My Single Friend (33 page)

Worse, it appears that Drew has been showing off with good reason. After four rounds, he and his loud and obnoxious friends are in the lead, followed closely by Henry and me. This isn’t bad going – especially as I’ve only contributed three answers.

‘Well,’ I huff, ‘what possible use is it, to be able to name the year in which Pablo Picasso died? I ask you . . .’

‘Nineteen seventy-three,’ whispers Henry, scribbling the answer.

‘What?’

‘That’s the year Picasso died. It’s geography next.’

Henry writes the answers to everything from the capital of the Caribbean island Grenada (St George’s) to the country with the largest coastline (Canada) and the name of the dam on the Zambia–Zimbabwe border (Kariba).

He gallantly confers with me after each question, apparently not noticing that I don’t disagree with a single suggestion.

‘It’s not a sign of proper intelligence, being able to win at these quizzes,’ I inform Henry. ‘Not that I’m knocking
you
, obviously – I know
you’re
properly intelligent. It’s just, some people go through quiz books memorizing the answers – where’s the skill in that? At least in your case, Henry, you’ve answered these questions because you genuinely know all this, though Christ knows how. Half of this lot have spent too many nights ploughing through their
University Challenge
annual.’

I change my tune slightly when I manage to answer another question, a proper one too, naming James Harding as Editor of
The Times
.

‘Not completely useless, then,’ I say, pleased with myself.

Sadly, I let myself down when, a glass of wine later, I spontaneously shout out ‘Ibiza’ when asked which country’s flag has the most colours. Apparently it is South Africa, though I bet the buggers sniggering on the next table didn’t know that.

As the quiz continues, Drew and his friends become louder, drunker, more annoying and full of themselves. Worse than all of that,
they continue winning
.

Then, as if the gods are smiling on us, the next round is announced: classical music. After five questions, Henry puts down his pen.

‘I wasn’t sure about the
Dido and Aeneas
question,’ he frets.

‘Don’t worry, Henry.’ I pat his leg reassuringly. ‘Neither was I.’

In the event, we don’t absolutely stuff Drew and his team mates – though, given their reaction, we might as well have. We beat them by two points: seventy-eight to seventy-six.

Drew is furious, flouncing out of his chair and straight to the gents. I’m ecstatic, leaping up and hugging Henry as if he’s won the Monaco Grand Prix. Laughing, he prises himself away from my grasp and looks at me.

‘You seem pleased to have won.’

‘You’re a master of understatement sometimes, Henry. Too right I’m pleased to have won.’ Unable to control myself, I kiss him on the cheek, before pulling away in embarrassment. Henry looks awkward too.

‘I’m starving,’ he says, filling the gap.

‘How about we head home and grab some toast before bed,’ I suggest.

‘You’re a woman who knows how to live, Lucy,’ he grins. ‘Toast it is.’

Henry and I are at the door of the pub when Drew appears looking like one of those talking germs in a bleach advert.

‘I suppose you’re going to be as smug about this as everything else?’ he spits drunkenly.

‘I’m not smug,’ I protest.

‘Ha! It’s your middle name. Every time you win a contract, or get a piece in the paper, or Roger asks you to look after a big client, you’re as smug as a . . . very bloody smug thing.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘Poetic as ever, Drew.
I mean Andy
.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘You’re such a bitch,’ he mutters, almost falling on me.

‘For God’s sake!’ I push him away furiously. ‘It was only a quiz.’

‘It was
only a quiz
,
only a quiz
,’ he mimics, swaying from side to side. ‘You have to win at
everything
, don’t you, Lucy Tyler? Well, looks like you’ve come unstuck with that
Peach Gear
account, doesn’t it?’

I don’t say anything. ‘Screwed up badly, didn’t you?’ he sneers. ‘Come on, was it you who leaked the story?’

‘Why would I leak the story, when all it’s done is lose me a client?’

‘Hmmm, good point,’ he leers. ‘Then perhaps you shared the information with someone you shouldn’t – Dominique, perhaps? You seem to tell her everything, confidential or not.’

He registers my expression and smiles triumphantly. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You did tell her. She can be a real blabbermouth from what I hear, Lucy. I’d be careful in future.’

‘Why are you so interested in what went on with
Peach Gear
?’

For a second I’m convinced Drew is behind the
Peach Gear
disaster. Then I realize he can’t be. There’s simply no way he could have known about the issue with the vest tops before it hit the press.

‘It was nothing to do with me,’ he chuckles. ‘Sorry, Tyler, but you can’t pin this one on me. So, how’re you going to get out of it? Oh, I know – maybe you can sleep with the boss. That should be right up your street, you slapper. I’ve never met anyone who’s been through as many men as you have, Lucy.’

‘I do not
go through men
, Drew.’ I hate myself for rising to the bait. ‘I just haven’t found anyone to settle down with.’

‘You’d rather sleep your way through them?’

My mind whirrs with cutting ripostes, none of which seem cutting enough, when Henry steps in.

‘We’ve heard enough, Andy,’ he says quietly, ushering me to the door.

‘It’s
Drew
,’ he growls.

‘Fine,’ replies Henry calmly. ‘Drew. The point is, Lucy doesn’t want to stand here and listen to this. I don’t either.’

Henry turns and guides me through the door.

‘You
fucking freak
!’ we hear.

Henry pauses. I glance up to see his reaction. Remaining completely calm, he simply says, ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’

‘You always were a weirdo, weren’t you, Fox?’ Drew looks like a demented bulldog. ‘I can’t believe you and she have hooked up together. Ha! You deserve each other. The slapper and the fucking freak.’

Henry spins round and glares at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me, you fucking fruitcake.’

Henry shakes his head, with a look of pity on his face. It seems to infuriate Drew more. As Henry goes to walk away again, Drew dives on him. Literally dives on him. Punching and spitting, he goes at Henry with every ounce of fury running through his poisonous veins. I stand, stunned, with my hands over my mouth and my heart racing with panic. Then something happens that I’d never have imagined.

Henry lifts up his head resolutely, grabs Drew by the throat and, with his body at arm’s length, he punches him. Clean in the face.

Drew falls to the ground.

‘Oh. My. God.’ I gaze at the heap before me.

Henry sighs, straightens his shirt and crouches down next to Drew to examine the damage.

‘Don’t come near me,’ he whimpers, attempting to crawl away.

Henry stands, running his fingers through his hair with frustration. ‘I
didn’t
want to do that,’ he says. ‘I really didn’t want to do that.’

As we head for home, I struggle to keep up. Henry is striding quickly, working off his frustration. He stops to take my arm as the soft light from our porch falls on his troubled features.

‘Honestly, Lucy, I didn’t want to do that.’

‘I know, Henry.’ I squeeze his hand.

But
I
wanted you to.

I can’t get to sleep after that. It’s not just that the events of the evening clatter round my brain, determined to keep me awake. It’s not just the thrill I get, replaying Henry’s eyes meeting mine. And it’s certainly not the things Drew Smith said and did, even after Henry knocked his lights out.

I’ve come to a realization. One it’s taken twenty years to work out.

I’m not only fond of Henry. He’s not simply my friend. I don’t even just fancy him, not any more.

I
love
him. With every ounce of my being, I love him. He’s everything I ever wanted. And he’s Henry. My Henry.

So I make a decision: no more
in
decision. No more wimping out. I’m telling my best friend I’m in love with him and that’s that.

The only question is when. The next day I am preoccupied by this thought – almost, but not quite, to the exclusion of the ongoing
Peach Gear
issue.

I return home in the evening with a tornado in my stomach and, when I see I’ve arrived before Henry, dive into the bathroom to tart myself up. Subtly, of course. He might have seen me tons of times with a head of Velcro rollers, or a hangover pallor the shade of an avocado. But today I am going to tell him I love him – and I refuse to look anything other than gorgeous for the occasion.

After half an hour in the bathroom, my skin buffed, moisturized and Touche Éclat-ed to oblivion, I hear Henry’s keys clatter on the hall table.

I open the door as he races to the kitchen and follow him, my heart pounding.

‘H-Henry,’ I stammer as I reach the door.

‘Oh hi, Lucy,’ he says distractedly, rummaging in the cupboard under the sink.

‘I was wondering if you had ten minutes?’

My veins are bursting with adrenalin. Henry grabs the iron and plugs it into a wall socket.

‘Not really,’ he says apologetically. ‘I’m horribly late.’

‘Oh.’ My heart sinks. ‘You’ve got a date.’

He picks up the ironing board and battles with it until it’s upright. Then he flings his Hugo Boss shirt on it, the gorgeous dark one I picked out for him.

‘I don’t know whether it’s a date,’ he admits, frantically running the iron over the sleeve. I scrutinize his expression. Does he
want
it to be a date?

‘Is this the same woman you’ve been out with a few times?’ I ask nonchalantly. ‘The one you deny you’re dating?’

He nods. ‘I’ve only denied we’re dating because nothing’s ever happened between us. I’m not sure it ever will. What do you think I should do?’

Two weeks ago I’d have instructed Henry to seize the initiative and make
sure
something happens. But now isn’t two weeks ago. Things have changed.

‘It must be nearly a month since you started seeing her, isn’t it?’ I chew my lip. ‘To be honest, it sounds like a bit of a dead loss.’

He pauses momentarily and looks up, surprised. ‘Really?’

I nod, feeling only slightly guilty. ‘If there was any real chemistry, something would have happened by now.’

‘Hmmm.’ He mulls this over. ‘Well, I’m seeing her again this evening. Perhaps if something doesn’t happen tonight I’ll call it a day. But if it does, I won’t.’

I am rooted to the spot, as the iron hurtles over Henry’s shirt. Do I say it now? Do I snatch the Morphy Richards from his hand and tell him to forget this other woman – forget
all
the other women – because I, LUCY TYLER, LOVE HIM?

‘That sounds okay, doesn’t it?’ he asks.

‘Well, I . . . maybe there’s something I should tell you first.’ My heart thunders against my ribcage and is only just drowned out by the steam setting.

‘Oh bugger.’ He lifts up his shirt and examines it under the light. ‘There’s a stain on the collar. Where’s that cloth?’

‘Henry, I . . .’ As he frantically rubs off the stain from his shirt, unplugs the iron and heads to the door, I know it’s not going to happen.

‘I’ve really got to run,’ he says, then hesitates. ‘Sorry, Lucy. Was it important? If it was I can always—’

‘No, Henry,’ I interrupt. ‘It’ll wait.’

‘Great,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll catch you tomorrow.’

Ten minutes later, Henry dashes out of the house. I wander to the hall and breathe him in, the lingering scent of his aftershave igniting my senses.

With the flat empty of sound, I head for the living room and slump on the sofa where I flick through the channels, cursing the quality of television. Deep down, I know it’s not the schedulers’ fault. Nothing would distract me from the same thought, whirring through my head over and over again. A short prayer which, despite being an entirely improper subject to call upon the Lord Almighty for, I can’t help saying:
Dear God, please don’t let anything happen between Henry and his woman tonight.
Please
don’t let anything happen
. . .

When Henry doesn’t come home I know that my prayers have gone unanswered. It’s hardly surprising – even I’m appalled to have raised this with Our Maker when parts of the world are ravaged by war and famine. The fact that I tagged on a perfunctory note about world peace and cruelty to animals is hardly going to have satisfied Him.