My Single Friend (6 page)

She, Erin and I have hit the shops with Henry to begin his reinvention.

‘I mean it,’ continues Dominique, frenziedly rifling through a rail of sweaters. ‘One phone call from his mother would have been suspicious. You deserve a medal to have lasted as long as you did.’

I shrug. ‘I won’t be seeing him again, that’s for sure.’

‘It seems so unfair,’ sighs Erin.

‘It wasn’t just the thing with his mother,’ I complain. ‘I couldn’t understand a bloody word he was saying. And that was when he was talking about the plays I’ve
seen
. When he got onto Roger Vitrac and
Power to the Children
he could have been speaking Cantonese.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Erin, concerned. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy. I’m sure you’ve just been unlucky.’

This is what she says after all my dates, but I don’t point it out. Besides, unfettered optimism must come easily when you’ve got a love-life like Erin’s. She and The Lovely Gary have been together for eight months and they’re so smitten that she can’t ask him to pass the milk without sounding like a Valentine card verse.

The Lovely Gary has been referred to as such since the evening Dom and I met him at a new bar opening, shortly after he and Erin got together. Erin had spent three weeks repeating how ‘lovely’ he was, until Dominique attempted to bring her back to earth, saying: ‘Erin, sweetheart – no one’s
that
lovely.’

Then he carried Dom into a taxi after an incident involving a snapped high heel and one too many Jackhammers, and she was forced to concede the point. Ever since, it hasn’t sounded right calling him just ‘Gary’.

There is no doubt The Lovely Gary has been good for Erin; you only have to look at her to see that. Today, with her beaming smile and glossy strawberry-blonde waves, she looks stunning. Her clothes are gorgeous too: Erin dresses in a way that’s bohemian and fashionable at the same time – a look I’ve never been able to master. When I try to do bohemian I look as if I’ve slept rough.

‘Oh well, there are plenty more fish in the sea.’ I smile unconvincingly.

‘Absolutely,’ agrees Erin. ‘You’ll find someone soon, Lucy, I’ve no doubt.’

‘I’m not desperate or anything,’ I say for the record.

‘Of course not!’ replies Erin.

‘Onwards and upwards.’ I wonder if it’s obvious that I’m hiding my lack of conviction with a string of clichés. The truth is that I am getting a bit depressed about my love-life. Dating has been fun, but . . . what am I talking about? It hasn’t been remotely fun. I’ve enjoyed the anticipation of going out with new people, but am sick to death of it inevitably ending in disaster.

It’s not that I’m not over my ex, Tom. But I’ll admit that I miss the intimacy. I miss curling up together on a rainy Sunday afternoon and talking about nothing and everything, between kisses. I miss fingers winding round mine as we snuggle up at the cinema. And I’ll admit this too: I miss sex.

I haven’t had anything approaching amorous relations for months. Well, amorous relations with a human being. Dominique bought me a vibrator for my birthday and while it is undoubtedly effective it’s also rather mechanical for my tastes; lacking in personality. There’s no flirting with that bugger – no eye-contact or first kiss. Just a lot of vibrating. Still, it’s got three settings, which makes it better-rounded than some of the blokes I’ve been out with. Oh God, I’ve become a cynic as well.

‘Where’s our hunk-to-be?’ asks Dominique. ‘It feels like hours since he went into that changing room.’

Henry wasn’t bursting with enthusiasm when we arrived. In fact, while we scoured the shop, he hovered about looking so uncomfortable you’d think his underpants were a size too small. Unperturbed, we picked out an array of super-stylish ensembles and dispatched him to the changing room while we waited for him to emerge, transformed and triumphant. Except he’s taking a very long time.

‘Er, Henry,’ I call, feeling awkward loitering next to the men’s changing rooms. ‘Are you nearly ready?’

When there’s no answer, Dominique whips back the curtain. ‘Henry, I’m coming in.’

‘
No
.’ He pokes his head round the door of his cubicle as semi-naked men run for cover.

‘Hurry up then,’ she replies. ‘Your hair appointment’s in a couple of hours and we haven’t achieved anything.’ Then she joins us on the sofa, crossing her legs and leaning on the arm.

‘You’re not the only one who didn’t have a great night last night,’ she tells us. ‘I finished with Robert.’

‘Is he your older man?’ asks Erin, wide-eyed. ‘The one with the Porsche?’

‘
Was
my older man. He’s a nice guy, but I started to become obsessed with his bingo wings. Does that make me shallow?’

‘Probably,’ I say.

‘Oh well, never mind. Besides, I’m starting to wonder if it might be time to settle down.’

‘What?’ Erin and I reply in unison.

Dominique looks indignant. ‘Why is that so surprising? I’m not a complete freak, am I?’

‘Not a freak,’ I reply, ‘but if you’d said you were joining the next Hubble space mission I’d have been less shocked. No offence, Dominique, but you’ve never shown the slightest interest in settling down.’

‘I know,’ she muses, ‘but I’m starting to think I should.’

‘Why?’ asks Erin, agog.

She pauses. ‘My Cousin Angie got engaged last week. She’s so miserable normally. Honestly, she’s spent most of her adult life in a sulk. Except last week she had a smile on her face. It was incredible. And it made me think that maybe I should give commitment a go. I’ve tried everything else.’

There is a rustle of the curtain and Henry pops his head out of the changing room. ‘I’m not sure this is me.’

‘
Doctor
Henry,’ says Dominique, ‘of
course
it’s you. The clothes are gorgeous and you’re going to look like dynamite. Now let me see. Come on!’

Dominique is relishing her self-appointed role as Henry’s chief stylist and her approach is somewhere between Trinny and Susannah and a Soviet interrogator. Henry reluctantly drops the curtain and steps forward. The three of us are stunned into silence.

‘What do you think?’

Until now, we were under the impression that we couldn’t go wrong with these outfits. But this one
has
gone wrong. Very wrong.

‘How did he do that?’ mutters Dominique.

‘What?’ I whisper.

‘Make those beautiful clothes look like . . .
that.’

After ten minutes of close inspection, a number of problems become clear. First, a phone call to his mum confirms that the sizes he gave us were completely wrong, which explains why his trousers make him look like a nineteenth-century chimney sweep.

Secondly, despite the simplest of instructions, Henry managed to mix up the outfits, pairing the posh evening shirt with stone trousers meant for casual daywear. For someone so bright, he can be very dim sometimes.

Thirdly, Henry had attempted to accessorize his new gear with his old gear, and I’m afraid Giorgio Armani himself couldn’t have worked with that tank top.

Henry is marched back to the changing rooms with a new set of correctly-proportioned items and strict instructions.

‘What’s that?’ I ask, as Dominique stuffs something into her bag.

‘Henry’s tank top,’ she replies.

I flash her a look. ‘He really likes that thing, Dom.’

‘I know,’ she replies. ‘Which is why, for his sake, I’m going to take it home and burn it.’

‘I’m getting into the swing of this,’ says Henry, picking up the most hideous shirt I’ve ever set eyes on. We’re in the same shop, hunting for clothes, before we send Henry back into that changing room in the hope of more success.

‘Good,’ I reply, gently removing it from his hand and placing it back on the rail.

He looks at me quizzically. ‘What? No good?’

I shake my head.

‘It is a bit bright,’ he concedes. ‘If I joined the mountain rescue service and had to stand out in zero visibility conditions it’d be ideal.’

‘But for becoming irresistible to the opposite sex, I’d recommend this instead.’ I hold up a stripy Paul Smith shirt, the sort I’d buy for a boyfriend, if I ever managed to get one.

‘Isn’t it a bit dull? I thought the idea was to give my wardrobe lots of
pizzazz
,’ he smirks.

‘Are you taking the pissazz, Henry?’ I ask sternly.

Dominique appears with an armful of clothes. ‘Here’s another selection to try – and this time I’m coming with you. There’s a private cubicle over there.’

‘Christ,’ mutters Henry.

‘There’s no need for that,’ she replies authoritatively, leading the way. ‘You can keep your underwear on.’

‘That’s very decent of you, Dominique,’ he says.

‘This is for your own good, Henry,’ she fires back. ‘I’m only coming in because I need to ascertain your body shape.’

‘My body shape is relevant because . . .?’

Dominique looks exasperated. ‘Let me hand you over to my friend, the former personal shopper.’

Erin smiles sympathetically. ‘The thing is, Henry, body shape is as crucial to helping men dress their best as it is for women. Men with short legs, for example, should wear one colour to elongate their body.’

‘I don’t think that applies,’ I say. Henry towers over most of the men in the room.

‘Of course,’ agrees Erin. ‘It’s different for everyone, that’s the point. Another example is men who are, you know,
heavy on top
.’

‘Fat,’ says Dominique, in case it wasn’t clear.

‘Yes. Such men,’ continues Erin, ‘should avoid double-breasted jackets or a lighter top than bottom.’

‘I never realized it was so complicated,’ grumbles Henry.

‘Which is why you need me,’ replies Dominique, grabbing him by the arm.

Ten minutes later, Dominique emerges from the changing room with a strange look on her face.

‘What’s up?’ I ask.

She sits down and says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m almost speechless.’

‘What is it?’ Erin asks.

‘Henry’s body.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s . . . unexpected.’

‘What do you mean “unexpected”?’ I ask, frowning. ‘Is there something wrong with him? Has he got an extra nipple?’

‘No, Lucy. It’s great.’

‘What – Henry’s body?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘You’re saying
Henry’s
body is great?’

‘
Bloody
great.’

‘That can’t be right,’ I scoff.

‘I’m telling you: he has a torso Michael Phelps would be proud of. His legs are amazing, and,’ she leans in closer, ‘he’s got the package of a well-hung stallion.’

‘Euooow, Dominique!’ I am appalled. ‘Do you mind? This is my best friend you’re talking about. I don’t want to know about his package.’

‘You would if you saw it.’

I sit back and fold my arms. ‘What did you say his torso was like?’

‘Michael Phelps’s,’ she says.

‘No way.’

‘Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I’m telling you: his bod is
hot
.’

‘He does play a lot of sport,’ I muse.

‘There you go.’

‘But I can’t believe he can have a body that is “bloody great” and that I’ve never noticed.’

‘Neither can I. If a bum like that had been wandering round my flat for years I’d have had to be blind not to notice. Have you never seen him getting out of the shower?’

‘He’s got an ensuite.’ I bite my thumbnail, thoroughly unsettled. ‘Anyway, he wears this horrendous dressing-gown thingy so he’s always covered up. As for the daytime, I mean – you’ve seen his clothes. There’s no way you’d guess he had a decent physique hiding under those polo shirts.’

‘They
are
distracting – but no more! Wait till you see how he’s scrubbed up. How’re you doing, Henry?’ she yells.

He pokes out his head. ‘I’m still not sure about this.’

‘Come and show us,’ Dominique instructs.

‘The thing is, these trousers are incredibly tight around my . . . well,
buttock
area. It can’t be good for the circulation.’

‘Henry, I bet you look great,’ says Erin encouragingly.

‘And the T-shirt – I’d usually get a size bigger and—’

‘Henry,’ I interrupt. ‘Why don’t you let us see? What’s the worst that could happen?’

He nods, still looking unsure. Then he drops the curtain and walks towards us slowly, eventually giving us a reluctant twirl.

He’s wearing jeans which fit snugly around what I would have to concede is an impressive bum. A bum that has apparently been in hiding. Or at least one I’ve never looked at before – which is ironic because all three of us are struggling to tear our eyes away now.

On top is a plain white T-shirt, skimming a six-pack that couldn’t be more in-your-face if it was on offer at Threshers.

Then I look up and see the world’s worst glasses and a hairdo that makes him appear to share a stylist with the stars of
Fraggle Rock
. I’m not disheartened. I suddenly feel as if my flatmate could be on the cover of
GQ
. From the neck down, at least.