My Single Friend (38 page)

I get a waft of jasmine and the intense sweetness I usually adore makes me want to regurgitate my lunch.

‘So,’ he smiles, ‘I’ve made a decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m going with her.’

His face is filled with excitement and happiness. As I lift my wine glass to my lips I can hear it chattering against my teeth.

‘You’re not annoyed, are you?’ he asks quickly. ‘Over the flat, I mean? I figured you’d easily get another flatmate and, if not, there are lots of one-bedroom places available. If you couldn’t sort yourself out, I’d continue paying rent while I’m away. The last thing I want is to cause you any trouble.’

I gulp in an attempt to hide my emotions.

‘It’s no trouble, Henry,’ I manage.

‘Honestly, Lucy,’ he continues, ‘there’s no way I’m going to leave you in the lurch. You can take as long as you want.’

‘I – I know. It’s fine.’ I force a smile.

‘I knew you’d understand.’

He leans over and hugs me. As his arms envelop my shoulders I fight tears and try to pull myself together. When he finally releases me, he brushes a strand of hair from my face and looks into my eyes.

‘Hey,’ he says softly. ‘You’re not upset, are you?’

I go to shake my head. Then I nod instead.

‘Oh, Lucy,’ he tuts, putting his arm around me again. ‘You’ve got Dominique to look after you while I’m away. You’ll be fine.’

‘How long are you going for?’

‘A year.’

Two simple words. Yet they punch me twice in the stomach.

‘Perhaps longer,’ he goes on. ‘We’ll play it by ear.’

‘A year?’ I reply hoarsely.

‘It’s you I’ve got to thank for this,’ he whispers, stroking my hair again.

I look up, the pain in my chest worsening. ‘Me?’

He nods.

‘I could never have done this if you hadn’t given me the confidence. Honestly, Lucy Tyler – you’re the best friend in the world.’

I’ve never had a little black book. I’ve had a little purple book, covered in silk with a picture of an oriental bird on the front. I got it on a fifth-year excursion to a Wildlife and Wetlands Trust Centre, and buying it was the highlight of the trip. That might make me sound like a philistine, but after six cold hours observing three ducks and a temperamental Whooper Swan, I’m unapologetic. At least they had a shop. I went home with a china tea-cup, a tin pencil-case, several new rubbers and my little purple book. I was happy.

In the ten years after I bought it, the book was gradually filled with the names and numbers of men I went out with.
Briefly and unsuccessfully
went out with.

I sit on the edge of my bed, alone while Henry and Erin shop for new rucksacks, and silently flick through its pages.

I dug it out because in films, when the heroine has a romantic crisis, she reaches for her address book and conjures up a stream of hunky specimens from her past. My expectations are significantly lower – but surely there must be
someone
I could ask out without risking a restraining order.

I open the first page, where there are seven entries. I can’t believe I’m only on A and there are that many.

Right . . .

Chris Austen. He was ages ago – just after university. As I remember, he had the bum of a sprinter and a smile that could melt icecaps. But that’s about all I can remember. I put a star next to his name. Promising.

Next . . .

Ben Ainsley. He must have been three years later. A trainee property surveyor with whom I went to see
Minority Report
. Not bad-looking as I recall, although slightly tight-fisted (I bought the popcorn), with a funny lisp that . . . oh no. I can’t phone him. He was the one whose car I directed into a ditch the size of the Panama Canal. He was
so
unreasonable about that.

Next . . .

Marc Abbott. No, no, no. Shattering his mum’s patio window with my red patent leather stiletto is not my proudest moment – particularly since my version of the ‘Time Warp’ song from
The Rocky Horror Show
wasn’t even the most animated at the party. God, that was unfair. As I watched the shoe hurtle off my foot, through the air and straight through his mother’s window, there was only one thought in my head.
Why
has this happened to me and not Caroline Decker, when I’m sober (relatively) and she’s drunk a bottle of Malibu and has danced as if she’s being electrocuted all evening?

By the time I’ve got through the book an hour and a half later, I’m even more depressed. Is my adult life really little more than a series of disastrous dates?

I sit up straight and force myself to think positively. Besides, I’ve got stars next to eleven men who I think it’s worth another shot with. It’s not that I remember them as being spectacular examples of manhood, or even that we hit it off especially. These are the ones with whom I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. At least, I think not.

I pick up the phone, my heart pounding, and dial Chris Austen’s number. I’m looking forward to speaking to him again, and not least because it’s making me think of that bum. It’s years since I’ve seen him so he’s probably got a new number, but—

‘Hello?’

I don’t recognize the voice immediately.

‘Hi,’ I say nervously. ‘Is Chris there?’

‘Speaking.’

My heart skips a beat.

‘Oh. Chris. Right. Well. You might not remember me after all these years. In fact, I’m sure you don’t remember me because it’s been ages. But my name is Lucy Tyler and—’

‘Lucy Tyler?’ he interrupts.

‘Yes, and—’

‘Of course I remember you.’

‘Oh,’ I reply, pleasantly surprised. ‘Gosh, that’s a turn-up for the books. I assumed because it’d been so long that—’

‘Lucy, love, I could never forget you.’

The way he says it makes me feel uneasy.

‘Really?’

‘I still tell the story of the night we went for a quiet Chinese,’ he continues. ‘The doctors had me worried at first when they said my sight might not return.’

It comes back to me in a sickening flash.

‘They’d never seen anyone stabbed in the eye with a chopstick before.’

Oh
God.
I hold my breath, as the memory unfolds in glorious Technicolor.

‘I don’t think I quite
stabbed
you, Chris,’ I say, hoping my indignation covers my embarrassment. He always was prone to exaggeration, but still. ‘I’m not trying to shirk responsibility or anything, but it was more of a . . . poke than anything else. And very easily done.’

‘Don’t worry, Lucy – I’m not going to sue you. It was fine after a few days. Well, weeks. The blurring went eventually and my sight’s as right as rain now. And, to think, you spent all that time in the Far East – I thought you’d have been an expert.’

‘Um, yes,’ I mutter. ‘But I was out of practice with the chopsticks and—’

‘That anecdote was one of the first things I told my wife on the night I met her. She says that story was what attracted her to me – she knew immediately I had a blinding sense of humour. Ha! Blinding! Geddit?’

The next few phone calls are even less productive. The guys in question either have a thoroughly Significant Other now or a forgotten tale of horror, or – like Chris Austen – both. Reluctantly, I decide to give up. The men in my past are clearly best left there.

Three days later, I get a phone call.

I’m surprised at how much it brightens my spirits. And, call me a blundering optimist, but an attempt at a relationship – one that
doesn’t
involve Henry – could be exactly the tonic I need.

Paul isn’t as good-looking as I remember, but that doesn’t put me off: his behaviour this evening is so close to perfect he should write a textbook on dating etiquette. Since we arrived at the comedy club half an hour ago, I can’t fault him; he’s complimented my dress sense, enquired about my job, leaped to the bar every time I attempted to do so. He’s made me feel attractive and clever when I was feeling about as irresistible as a malodorous warthog. For that, I owe him a lot.

With five minutes to go before the first act, he turns and smiles. ‘I feel like an idiot, Lucy.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘For not phoning you after the Grand National. You must have thought I was a prat.’

‘Well . . . yes,’ I agree, but without rancour.

He looks embarrassed.

‘I’ve always had this problem with commitment,’ he explains. ‘Whenever a girl likes me, I feel the need to create some space – to take a breather.’

‘Hey, don’t worry, Paul.’ I laugh gently. ‘You didn’t break my heart.’

‘Of course.’ He’s unable to hide his disappointment. ‘The point is, I’m over it.’

‘Over what?’

‘My commitment issue.’

‘Oh. Well, good for you.’ I don’t mean to sound sarcastic. ‘I mean that,’ I add.

He smiles gratefully and something strikes me: Paul hasn’t made a single innuendo all night. He really
has
changed. ‘I’m so pleased you agreed to come out with me again tonight.’

‘Good,’ I shrug.

‘I’d almost forgotten how stunning you were.’

I smile awkwardly and, as the lights dim, part of me is relieved not to have to think of an answer. I’m not used to men being like this around me. It’s hard to put my finger on why it’s happening. Could it be that the more nonchalant I am, the more take-him-or-leave-him, the more interested he becomes? Surely not.

As the compère walks on, I feel Paul’s eyes on me again. When I look up, he has such a dreamy expression I feel like a Chunky Kit-Kat at a Slimming World meeting.

I turn away hastily.

I haven’t been
trying
to play it cool, it’s just how I feel. I like Paul – at least I think I do. But after the hoo-ha with Henry, I’ve struggled to get myself worked up about this date. Hence the absence of fake tan, the presence of last year’s jeans with a minor stain on the front thigh, and legs as stubbly as Kurt Russell’s chin.

The show ends up being a good one. The compulsory unfunny comic keeps his act mercifully short; the two amusing ones dominate proceedings.

By the time we spill out with the rest of the crowd, for once I can’t decide what I want the turn of events to be.

‘So,’ says Paul, ‘what would you like to do now?’

‘I don’t know. What are the options?’

‘Well, we could go for a drink, or to a club – Heebie Jeebies is only down the road and my friends are there.’

He glances at my expression. ‘Though, on second thoughts, maybe not.’

I smile.

‘Or,’ he continues tentatively, ‘you’d be welcome to come over to my place. For a nightcap.’

‘How about a drink?’ I offer diplomatically.

‘Oh. Great,’ he says.

As we head to a bar, I try to work out my feelings for Paul. When he slips his hand into mine and squeezes it, it gives me a comforting glow. There’s no doubt Paul wants me tonight. No doubt at all. When we get to the bar, he insists on buying the drinks again, despite my protestations.

‘Do you still go to the Lake District often?’ I ask when he returns.

‘I do,’ he replies. ‘Why, would you like to do it again some time?’

I hesitate and think back to the conversation Henry and I had the night he was with Davina – when he implored me to be more honest on my dates. ‘I don’t think so,’ I tell Paul. ‘I feel silly saying this, but I may have misled you about the amount of experience I had in fell-walking.’

He smiles. ‘I suspected.’

‘I’m no expert – at that or anything else. I’m just me. Boring old me.’

‘There’s nothing boring about you, Lucy,’ he says, and before I get a chance to think, he starts moving towards me. His eyes close and his lips meet mine and I find myself looking at his face at close range as he kisses me, with the fiercest intensity in his expression.

I pull away.

‘What’s up, Lucy?’ he asks.

‘I . . .’ I begin.

But I haven’t got an answer. Not really. I only know that Paul isn’t what I want.

‘How’s the Jacuzzi?’ I am on the phone to Mum the day after the new addition to their spare bedroom has been installed.

‘Jacuzzi? That’s what he told me it was too.’

‘Oh. So Dad hasn’t brought home a Jacuzzi?’

‘No, Lucy, he hasn’t. We have a ten foot by ten foot pool of water in our spare room, but it is
not
a Jacuzzi.’

‘I’m confused. What is it then?’

She sighs. ‘It’s a birthing pool.’

‘A birthing pool? As in, a pool you give birth in?’

‘Correct. Just when I thought your father’s taste in knock-off goods couldn’t get more outlandish, he brings this home.’ She doesn’t sound impressed. ‘Apparently they were getting rid of them at the maternity hospital where your dad’s mate Robbo works as a porter. Over a thousand babies have been born in that thing. Which is a beautiful statistic – but it does shatter the vision I had of sipping martinis in it like Joan Collins.’