My Single Friend (29 page)

I perch on the edge of his desk. ‘We need to go public before the report comes out. Otherwise, we’re on the defensive and all hell will break loose.’

‘Announcing this isn’t going to be easy, whether they’ve done the right thing or not.’

‘I know. But trying vainly to cover it up would be worse. My plan is to hold a series of briefings with trusted journalists in the days before it’s read out in the Commons.’

‘Do you need any back-up? It’s a big job and I know Drew would love to—’

‘No,’ I say immediately. ‘I should be fine by myself.’

As Henry is out tonight, I decide to use the time constructively. I wax my legs, paint my toenails, administer fake tan and, inspired by a picture of Cheryl Cole in
Heat
, attempt to apply semi-permanent eyelash enhancers. I end up with three lashes successfully stuck to my lids and so much glue I look as if I’ve developed cataracts.

When I retire to bed, I’m satisfied with my extensive beautification and find myself thinking constantly about tomorrow night. I drift into a light sleep, waking just after two when Henry comes in. I use the opportunity to go to the loo and bump into him in the hall.

He’s looking strikingly handsome in an end-of-the-night-type way. He’s slightly dishevelled – his tie is loose and his tuxedo is flung over his arm – and he’s unbuttoning the top of his shirt as we come face to face. My eyes are drawn to his Adam’s apple.

‘Nice night?’ I ask.

‘Better than I imagined.’

‘Oh good. So your date lived up to expectations?’

He smiles sweetly at me but does not reply.

‘Oh no, I forgot,’ I tease. ‘It wasn’t a date, was it?’

He merely laughs.

‘Only, you certainly smell like someone who’s had a good old smooch with a member of the opposite sex,’ I continue, sniffing.

‘My compliments, Lucy. There are bloodhounds lacking your sense of smell.’

‘Don’t try and wriggle out of it.’

‘I’m not. My date was delightful, thank you.’

‘Good,’ I reply. ‘Does she know what a playboy you are these days?’

He makes a tutting sound. ‘Go on – bugger off and have your wee,’ he tells me, yawning. ‘You can grill me about it tomorrow – if you must.’

One of the few things I’m better at than Henry is cooking. I don’t pretend to be Nigella, having neither the enunciation nor the boobs for a start. But there are few things I enjoy more than rustling up a home-made curry or lamb casserole.

Tonight, after much deliberation, I have gone for a Caribbean monkfish stew, which I’ve made before but I know Henry adores. I get up early to buy the ingredients, making certain I get the best pickings in the fishmonger’s before half of south Liverpool heads there for their dinnerparty fayre.

I buy a couple of bottles of good wine, a bunch of peonies for the windowsill, and candles to replace the ones that melted down in 2005 and have since looked more like volcanic debris than home accessories.

Henry’s out of the flat for most of the day and he texts me at lunchtime.
We still on 4 tonight?

Ye s
, I respond.
Y? Have u had a better offer?

It is fine.
So he
did
have another option.
CU at 7.30?

As the afternoon wears on, there’s something about my preparations for the evening that feels strange. Henry and I have dined together for most of our adult lives and yet for some reason it feels like I’m getting ready for a date. There’s a fluttery sensation in my stomach whenever I think about the evening. By the time I’ve showered, I’m ridiculously stressed about what to wear.

In the end, in an effort to make it clear that this
isn’t
a date, I choose an old but favourite pair of jeans and my Diesel vest top. I’d usually wear it to look casual but sexy, though clearly, in this case, I’m not trying to look sexy. I just want to look casual, not scruffy.

I resist the temptation to go down the heated roller route and instead give my hair a better-than-average blow dry, before setting the table. I spread out the tablecloth I’d washed earlier and put my candles in the middle. I check the stew and am satisfied it’s coming along nicely, then head to the living room with a glass of wine.

Henry arrives at seven-thirty on the dot, clearly having exerted himself to make it on time.

‘Blimey. Are you in a rush?’

‘I got caught up.’ He’s slightly out of breath as he runs his hand through his hair. ‘Sorry. Am I late?’

‘No – it’s fine. Relax.’

‘Have I got time for a shower?’

‘Of course. I can keep the stew going for as long as you want.’

I relocate to the kitchen and when Henry emerges five minutes later, he’s buttoning up his jeans. My eyes are drawn to his crotch. As his hands work their way upwards, I catch a glimpse of his flat, toned stomach and the hairs at the top of his trousers. A wave of heat spreads through my body. I turn my back and decisively stir my stew.

Henry’s praise for the dinner is so lavish you’d think he’d dined at Claridge’s.

‘Lucy, that was a triumph.’

I top up our glasses. ‘Shucks, you’ll embarrass me.’

‘I doubt that. I have a suggestion though: instead of telling those blokes you go out with that you’re a champion trapeze artist, or whatever it is you say, why don’t you cook for them? They’d be more impressed.’

‘For the record, I’ve never claimed to be a champion trapeze artist. Anyway, I’m turning over a new leaf. No more fibbing to impress men.’

‘Really? What brought this on?’

‘I thought about what you said the other night and I agree. Besides that, a
really
compelling reason has suddenly dawned on me.’

‘Oh?’

‘The fact that it never works.’

He laughs and stands to pick up my plate.

‘Why don’t you leave the dishes?’ I suggest. ‘We can go through to the living room and shut the door to pretend they don’t exist. Until tomorrow, anyway.’

‘If you insist.’ He puts them in the sink. ‘Though I’m conscious I haven’t been pulling my weight in terms of the housework lately. I felt guilty when I saw you’d done the bathroom as well as the cooking.’

‘Oh, don’t.’ I wave my hand. ‘I’ve got years of doing sod-all to make up for.’

Henry and I adjourn to the living room, where he slumps on the sofa. I find myself studying his features. The full mouth. The defined jaw. The smooth, tanned skin. He opens his eyes and catches me looking at him.

I leap out of my seat towards the iPod. ‘What music do you fancy?’

He walks over to join me. ‘How about a blast from the past?’ he suggests, choosing ‘Praise You’ by Fatboy Slim.

‘God, we must have been in the fifth year when this was in the charts,’ I work out.

‘Ah yes, the fifth year. Those were the days,’ he says with a faux-hazy look.

‘What days?’

‘Let me think . . . you were obsessed with Hugh Grant after watching
Four Weddings and a Funeral
.’

‘But had to settle for Daniel Prosser in the sixth form instead,’ I giggle.

‘A bit of a compromise,’ Henry grins. ‘Though to be fair to Daniel, he had a spectacularly floppy fringe.’

We spend the next few hours drinking, laughing and singing to everything from Stevie Wonder to The Saturdays. When I finally remember to look at the clock it is a quarter to two. ‘God, look at the time. I don’t know where the evening has gone,’ I say.

‘It really is like the old days, then.’

‘You’re telling me you used to have this much fun every night living with me? I don’t believe it.’

‘Lucy, living with you is a permanent riot. Believe me.’

‘I’ll try to take that as a compliment. But, hey, you’ve got a better-rounded life these days, haven’t you?’

‘Thanks to you.’

I take a sip of my wine and realize I’m quite drunk. Not unpleasantly so. Far from it.

‘Has
Project Henry
lived up to expectations?’ I ask.

He pauses, thinking about it as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

‘Well, I should hope it has, Henry!’ I laugh. ‘Because if you were expecting to bed any more women than you have so far, then I can only conclude you were being greedy!’

‘Oh, Lucy,’ he squirms.

‘It’s true, isn’t it? Your sex-life is so active it deserves a PE kit.’

He laughs. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Look, don’t knock it. I’m jealous.’

He pauses for a second. ‘I’d have to admit the sex has been . . . nice.’

‘Nice?’ I say, exasperated. ‘The Southport Flower Show is
nice
. Baby bunnies are
nice
. Nice is not a word which is supposed to apply to your sex-life. Not if you’re doing it right.’

‘Maybe I’m not doing it right.’

‘From what I’ve heard through your bedroom wall, Henry, you’re doing it right.’

He sits up, alarmed. ‘You haven’t heard – you know . . .’

‘Once or twice,’ I shrug.

He looks distraught. ‘That’s awful.’

‘Relax,’ I tell him dismissively. ‘I’ve stayed in halls of residence, remember. Listening to the second year Zoology student above going at it was my backing track to three terms’ worth of revision.’

‘But still . . . God, I’m sorry, Lucy.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reassure him. ‘Anyway, what were we saying . . . oh yes,
Project Henry
. Has it achieved everything you wanted?’

He thinks for a second. ‘That’s a tough one.’

‘What does that mean? You’re obviously not a hundred per cent convinced.’

‘Oh, it’s definitely been a success,’ he assures me. ‘I mean, I look better. So I feel better. I’m confident with women. And they find me more attractive than before – which admittedly wouldn’t have been difficult.’

‘I can feel a
but
coming on.’

‘I don’t want to appear ungrateful . . .’

‘But
. . .
’

He pauses. ‘You’ve always known that I’m an old-fashioned sort of guy, Lucy.’

‘Yes,’ I concede.

‘If I was being really picky I’d say that what I want out of life is not to be some – what did you call me? – playboy.’ He gives an exaggerated shiver.

‘I was only joking.’

‘I know. The point is, I want to love someone. Preferably someone who loves me back.’

I look into his eyes and, for some reason, feel a wave of relief; of happiness at this confirmation that the Henry I knew is the same as ever. Part of me always knew that my friend was never interested in the poncy clothes and the expensive haircut. They were simply a means to an end – finding someone to fall in love with.

‘It’ll happen, Henry,’ I tell him softly. ‘You’ll find someone.’

He looks at his hands. ‘I hope so. Because, all those women . . . I could never do
this
with them.’

‘What?’

‘Sit around getting drunk and singing shit songs.’

‘No, it takes someone really special to do that with, doesn’t it?’ I laugh sarcastically.

I look up and realize he’s not laughing. I study his expression, but it’s difficult to make out. As I gaze at his parted lips and dark eyes, I feel my pulse quicken and a tidal wave of adrenalin rush through my body.

We look into each other’s eyes for too long to be comfortable and my body temperature rises suddenly. I can hear nothing but my own heartbeat thundering through my head and time stands still.

Despite every bit of sanity urging me not to move, I find myself leaning in to him. My mouth is being drawn to his. I close my eyes and wonder drunkenly whether what I think is going to happen really will.

I know that Henry’s my friend, not my lover, and that kissing him will change everything. But I can’t stop myself. It’s as if I’m being pulled by a force of nature. As our lips touch, he tenses. I respond by moving my body closer to his, kissing him more decisively. At first he doesn’t move, as if he’s in shock.

Then his shoulders relax, his body edges into mine and he reaches for the back of my neck. He does it with conviction, his strong hands fingering my hair without hesitation.

Our mouths delve into each other’s, our tongues exploring as I feel weak with desire. At first it’s soft and deliberate, then passionate and unrestrained. Kissing Henry is like nothing I’ve experienced. My mind spins with pleasure as I revel in his taste, discovering a new and glorious part of this person with whom I’m so familiar – yet apparently not.

We kiss and we kiss. I look up and feel Henry’s mouth on my neck. He caresses me with his tongue, making his way down to my collarbone. His fingers slide downwards across my bare shoulder and he slips them under the strap of my vest. I gasp as he pushes it gently down, leaving me exposed and breathless with desire.

He bends down and I watch the swell of his lips on my breast as I groan with pleasure. I arch my back, my body exploding with longing. When he finally lifts his head, it is to kiss me on the mouth. I hurtle towards an orgasmic dreamworld, a haze of lust.