My Single Friend
Also by Jane Costello
Bridesmaids
The Nearly-Weds
First published in Great Britain by Pocket Books, 2010
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Jane Costello, 2010
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of
Simon & Schuster Inc.
The right of Jane Costello to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-84739-625-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-84983-269-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
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For my husband Jon
My sincere thanks, as ever, to the brilliant people who’ve worked behind the scenes to make
My Single Friend
happen.
I’m indebted to my agent Darley Anderson for his invaluable advice and support and to his Angels – particularly Maddie, Zoe and Caroline.
It is a tremendous privilege to be working with the people at Simon and Schuster. I am especially grateful to Suzanne Baboneau and my editor Libby Yevtushenko, with whom I simply love working. You’ve helped make My Single Friend sparkle and, together with Joan Dietch, my eagle-eyed copy-editor, saved me from more clangers than I’d care to reveal.
Big thanks also to publisher Julie Wright, as well as the enthusiastic and talented people working in the sales, marketing and art departments.
Finally, a mention for my family: my parents Jean and Phil, my brother Stephen and soon-to-be sister-in-law Barbara, my husband Jon and my children Otis and Lucas, both of whom are perfect in every way. Most of the time.
Some might say I don’t need another pair of glossy black shoes with a to-die-for heel. Particularly when, to the untrained eye, there are eight similar pairs fighting for space under my bed.
Others might point out that the success of a first date is rarely to do with the quality of the protagonists’ footwear. That you’re as likely to meet the love of your life in 99p flip-flops as in glorious sling-backs that cost . . . well, let’s not dwell on the cost. Let’s dwell instead on Sean, with whom I am going on a date this evening. The gorgeous, intelligent, chisel-jawed, tight-bummed Sean. That way, you’ll understand about the shoes – and why, despite my strict rule that a first date will
never
result in sex, I have removed all trace of extraneous body hair so that my bikini area now resembles that of a Californian porn star. Just in case.
The dazzling shoes and enthusiastic depilation are but elements of a routine with which I’ve become extremely familiar in the last eight months. It was then that I was thrust back onto the dating scene with the eye-opening jolt of someone who’d spent the previous year in a relationship. A ‘steady’ relationship that turned out to be not as steady as I’d thought when I found out that my beloved was sleeping with his sister’s best friend.
Still, being newly-single has its benefits, as my friend Dominique never tires of telling me – though admittedly, she’s a nymphomaniac. ‘Think of the fun you’ll have looking for the next one,’ she points out. ‘And . . . think of the
shoes
!’ I have to admit, the shoes always had their appeal.
Trouble is, after six and a half months of dating I’m starting to realize that I’m not very good at it. In fact, judging by how few first dates have resulted in
second
ones, I’m positively abysmal.
It’s not that I can’t get people to go out with me, it’s what happens afterwards that’s the problem – the date itself.
Dominique says I’m trying too hard. My other friend Erin insists I’ve just been unlucky. And Henry – my best friend for almost twenty years and flatmate for four – tells me I should be myself. Let them get to know
The Real Me.
Which is one of the reasons that I worry for him, because why would anyone want to go out with The Real Me?
The Real Me doesn’t have a glass of sparkling water between every alcoholic drink, has never read anything by Chekhov, hardly ever washes her make-up brushes and doesn’t help out at a centre for the homeless each weekend.
That, obviously, is not the Me on show tonight as I prepare to meet Sean, whom I encountered last week at a networking event in Liverpool, which is where I live and work. Even allowing for the fact that most of our conversation was about PR strategies for professional services, the chemistry was electrifying.
No, the Me on show tonight is the well-read, witty, charming Me, the one whose incredible shoes would make SJP look like Susan Boyle, pre-makeover. The me I want to be.
It’s a mild evening for January and I have a good feeling about tonight.
My dark-blonde bob is satisfyingly bouncy (which it
should
be, given I put in heated rollers five hours ago) and, after a drastic post-Christmas diet, my size twelve Karen Millen dress just about fits. As long as I don’t breathe out.
I see Sean the second I walk into the bar. It’s one of my favourite venues –
Alma de Cuba
, a spectacular former church converted into the most stylish drinking hole imaginable.
It’s dimly-lit and incredibly warm, so much so that I feel beads of sweat prick on my forehead almost immediately. I straighten my back and head towards him, imagining how Audrey Hepburn might enter a room. My feet stay firmly inside the new shoes instead of slipping up and down like they did before I followed a cunning trick I read in a magazine – to stick a blob of Blu-Tack under my heels. At least, it’s an
adaptation
of the trick: I couldn’t lay my hands on any Blu-Tack but I did find an old pack of bubblegum in the back of the kitchen drawer. After a few chews it stuck fast to the heels of my stockings and is working a treat. Note that the Me on show tonight is wearing stockings, as opposed to the more practical but considerably less sexy tights that The Real Me usually wears.
He looks up and smiles. It’s a heart-stopping smile, a wide, sparkly-eyed, face-lit-up sort of smile. But I don’t go to pieces, oh no. Instead, I allow the subtle trace of recognition to dance fleetingly across my face.
‘Hello, Lucy. You look beautiful,’ he says, kissing my cheek. ‘Great shoes.’
I have to physically restrain myself from falling to my knees and declaring my undying love for this man and his exquisite taste in footwear.
Instead, I slide onto the stool and reveal a flicker of a smile. ‘Thank you. You’ve obviously got good taste.’ I suddenly realize how that sounds.
‘I mean about the shoes,’ I add hastily. ‘Um, not about me. Looking beautiful, I mean. Although, obviously, that’s not such a bad thing either. Clearly. But, you know . . . I’m not an ego-maniac or anything. Ha!’
He looks bemused. ‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asks, to my relief.
‘White wine, please.’ I regain my composure. ‘A Chenin Blanc.’
‘Coming up,’ he smiles.
Feeling decidedly hot – a sensation exacerbated by the presence of the ravishing Sean – I slip off the backs of my shoes and place my heels on the footrest of my stool. There’s no way I’m letting the over-zealous heating in this place make my feet puff up like they do anywhere more temperate than Blackpool.
As Sean turns to catch the attention of the barman I surreptitiously scrutinize his features. He is stunning. I am
so
punching above my weight.
‘You still busy at work?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes,’ I tell him brightly. ‘But I can’t complain about that.’
‘Definitely not, when you’ve won all the best clients in Liverpool.’
Hee hee! He thinks I’m a high-flyer!
‘I’ve been lucky,’ I say modestly. ‘But what about you? How’s life at Stratton Bell?’
We spend the next half-hour engaged in a tantalizing mixture of work-talk (which I don’t mind as he seems to think I’m a PR genius) and lovely, flirty, pulse-quickening first-date talk. As he stands to whisk me to the restaurant across the road, I couldn’t feel more optimistic if he’d started musing about venues for our first child’s christening.
‘Shall we?’
I take his hand and prepare to glide gracefully to his side. But as I go to stand, I suddenly realize that I’m not going anywhere. I realize that . . .
oh shit
. . . I’m stuck.
Clamping both heels on the footrest of my stool was not a good move – not when there’s a big blob of bright pink gum on each.
I try to pull the right one away but it stretches and stretches and, despite my efforts to disengage, it continues stretching until it’s flapping round my shins like a ridiculously-proportioned Hoover-belt.
‘Ooh, um, sorry . . . give me a sec.’ With blazing cheeks, I plonk my head between my knees and attempt to untangle myself.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, peering down in bewilderment. ‘Can I help?’
‘No!’ I cry, dementedly winding up reams of gunk and attempting to pick the remainder from my sole. ‘Just a little, um . . . shoe issue. I’ll have it sorted in no time.’
‘Please, let me help,’ he says gallantly, reaching down.
‘No!’ I snap, grabbing my left ankle and yanking it upwards as if wrenching a plunger out of the U-bend of a toilet.
‘Really, if you’d just let me help, I—’
‘No!’ I shriek, rather louder than intended. ‘I mean, look . . . I’ve got it now,’ I declare triumphantly as I successfully unstick my foot and send the stool clattering to the floor.
I cough. ‘Sorry about that.’ I straighten myself out as my eyes dart around the floor, attempting to locate my right shoe.
