My Single Friend (4 page)

I glare at him. ‘You’re seriously going to keep a chocolate trifle the size of Centre Court at Wimbledon in our fridge – next to my measly bag of bean-sprouts?’

‘Come on, Lucy, you’re not going to inflict this nonsense on me, are you?’

Henry is one of those people who never gives a second thought to his diet. He can happily buy a mammoth chocolate trifle without a smidgen of guilt and, worse, can eat as much as he likes without putting on an ounce.

I, on the other hand, can’t even look at a chocolate trifle – nay,
think
about one – without disintegrating into a car crash of complex body and food issues, of greed, lust and frustration.

The difference is knowledge. This is the only example I can think of in which mine exceeds Henry’s. My expertise in the field of calories, fat and, latterly, GI is so pre-eminent that if I went on
Mastermind
I’d make televisual history.

Despite this, it hasn’t done me a great deal of good over the years, and I’ve almost come to the conclusion that I’d be better off living in ignorance. Look at previous generations: my gran had a twenty-four-inch waist until she was in her late fifties. She was a skinny little thing and, like Henry, was as familiar with what constituted a kilo-calorie as the lyrics to Kanye West’s back catalogue.

She’d think nothing about whipping up dinner for four using a pound of lard, a few cups of dripping and several ambiguous hunks of solid red meat. Yet she stayed the size of a malnourished sparrow. I can only put this down to the fact that – unlike my generation – she did not obsess about every item she put in her mouth for sixteen hours a day.

Clearly, I’m not going to let Henry know this.

‘It is not nonsense,’ I tell him, ‘but if you want to be unsupportive, then fine. I thought you were more sensitive than that.’

‘Lucy, as ever, I’m prepared to bow to your every need. But I’m not prepared to live on bean-sprouts for the week.’

I scowl at him.

‘Besides,’ he says, putting the trifle in the trolley, ‘it’ll test your strength of character.’

‘I don’t want strength of character, I want a pert bum,’ I protest.

For the sake of time, I agree to use a less rigid method of determining the
nootrient
value, i.e. instead of using the special
Nootrient Calculator
, I simply guess.

I conclude that a tin of baked beans and sausages will be okay (approx one
nootrient
per tin, I’d say), as will a jar of pesto sauce (half a
nootrient
per serving) and some pro-biotic drink things in titchy plastic bottles (zero
nootrients
, surely?). I graciously allow Henry to throw in a big bag of gourmet crisps because they’re olive oil flavour, which everyone knows is good for you.

When we get to the till, Henry pauses and picks up the trifle. ‘Okay, you win. I feel bad. I’m taking this back.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I laugh. ‘You’re right. It’s my diet, not yours. Leave it in.’

‘Honestly, I don’t mind,’ he insists.

‘Neither do I.’

‘No really, I—’

‘Henry!’ I snap, like an armed response officer. ‘Put – the – trifle – back – in – the – trolley.’

‘But—’

‘I might want a bit after dinner,’ I mumble.

‘What about your diet?’

‘Everything in moderation is acceptable,’ I tell him, thinking back to what Mussolini used to say. ‘I can have a modest, tablespoon-sized taste. That couldn’t have more than half a
nootrient
or so, I’m sure.’

‘Okay, good,’ he smiles. ‘Great.’

A weird thing happens at the till, as I pack away our food and Henry takes out his wallet. The checkout girl smiles at him.
Really
smiles at him. She’s not exactly a stunner – more Denise Royle than Denise Richards – but she’s got a nice enough face and a cleavage I’d kill for.

‘They’re lovely, them chocolate trifles,’ she sighs, carefully putting it in a bag and looking up at Henry. ‘Me and me sister had one the other night with loads of that squirty cream all over it. God, it was gorgeous!’

If this were any other red-blooded male, being chatted to by an attractive young woman – particularly about her sister and squirty cream – would be a positive thing. An opportunity to engage in a friendly, potentially flirtatious conversation.

If Henry sees it thus, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he mutters something under his breath, shoves his debit card into his wallet and, with his head bowed, scuttles away with the trolley. The poor girl must wonder whether she’s got halitosis.

I almost challenge this behaviour in the car park, but stop myself. I know what it’s about and torturing Henry by bringing it up will only make things worse. When it comes to women, he’s desperately, dysfunctionally shy – and always will be.

So, when we get into the car, I don’t say anything. Nothing at all. Instead, I calculate the
nootrient
value of the crisps which, it emerges to my disbelief, will put me over my weekly quota in one go.

You know those apartments in
Elle Decoration
with elegant soft-furnishings, hand-cut flowers and room schemes that juxtapose striking colour with clean lines? Well, our apartment is nothing like those.

I’d like it to be. It’s just never worked out like that, despite my considerable efforts. When we moved in, fired up with creative zeal, I attempted in earnest to recreate such a look.

Only, when I painted the hall ‘Ochre’, it looked brown. So I painted over it with ‘Sienna’ and that looked brown too. I followed with a ‘Wheat’, a ‘Fallow’ and an ‘Ecru’, but the most appealing shade I ever managed just looked like the unwashed shorts of a grubby Boy Scout. When Henry pointed out that the walls mightn’t withstand much more, I went for broke and painted it ‘Duck Egg’. Every time I walk in now, I feel as if I’m being committed to a prison cell. Still, we’ve learned to live with it.

The other reason our apartment is some way off those in
Elle Decoration
is that it isn’t exactly clutter-free, and for that Henry is as much to blame as me. Every room boasts floor-to-ceiling shelves straining under the weight of his books; they’re piled high on side tables, the bureau in the hall and the piano in the living room – his piano, not mine, in case you’re wondering. And this isn’t even his complete collection: the majority is at his parents’ house.

These are just his favourites. I don’t know why anyone needs four editions of Darwin’s
Voyage of the Beagle
, or three of
Genetic and Evolutionary Aspects of Malaria and Other Blood Parasites
(they’re classics apparently). But then, Henry doesn’t see being a scientist as just a job; it defines him.

Henry – or
Dr
Henry Fox, to give him his full title – works at the Tropical Medicine Research Centre with a team of boffins (a word I can’t resist using, despite knowing how much he hates it) studying malaria and ways of preventing its spread across Africa. It’s the noblest profession I can think of and makes me feel rather humble when constructing press releases about half-price bathroom sales.

Anyway, Henry doesn’t just read books about science. He has more first editions of classic and contemporary fiction than Russell Brand has split ends. All of which means our flat has some way to go before it features on
Grand Designs
.

‘Have you opened the chocolate trifle yet?’ I ask casually, curling up on the sofa.

Henry looks up from his paperback. ‘I don’t fancy it tonight.’

Panic registers in my brain, but I allow him to return to his book.

‘Why not?’ I laugh lightly. ‘It looks lovely.’

He scrutinizes my expression.

‘If I wasn’t on a diet, and didn’t have a date in three days’ time, I’d definitely want to eat it,’ I continue.

‘Who do you have a date with?’

I can’t help smiling. ‘He’s called Jake. I met him at the opening night of the new play at the Circle. He’s gorgeous. Which is why I couldn’t possibly have any trifle. Though I’d scoff the lot under normal circumstances.’

He shrugs. ‘I might have some later.’

‘At what time?’ I ask.

‘At what time?’ he repeats.

‘Yes, at what time do you think you’ll get round to opening it? I’m only after an estimate. You know, eight thirty-two . . . eight thirty-three . . .’

‘Given that it is eight thirty-one, I’m guessing you’d like to open it now?’

‘Well, if you
were
opening it now . . .’

‘Like I said,’ he continues, ‘I don’t fancy it at the moment – but you’re welcome to open it.’

‘
I’m
obviously not going to open it,’ I tell him, exasperated. ‘Not when I’m on a diet.’

‘What difference does it make who opens it?’

‘Oh Henry,’ I sigh. ‘Will you go and open it so I can pinch some and not feel guilty?’

He stops and smiles. ‘Of course.’

He goes to the kitchen to get the trifle, returning with two dessert spoons, one for each of us. He sits next to me on the sofa and we dig in as I switch over the television.

‘What are we watching?’ he asks.

‘Reality TV at its best. It’s right up your street,’ I tell him ironically, because this isn’t Henry’s kind of show at all.

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Live a little, Henry. You might like it.’

‘What’s it about?’ he asks.

‘Some poor person who’s never been lucky in love volunteers for a full makeover. By that, I don’t just mean a new wardrobe. They get lessons in how to flirt and how to behave on a date. They get a new hairdo, facials, teeth whitening—’

‘Is there anything left of them by the time they’re finished?’ Henry interrupts.

‘The good bits stay,’ I reply. ‘Though admittedly, good bits are sometimes in short supply.’

As I tuck into the trifle looking not very like someone on day one of a diet, I’m gripped. This week’s subject is a thirty-eight-year-old virgin called Brian who works in IT and has teeth like a Cheltenham Gold Cup winner.

‘I thought
I
was in trouble,’ Henry says.

‘Just wait,’ I reply confidently.

Fifty minutes later, Brian looks like a Levi’s 501 model with more chicks at his feet than The Fonz.

‘I admit it,’ says Henry as the credits roll. ‘That’s impressive.’

‘Told you. Oh dear.’

‘What?’ he asks.

‘The trifle’s gone.’

‘So it has.’

‘You must have eaten it all,’ I tell him.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Henry, you
must
have,’ I say. ‘I can’t possibly have devoured half a chocolate trifle – I barely noticed it. Tell me I didn’t.’

He smirks. ‘Course you didn’t, Lucy. I scoffed the lot. Apart from one or two modest spoonfuls for you.’

‘I thought so,’ I say, taking out my
Diet World Nootrient Tracker
and marking down two and a half points – a reasonable estimate, I think.

When I put it down, Henry is gazing into space.

‘What’s up?’ I ask him.

He shakes his head, snapping out of it. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, Henry. I’ve known you long enough to recognize when something’s up.’

‘Nothing’s up.’

‘
Henry
. . .’

He frowns. ‘It’s nothing really. Just . . .’

‘Just
what
?’

He pauses and stares at his hands. ‘You know the way I am with women?’

I look at him, taken aback. ‘You mean . . . shy?’

He nods. ‘It’s a pain in the arse.’

I let out a little laugh, see his expression and stop. ‘Sorry. You were saying?’

‘Oh, forget it, honestly,’ he replies, waving his hand.

‘No, Henry – I’m sorry. Tell me what you were about to say.’

He frowns for a second and takes a deep breath. ‘I’d like to have a girlfriend at some point.’ He squirms with embarrassment.

Henry has had a relationship before, about five years ago. It was a kind of office romance – except he works in a laboratory, rather than an office. The point is, he spent ten months with Sharon from the Accounts Department before they drifted apart and she went to work in Cardiff.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with Sharon. She was quiet, unassuming, plain but not unattractive. But, at the risk of sounding like an over-protective friend, she wasn’t good enough for him.

I wanted to like her when we first met, to get to know her hidden depths. Unfortunately, and this will sound awful, I never found any. Sharon, God bless her, was as dull as they come.

‘I’m sure you’ll find someone one day, Henry,’ I tell him.

‘I’m not,’ he replies. ‘I’m a glass-half-full sort of person, but I’m also a realist. I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.’

I go to protest then stop, not wanting to interrupt him.

‘I’m hopeless with the opposite sex,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know why, but I am. Utterly hopeless.’