My Single Friend (14 page)

‘How did you manage that?’ I ask.

‘I walked over to those girls in the corner and got talking to one of them about her Kate Moss at Topshop dress – I’d spot one a mile away. Then I introduced Henry.’

‘And?’ asks Erin.

‘And he was on his way.’ She looks rather pleased with herself. ‘At least, I think he was. Justin, that’s the gorgeous guy I was with before, was leaving because he’s got to catch a plane tomorrow morning so I had to go out to give him a farewell kiss.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘So you think Henry’s doing okay with those women?’

‘I couldn’t have set him up better, that’s for sure,’ she replies. ‘All he had to do was . . .’

Dominique’s sentence trails off as Henry approaches our table – alone.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘Well,’ he shrugs. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘What do you mean you’re not sure?’ asks Dominique, exasperated. ‘Did you get her number or what?’

Henry looks away.

‘Henry!’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ demands Dominique.

‘It seemed so corny. And . . . not me.’

‘That’s the point,’ she says, frustrated. ‘Getting dates
isn’t
you – that’s exactly what we’re trying to change, remember?’

‘I know you’re right, Dominique. But I don’t think she found me attractive.’

‘How do you know?’ I ask.

‘I just got that feeling,’ he says.

‘Right, you lot,’ says a doorman, approaching our table. ‘Time to go home now.’

We reluctantly make our way out.

‘Don’t worry, Henry,’ I tell him. ‘This was only your first attempt. It’ll get easier, believe me.’

I hold open the door for Erin, hoping no one can see that I’m crossing my fingers.

‘What’s new?’ I ask Mum, biting into my second Bourbon biscuit. I didn’t particularly enjoy the first one but there’s something annoyingly compulsive about them. Especially since there’s only half a Diet World
nootrient
in each. At least, I estimate that there is.

‘Oh, you know,’ she sighs, polishing the picture-frames on the mantelpiece. ‘Your father’s been reciting love poetry and I’ve been on a big spending spree down Bond Street. You can’t beat them Chanel knickers.’

‘Not a lot then.’ I take a sip of tea. ‘Oh well, Mum, you never know – when I’m the boss of a big PR company I’ll buy you as many Chanel knickers as you want.’

‘I’m sure they’re over-rated.’ She finally relinquishes her duster and picks up her tea. ‘Your father certainly wouldn’t notice the difference between them and Aldi’s finest.’

‘That’s men for you, Mum,’ I tell her.

‘They’re not all like that, are they?’ she mutters.

I lean back on the sofa as my brother Dave walks in. It’s February and struggling to touch four degrees, but his Saturday-afternoon uniform is the same even when there’s ice on the ground: North Face vest (in a pectoral-enhancing size too small), Quiksilver flip-flops (displaying feet that are mysteriously still tanned, despite his return from Ibiza seven months ago) and designer ‘lounge pants’ (tracksuit bottoms, to you and me). The latter item is Dave’s favourite type of trouser – he owns enough pairs to clothe a small nation state. His evening attire is another matter. When Dave and his mates are due to hit the town, the staff at Ted Baker undergo such a major surge in activity they sometimes have to call in reinforcements.

‘All right, sis?’ he says, ruffling my hair. It now looks as if I’ve been backcombing all morning. He collapses onto the sofa and sends my tea flying.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I complain.

‘What?’

‘You’ve nearly given me third-degree burns.’

He looks at my tea-splattered top. ‘Shouldn’t be so clumsy.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘It was my fault your fat bum caused a tidal wave in my drink, was it?’

He lets out a strange snorting sound, like an asthmatic bison dislodging mucus from its nasal passages. ‘You can talk. I’ve seen less cellulite on the arse of a Sumo wrestler.’

‘Dave, you’re such a—’

‘Takes one to know one,’ he interrupts.

Deep down, I love my brother but this is still a depressing conversation. We are twenty-eight and thirty respectively and it is still impossible not to communicate like we did aged eight and ten.

‘How’s Cheryl?’ I ask, maturely deciding to be nice.

‘What?’ He grabs the remote control and starts scrolling through the sports channels.

‘Cheryl. Your girlfriend,’ I remind him.

‘Oh . . . fine.’ He switches the channel to Sky Sports 14.

I’m using the term ‘girlfriend’ loosely, even though Cheryl and Dave must have been together for several months. In her world, this time-frame means they’re on the brink of a proposal; in his, he simply has guaranteed sex with a part-time underwear model (that’s what she tells us those photos are for, anyway) when no one else is available.

Not that that’s often the case. Dave has women falling at his feet, although how and why is as mysterious a phenomenon as the Northern Lights. Personally, I don’t think he’s that good-looking, though I appear to be in a consensus of one. When I look at Dave, all I see is a strange cross-breed of boy band member and professional bodybuilder, an explosion of unfeasible muscles and hair gel. Yet, women love him.

‘I was born with the Lynx Effect, simple as that,’ is how he explains it.

‘Yes – you’re anyone’s for about £1.99,’ tends to be my response. But, as I say, today I’m going to be nice.

‘How long have you been going out together?’ I ask.

‘Huh? Dunno. A couple of months,’ he replies, switching the channel again.

I frown. ‘Dave, she was at Baby Nicola’s christening. So you must have known her for at least
six
months.’

‘If you knew the answer, why did you ask?’

I roll my eyes. ‘God help Cheryl, honestly.’

‘She’s just bought him some new aftershave,’ Mum interjects. ‘So he must be doing something right.’

‘That’s what it is,’ I say, sniffing the air. ‘I thought you’d had the Brasso out.’

In fact, Dave’s aftershave is perfectly nice, but it would be against the rules to admit it. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Dunno,’ he replies unconvincingly.

Mum smirks. ‘David Beckham’s new one. Cheryl’s got the Victoria version.’

I stifle a smile.

‘I don’t know what you think is so funny,’ he says. ‘There’s no danger of anyone buying you a his and hers set, is there?’

I am constructing my stinging riposte when Mum jumps in. ‘Give it a rest, you two.’

‘
He
started it,’ I tell her, only partly being ironic.

‘Bollocks.’

I stand and pick up my bag, deciding this is a good time to leave before I really want to throttle him. ‘I’m off, Mum.’

‘All right, love,’ she says, coming out with me.

When we get to the hall, she opens the front door. ‘How’s Henry getting on with his makeover?’ she asks. ‘Is he Liverpool’s answer to Burt Reynolds yet?’

I pull a face. ‘If by that you mean
has he improved
, then yes. Henry looks great. You can’t argue with how great he looks.’

‘So?’

‘Unfortunately, he remains as close to finding a girlfriend as I am to finding a new solar system. It appears that seduction isn’t his forte.’

‘Well, I’m sure seduction’s over-rated too. That’s what your father tells me, anyway.’

I chuckle.

‘Seriously,’ she continues, ‘some blokes aren’t cut out for all that chatting-up stuff – I think Henry’s one of them. He’s more honest than that. He’s no bullshitter, Henry, is he?’

‘True. But not being a bullshitter has got him nowhere with the opposite sex.’

‘Oh dear.’ She picks up some mail from the side table and starts idly leafing through it. ‘By the way, have I told you what Denise is up to?’

‘No, what?’

She looks up from her letters. ‘Salsa dancing.’ She announces this with a tone that indicates salsa dancing is the most outrageously exotic pastime she’s ever heard of.

‘Great,’ I reply.

She snorts. ‘Well, good luck to her if she’s hoping to find any Latin Lotharios to grind her hips against around here.’

‘You don’t go to salsa to find a man,’ I chide. ‘It’s a hobby – a good way to keep fit. People love it. One of my clients does it every week and swears by it.’

‘If you say so.’

I shake my head. ‘You’re so unadventurous sometimes, Mum.’

‘Unadventurous? You know how it is, love. I once thought about going down the Lara Croft route and becoming an international antiquities dealer, but decided to become a cleaning lady instead. I thought it’d expand my horizons more.’

I can’t help feeling a little annoyed with her.

‘Just because you’re a cleaning lady doesn’t mean you can’t have a life,’ I point out.

She stops and spins around.

‘I mean it,’ I stress. ‘Why don’t
you
go to salsa dancing instead of complaining all the time?’

She looks hurt. ‘I’m not complaining. Christ, when did you lose your sense of irony?’

‘I didn’t. But you’re still young, Mum. Think of all the things you could be doing instead of endless housework here.’

‘I quite enjoy housework,’ she says, then pauses. ‘Okay, perhaps “enjoy” is the wrong word. It’s more of a reflex action.’

‘Come on,’ I challenge. ‘Tell me why you can’t go to salsa dancing with Denise?’

‘I don’t want to go to salsa dancing with Denise,’ she says, exasperated.

‘Why not? You might enjoy it.’

‘I won’t,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ll feel like a dickhead dressed like one of those crap Spanish dolls you get in the airport.’

‘It’s not
flamenco
dancing!’ I cry. ‘It’s
salsa
. You don’t wear costumes.’

‘I don’t care.’

I pause for a second and look at her. ‘You’re scared,’ I say accusingly.

She pulls a face. ‘Listen to you with the dramatic lines. Have you been watching
Steel Magnolias
again?’

‘You
are
scared,’ I repeat.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Well, what else is it?’

‘I just don’t fancy it!’

‘Whatever you say.’ I go to step out of the door. When I turn back to look at her, her lips are so tightly pursed she looks poised to suck snake venom out of someone’s leg.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Fine, I’ll go,’ she replies.

‘Really?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.

‘Let me clarify: I’ll go
once
. But the first sign of a pair of maracas and I’m outta there.’

I am trying my best to look cool and confident. Unfortunately, my neck has come out in blotches again and my hands are sweating like a wrestler’s.

The momentousness of being on
date number two
with Paul the optician is too much to bear. Logic tells me that I should feel nothing but positive about the occasion. The fact that he liked me enough to ask for a second date should help me muster some confidence. The problem is, logic isn’t something I’ve got a grip on at the moment. And things haven’t been helped by his choice of venue.

When Paul suggested a day trip to the Lake District, I had visions of a romantic lunch overlooking Ullswater, a relaxing stroll round the lake or, if we were feeling adventurous, a scenic ride in a steam boat.

I hadn’t imagined – until we spoke on the phone yesterday – a day’s ‘fell walking’ up Crinkle Crags, somewhere I’d never heard of but, frankly, didn’t like the sound of one bit. And that was
before
I read the Lake District Walkers Forum website, which says – and I quote:
From the Langdale Valley, the route climbs by Red Tarn to traverse the Crinkle Crags, a craggy ridge with several summits, the highest being Long Top. Rating:
DIFFICULT
.
I’ve no one to blame but myself. But I was worried that I’d never progress to a second date if he found out that the closest I usually get to fresh air is sitting next to the window at work. Besides, the picture I painted wasn’t entirely fictional: I
did
go camping with a group of friends in the Yorkshire Dales. Okay, I was fourteen at the time and with the Girl Guides, but let’s not split hairs.

Anyway, how hard can it be? I’m physically fit – thanks to the Pilates classes I’ve been doing four times a week for the last, um, week. But crucially, I now have another factor sure to help me on the road to success.

I own
all the gear
.

Having convinced Paul I made Ranulph Fiennes look like Homer Simpson, there was no way I could turn up on a day’s fell-walking without the appropriate attire. I therefore took the afternoon off work yesterday and did ten circuits of Black’s store with a shopping trolley, wondering how I’d never seen the attraction of climbing mountains before.