My Single Friend (22 page)

‘What about Loverboy?’ she continues. ‘Did he have any more luck?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ I reply, then hear a pan clang in the kitchen. ‘Ooh, I think he’s up. I’ll let you know.’

I grab my dressing-gown and pull it over my pyjamas as I step over my clothes, shoes and used make-up wipes from the night before. After Dominique’s pep talk and Paul’s confession, I am no longer too depressed about the fact that the night ended with me in my M&S nightwear with a fully-cleansed face, rather than being made breakfast in bed after a long and fulfilling night of passion.

‘Morning.’ I scan Henry’s features for a clue to the success – or otherwise – of last night.

‘Hey, Luce,’ he says, like every morning. ‘Do you want a bagel?’

‘No, I won’t.’

I ought to stick to my diet if I’m going to persevere with Paul, so head for my slimming bread in the freezer. I attempt to take out a piece but it’s stuck solid, even when I remove the whole loaf and go at it with a butter-knife as if I’m sculpting a piece of marble. I finally manage to chip off half a slice and put it in the toaster. It would look unappetizing to a starving sewer rat, but can’t contain more than twenty calories.

‘How’d it go last night?’

‘Fine,’ he replies.

‘Fine?’

He shrugs. ‘Fine.’

I shake my head. ‘Henry, this was your first proper date in twenty-eight years. If you think you’re going to get away with “fine”, you’re horribly wrong.’

He grins and looks at the toaster, from which a thin stream of black smoke is pouring. The bread has been in there for seconds but already appears to have fossilized.

‘Do you want something more substantial?’

I examine the charred remains of my toast. ‘Possibly.’

‘Well, we’ve run out of bagels,’ he replies. ‘Get dressed and I’ll buy you breakfast.’

It’s ages since Henry and I ate out for breakfast and it feels like a real treat.

As always, we order a Full English – mine veggie, Henry’s with enough meat to give a rapacious caveman indigestion – and wait for them over newspapers and steaming cups of strong coffee. A couple of years ago, a Sunday morning wasn’t a Sunday morning unless we began the day at our local café. Then I struggled to get my jeans past my upper thighs without the aid of a crowbar and decided to make it an occasion only indulged in every couple of months.

‘If you’re trying to keep me in suspense, I’d prefer to go home and read a Lynda La Plante novel,’ I tell Henry.

He glances up from the
Sunday Times
. ‘She’s nice,’ he replies, then returns to his newspaper.

I snatch the paper from him, fold it up and pointedly slap it onto the bench next to me, out of his reach. ‘Elaborate, please.’

He squirms. ‘What do you want me to say? She’s pleasant, extremely attractive. It went well.’

‘Are you seeing her again?’

He pauses. ‘She asked me to go to the theatre this week.
King Lear
is on at the Royal.’

‘You love
King Lear
.’

‘Yes,’ he agrees with a distinct lack of exultation.

‘Henry,’ I begin, frustrated. ‘Can you talk to me about this? Or do you really not want to?’

‘I . . . it’s like I said, she’s nice. Really nice. Attractive, intelligent, fun. She’s wonderful.’ He sighs.

Now we’re getting somewhere. ‘So?’

He frowns, trying to work out the issues before he speaks. Then he shakes his head as if there’s only one way to put this.

‘I don’t fancy her.’

My eyes widen, stunned.

‘I see,’ I manage finally.

‘I know it sounds ridiculous for someone like me to say that. I mean, I’m Henry.
Henry who hasn’t had a date in twenty-eight years
. Who am
I
to not fancy
her
? It’s not right, is it?’

I think about this for a second. ‘If you don’t fancy someone, you don’t fancy someone. There’s not a lot you can do about it.’

‘I know, but it’s
why
I don’t fancy her that’s the problem.’

A waitress arrives with our breakfasts and, after a reorganization of the table, finds space to put them in front of us. I pick up a knife and fork and begin cutting a Quorn sausage. Then I glance up at Henry. He is looking at me.

‘What is it?’ I put down my knife and fork.

He reaches across the table and holds my hand.

‘Lucy – perhaps I should be more honest with you.’

I squeeze his hand. ‘You’re always honest with me, aren’t you?’

He meets my eyes again. ‘Not entirely.’

‘Really?’

‘Lucy, I . . . Oh God, it’s no good.’ He looks frustrated.

Then something strikes me. ‘Are you gay?’ I whisper.

He lets go of my hand and laughs out loud. ‘No, Lucy, I’m not gay.’

I didn’t think this was the case, but thought I’d ask in case I’ve been labouring under the false assumption that my friend is heterosexual for the last nineteen years when, in fact, he harboured desires for half of my boyfriends.

‘Then what is it?’

He picks up his fork, stabbing it into a piece of bacon. ‘Nothing, sorry. Pretend I didn’t mention it.’

‘As if,’ I bluster.

‘Honestly, Luce, it’s fine. You’re right. I’ll go out with Rachel again – I’d be stupid not to.’

I am about to point out that I didn’t say he should go out with Rachel again, when I stop myself. Of course he should go out with Rachel. She’s lovely. So lovely that it’s only a matter of time before he
does
fancy her.

I prod my fork into a mushroom, and dip it into my fried egg – but for some reason, my Full English isn’t as appetizing as it was earlier.

Every April, one of the most spectacular sporting events in the world takes place ten miles from where I live. Much of the UK, half of Ireland, and a few from elsewhere in the world descend on the city. At least, it feels like it.

The Grand National Festival at Aintree Racecourse is the ultimate day out, no matter which of the three days you attend. But today – Saturday – is when the big race itself is run and you can feel excitement buzzing in the air. I know as much about horse racing as I do about particle science, but that’s irrelevant. To me, the event is about white wine on sunny spring afternoons, girls dressed to the nines, and more fun than you’d find outside the walls of a Bouncy Castle.

It is compulsory to attend with a group of friends, the law of averages dictating that at least one will win enough, either on the Grand National itself, or the races before it, to treat the losers to a curry at the end of the day.

We are here en masse on what is, miraculously, the warmest day of the year so far: Henry and Rachel, Dominique and Justin, Erin and a guy she works with called Carl. And Paul and I.

He arrived to pick me up at eleven-thirty on the dot this morning and when I answered the door he was every bit as attractive as when we first met.

He’s been the perfect gentleman all morning, holding open doors, bestowing compliments on me and lavishing attention on my friends. I can tell Dominique is impressed by the way she keeps winking at me when his back is turned.

‘You ladies look absolutely amazing,’ says Paul, as we head to the racecourse gates. He’s right. Erin is beautiful in her printed dress and a wide brimmed hat. Dominique is stunning in figure-hugging pink and heels so high it’ll be a miracle if she’s not in traction by the end of the day. And Rachel is more gorgeous than ever in a tailored trouser suit with plunging scarlet top and a red rose in her hair.

As for me: well, my outfit took me three months to unearth – which I know is probably longer than Howard Carter took to find Tutankhamun’s tomb, but believe me is worth it. My yellow dress is a dead ringer for Liz Hurley’s Roberto Cavalli number but was a fraction of the cost.

‘Let’s do this properly,’ says Paul, producing his wallet outside the Princess Royal stand. ‘Who’s for champagne?’

‘I like your style,’ Dominique tells him, and I feel a stab of pride.

‘Are you sure?’ asks Erin. ‘I bet it won’t be cheap.’

Paul grins. ‘It’s a special occasion. Besides, I backed a couple of winners yesterday when I was here for Ladies’ Day with my friends.’

A shiver runs down my spine at the mention of his friends but I keep smiling to maintain the illusion I’m as big a fan as him. Paul heads to the bar and returns with a bottle of Moët & Chandon and eight glasses on a tray. He opens the bottle with a rambunctious pop and fills our glasses, champagne fizzing over the tops. By the time he gets to Henry’s glass, the bottle is empty.

‘Oh, sorry,’ says Paul. Something about the way he says it makes me do a double-take. The apology sounds genuine enough, but I’m not entirely convinced by his expression. Maybe I’m imagining it. Either way, Henry doesn’t seem concerned.

‘Here, have mine.’ Rachel thrusts her glass at Henry.

‘No, it’s fine,’ replies Henry cheerfully. ‘I’ll get a drink from the bar.’

‘Really, Henry,’ insists Erin, ‘we’ve all got too much. We’ll top yours up a bit. Here . . .’

‘It’s fine,’ he repeats, but despite the protestations, Erin and Rachel lead a reorganization of the contents of the champagne glasses, filling his from the others, until it is distributed equitably.

‘Who’s for a flutter?’ asks Paul. ‘Do you know much about horses, Lucy?’

I briefly consider passing off today’s
Guardian
racing tip as my own, then remember I’m surrounded by friends who’d spot my blatant fibbing a mile off. ‘Not a lot, I must admit.’

‘I have a scientific method of selecting my horse,’ announces Dominique. ‘It never lets me down.’

‘Oh?’ asks Erin.

‘I look up their birthdays and only pick horses that are Sagittarians.’

‘Why Sagittarians?’ asks Henry.

‘Sagittarians are dynamic, natural athletes and big thinkers. If that isn’t the definition of a winning horse I don’t know what is. Look: here’s one –
Alabama Rain
. Perfect. A surefire winner.’

‘It’s five hundred to one,’ I point out.

‘Don’t care,’ she insists. ‘It’ll have character – you watch.’

Justin grins and puts an affectionate arm around her. ‘Anything else you’re an expert at?’ he teases.

‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘But you already know about that.’ She smiles her usual flirtatious smile but I swear I can see the hint of a blush round her neck. Justin kisses her gently on the lips. When they pull apart, she puts on a show of being cool that fools everyone but Erin and me.

It’s hard not to warm to Justin and not only because of the effect he’s having on our friend. As a trainee restaurant manager who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, he’s a far cry from Dominique’s usual type – particularly given that he’s six years younger than her. But he is warm, charming and apparently impossible for my friend to resist.

‘How about you, Henry?’ asks Rachel eagerly. ‘Are you any good on the horses?’

Henry and Rachel’s date the other night clearly went well from her point of view. I’d thought it impossible for her to gaze at him more dreamily than at the business awards. But today she appears so infatuated I’m starting to think she suffers from separation anxiety.

‘I can’t say I bet regularly,’ he replies, ‘but I’m going to give it a go. And if I don’t win I’m sure Lucy’ll stump up for this month’s rent.’

‘Don’t hold your breath. I can barely afford my own rent after buying these shoes.’

‘Well, I’m going to go and study the odds down at the fenceline,’ Paul announces, putting his arm round my waist. ‘You coming, Lucy?’

I smile contentedly as warmth spreads through my body. How
nice
it is to have a boyfriend again.

Having been pleased at the prospect of time on my own with Paul, I soon feel less enthusiastic.

Instead of a romantic stroll past the winning-post, Paul marches up and down the side of the course, debating with bookies in flat caps and dragging me to the parade ring so he can examine the horses’ ears. Why is he looking at the horses’ ears? Because, Paul maintains, the perkiness of the equine auricle is the key to its success. Personally, I found Dominique’s reliance on the signs of the zodiac more convincing, but he’s absolutely determined.

We head for the Tattersalls enclosure to watch the first three races because, although we’re in possession of more expensive tickets, Paul claims that the atmosphere here is far superior. It’s certainly louder, rowdier and more full of drunk people.

I don’t want to give the impression I’m not enjoying myself. But, having come here with my best friends, I’d now like to
be
with my best friends – particularly since Paul obviously hasn’t steered us away to whisper sweet nothings in my ear. He’s more interested in the horses’ ears than mine.

On the plus side, he does well on the races. By the third he is two hundred pounds up and in buoyant mood, while I am more than forty pounds down – but as my expectations are about as low as the land around the Rhine Delta, I’m not overly worried.