How to Get a (Love) Life (25 page)

It was my turn to look surprised as we embraced, and he whispered, ‘That okay?’

‘Oh, I’ve got so much to tell you, James,’ I said, patting him playfully on the chest.

I turned to Sweaty Man. ‘I am so sorry but James and I go way back, do you mind?’ And with that, Sweaty Man, realising defeat, turned and left.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I gushed, spinning back to James and smiling madly. ‘I’m absurdly grateful.’

‘I’m absurdly confused,’ he replied. ‘Drink?’

‘Definitely.’

I turned and saw Sweaty Man standing in the queue at the bar.

I turned back to James, ‘Er, maybe not here?’

James took me to a tiny little bar down a side road off Park Street. I removed my coat and looked around the room. The walls were lined with old photographs of musicians, some signed, most in black and white, low glass-topped tables had been placed next to enormous ageing leather sofas, tea lights flickered on every surface, and the murmur of chatter rose in a crescendo as we pushed through to the bar.

He ordered us drinks and insisted on paying. ‘Nic, it was a
free bar
, things must have got bad to have left.’

I settled back into the sofa, aware that my dress had inched up to flash a good few inches of thigh. I attempted to smooth the skirt down, with little result.

A man in a trilby hat dragged a stool out from the corner, set himself next to the microphone and started to gently sing. I sighed, resting my head back on the sofa, and closed my eyes for a second.

‘Better?’ James laughed.

I opened one eye and nodded at him. ‘Much.’

He was wearing a black cashmere jumper over some brown cord trousers, slightly worn at the knee. He sunk into the leather seat, looking like a wealthy aristocrat back from walking the hounds. I blinked, realising I might have been staring.

He leant forward. ‘Cheers.’ We clinked glasses. ‘I’m glad I could rescue you.’

We listened to the music in companionable silence, enjoying the warm atmosphere and the relaxed talk around us. Over in the other corner, a couple laughed, the man reaching across the table, without thinking, to take her hand. I smiled at the moment. James was looking at them too, an unreadable expression on his face. He turned to me. I lifted the straw to my lips, sipping distractedly.

My mind was suddenly fired up with questions. Why had he come back to the party? Where was Thalia? I opened my mouth, then closed it again, not sure whether I should ask, not knowing if I wanted to know. We were just colleagues, I reminded myself. It wasn’t any of my business. His private life was private and I couldn’t presume anything. He was just being friendly because we worked together. Nothing was happening.

I was brought out of my thoughts by the fact that the singing guy had removed the mike from its stand and was now at our table, holding it out to us.

‘Er James,’ I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. ‘What’s he doing here?’

James looked as alarmed as I felt and hissed back, ‘I think it’s open mic night.’

The guy nodded encouragingly and thrust the mic towards James. ‘Little song, my friend?’

James leaned into the microphone. ‘Oh a song. Right, yes, well,’ he paused, hand flying up to loosen a non-existent tie. Then he caught my eye and a slow smile spread across his face. He took the microphone and cleared his throat. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I am with a wonderful amateur actress who I am certain can sing too,’ he turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders. I was aghast as James continued. ‘But she’s shy about her talent and will need some encouragement.’

The couple in the corner started banging their fists on the table, cheering and smiling over at us.

My mouth was agape, my drink wobbled dangerously in my hand.

I was made a noise between a yelp and a gurgle.

James turned to me and held out a hand. ‘Come on, Nicola. Show the crowd what you can do.’

‘But I—’

‘—Hey, I know you can do it. Glenn sent me the footage of the ad. You looked amaz … you looked good.’ He coughed. ‘And so confident! I’ve heard you sing in the office when you make tea.’ He stopped, and a hint of red crept up his neck. ‘You can do it.’

As if seeing myself from above, I got up, knees shaking, and took the microphone from him. As I moved towards the little raised platform in the corner of the bar, James’ words ran right through me. I stepped onto the stage.

I think James must have mentioned my name because people were calling out ‘Nicola!’ in an encouraging way.

I stood by the microphone and looked at my audience. All eyes swivelled towards me. I leant into the microphone, eyes now down at the floor, expectant bodies around me. I opened my mouth … And no words come out.

I looked with wide eyes over at James who had sat back in the leather sofa and was giggling ridiculously. The sight of his enjoyment gave me a surge of strength. An idea emerged as I saw him clutching his side in mirth. I looked out at my audience, not quite the size of Wembley but to me just as terrifying.

I cleared my throat. ‘Tonight is an exciting evening for us all as I am thrilled to announce that I will be performing a rare duet with my equally reluctant singing partner, James.’ I then stood back, started to clap, and the room joined in. It was my turn to giggle as James spat a mouthful of his drink back into his glass. I was having fun now. I put a hand on my hip, waggled a finger at him. ‘Don’t be shy now, James.’

Everyone in the room was clapping as he slowly pulled himself up off the sofa to join me.

‘You minx,’ he whispered out of reach of the microphone.

‘You started it,’ I replied out of the corner of my mouth, turning once more to the crowd and giving them an enormous dazzling smile.

‘So what are we singing, James?’ I held the microphone out to him.

‘I think we should sing “Something Stupid”, Nicola.’

The music started up, and together, we sang.

Two hours later we were stumbling out of the bar, patted heartily on the back by the host of the open mic night, being nodded and smiled at by perfect strangers and replaying our moment in the limelight. The cute couple walked past, grinning. The man called out, ‘Good times!’ and slung an arm around his girlfriend, nodding at us they walked away. The street was practically empty, a couple of last-minute stragglers wandering off to the kebab shop on the corner. The windows in the apartments were all dark. The city was sleeping. It felt like we were the only people awake and the thought made me suddenly aware of myself, like the magic had worn off.

‘Shall I walk you home?’ James asked.

‘I’m fine, thank you. I’ll jump in a taxi.’

I hailed the first cab I saw, barely glancing at James as I told the driver where I was headed, opened the door and stepped inside. I was sitting on the smooth leather of the taxi seat when I looked back at him. He was standing on the pavement looking straight at me. A question dying on his lips.

Hours later I was still staring at the ceiling of my flat. Kicking off the duvet, I turned over and plumped the pillow for the eighteenth time. Why was I so restless? Images of the evening swam before me every time I closed my eyes and I froze guiltily. It had been nothing more than a friendly drink. I mustn’t read too much into it. James was taken, and not even interested in me. We had nothing in common particularly, nothing much at all. I mean, we laughed at the same things, but surely lots of people laughed at things, things could be funny. And I only felt so relaxed around him because I was used to him. It was nothing more and I shouldn’t be fretting about it. I should sleep now, I should go to sleep.

‘… And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you …’

Gah.

Following a night of broken dreams, I woke up extra early and headed into work. I squeaked a hello at James who was so completely
normal
with me it only served to show how right I had been about there being nothing between us. I needed to get on and meet other people, and keep on track with the search.

In a flurry of activity that afternoon, I booked some things to do, activities where I could meet a good man. Valentine’s Day was approaching fast and I wanted to ensure I had a date on that day. I needed an entire day of masculine-type activities. Man Stuff. I noted the nearby greasy spoon cafe opening times and found a golf course. It was a start.

Chapter Thirty-One

The day of Doing Man Stuff dawned and, as if in celebration, it was sunny. First, I was heading to the cafe for a full fry-up, which I would eat whilst reading the sports pages. Then I was going to the driving range, where I would hit some balls, then I would head to the supermarket to hang around the Car Magazine section and then, if all that failed, I would head to a sports-themed pub for a pint and some pork scratchings. This plan was foolproof. I looked for holes. I could think of none. I would ensnare a man, I would entrap a bloke, I would capture a member of the male species, I would—

‘Weird mantra, sis.’

A head popped round the bathroom door and I realised I had said those last bits aloud.

‘Get out, Mark,’ I said to his reflection in the mirror.

‘Righty ho.’ The head disappeared.

A call came from down the corridor. ‘I hope you are successful at entrapping a bloke, or that a member of the male species is captured.’

On a mission, I felt energised as I pushed into the greasy cafe at the end of my road. The windows had steamed up and the whole place smelt like bacon. I approached the coffee-stained counter and ordered a Full English Breakfast. Sliding into one of the wooden booths, I wondered why I had never been here before.

I pulled the paper from my bag and pretended to read, really surreptitiously searching the cafe for potential victims. I mean men. My fellow diners were a varied bunch: girl in hoodie, couple holding hands over waffles (they looked too close for siblings, so he was obviously taken), single man with back to me (it was broad. Broad might have been a polite way of putting it – but he went on the list) and two guys on stools, chatting by the counter. It was hard to get a good look at them without drawing attention to myself but I deduced that one of them had long red hair tied into a ponytail and the one facing me had a large tattoo on his face. I returned my focus to the broad-shouldered man in the booth opposite, willing his tanned, potentially gorgeous visage to turn towards me. He shifted in his seat and I hastily looked down at the paper, only then realising it was upside down. I turned it over and started to read something about the football Champions League. Something had gone badly for Chelsea. I was not sure if that was a bad or good thing but felt I should probably have an opinion if I was reading about it. I decided I was sad about it and put on my best sad face.

It was like a magnetic pull: the broad man turned around at me and smiled, nodding at the paper. I nodded back as my fry-up appeared. Wow. My stomach rumbled at the sight of two gorgeous yellow fried eggs, bacon covered in grease, two plump sausages and a side of beans and toast. I tucked in, groaning in an embarrassing way as I loaded another forkful into my mouth. When I finished I realised there were no men left in the cafe. The breakfast had completely distracted me from my mission.

I headed to the driving range, spirits lifting with every mile I drove, and parked outside a lonely-looking shed buffeted by the wind. I saw fields stretching beyond as far as the eye could see, a neat manicured golf course in the other direction. I breathed in the air, the cold stinging my face and whipping strands of hair in every direction. Feeling refreshed, I opened the boot and pulled out a club with the number 7 on it, like a She-Warrior drawing her sword. I practically ran back to the shed screaming a battle cry.

Walking through the entrance, the noise of the wind faded and I was faced with a vending machine standing on a cold, concrete floor. I realised that this was where I needed to get the golf balls from. I queued politely behind a boy of no more than ten who was tugging on the sleeve of his dad’s arm (single father? Widowed young? Just him and his son against the world?). Then a woman dressed in top-to-toe diamond-patterned stuff cooed from a nearby bench. ‘Get fifty, darling, I am feeling good about this today.’

‘Darling’ muttered something and then jabbed at the machine. I listened as balls rattled into a wire basket below. The pair wandered away, carrying their precious load.

Fifty must be what I should get if I felt good. And I did. I had watched a bit of golf on the television. It was sort of like hockey, but with a slightly smaller club, and although I wasn’t the best at hockey (horrendous flashbacks of 1994 and that situation with Emily Green and those braces threatened to overwhelm me), I hadn’t been completely dreadful. I confidently pressed the ‘50’ button and looked on in horror as fifty golf balls spat all over the concrete floor.

‘Wire basket, you need a wire basket!’

A man behind me started laughing, stopping some of the escaped balls in their tracks and scooping them into a basket he was holding.

‘Oh God, oh no, oh God!’ I scrabbled about hopelessly, collecting the balls into a makeshift pouch in my jumper.

‘Here, let me,’ said the man, holding out the basket so I could pour the balls into it.

I stopped the moment I heard his words, and looked up to see James standing there, a huge grin on his face.

‘Didn’t know you were a golfer, Nicola,’ he said.

‘I, um, I … thought I’d, you know, give it a go,’ I mumbled.

Five minutes later, and with the entire range staring at us, we’d finished collecting the balls. I suspected my face was the same shade as James’ red jumper.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the basket of balls from him.

‘Not at all.’

I waited, not sure what to do next. He pointed to the machine behind me and turned to pick up another wire basket. ‘Well, I should …’

‘Oh God, sorry! Yes, of course,’ I babbled, picking up my club and moving towards the sectioned off areas of the range. I looked back over my shoulder at him. He was pressing ‘50’.

I turned into the third, empty section, trying not to think too much about James being here. Placing the wire basket down, I reached for my first ball and balanced it on the bright orange rubber tee that was jutting through a hole in the green square. I took the club, held it with both hands at the top, looked down at the ball, swung through and gazed into the field beyond, shielding my eyes with my hand for good measure. I heard a little laugh behind me. Looking down, I realised the ball had not left the little green square and that James had seen everything.