 1961.

I
have
to know what’s going on.

I march up to Mum and tap her on the shoulder. She almost drops a jar of anti-cellulite cream.

‘What’s up?’ I say.

She gasps. ‘Wha— Lucy, you nearly gave me a heart-attack!’

‘You don’t normally get your make-up from places like this, do you?’

‘I was just having a look.’ Her shoulders stiffen.

‘You look like you’re buying them.’

She frowns. ‘So what if I am, Inspector bloody Clouseau?’

I uncross my arms. ‘It’s out of character, that’s all. What would Julie say?’

‘I’ve gone off Avon lately,’ she says quietly, picking up a tube of eye-cream.

I am taken aback. ‘She’ll be distraught.’