My Single Friend (5 page)

I bite my lip. ‘Why do you think you find it so difficult to talk to women?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replies, looking genuinely bewildered.

‘I mean,
I’m
a woman, and you’re not nervous with me.’

‘You’re
Lucy
,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a difference.’

‘
Touché
.’

‘Maybe I’m aware I’m not much of a catch,’ he goes on. ‘I don’t look like any of those blokes in your magazines – Orlando Broom, or whatever his name is.’

‘
Bloom
, Henry. Orlando
Bloom
.’

‘Yes – him. I know I don’t look like him. But then I already know that from a biological point of view, not everyone
can
look like him. Even accounting for evolutionary theories and survival of the fittest, the human race couldn’t exist if only a select few were to successfully procreate. In fact, every multi-celled organism, particularly mammals, has the capacity to find a mate.’

‘Which means?’

He looks up at me. ‘Even duffers like me can get a girlfriend. In theory, at least.’

‘There you have it,’ I declare. ‘That’s your problem.’

‘What is?’

‘You think you’re a duffer, when you’re not.’

‘Your loyalty’s touching, Lucy, but the facts would indicate that I’m right.’

I am about to protest again when I focus on Henry. His hair. His clothes. His glasses. He could be modelling on the front of a 1950s knitting pattern. I wonder how to put this.

‘Look, I stand by my view fundamentally, but . . .’ My voice trails off.

‘But what?’ he asks.

‘You could do with a makeover.’

‘Really?’ Henry looks shocked. Which shocks me. Although this is a conversation we’ve never had before, I can’t believe he hasn’t noticed that nobody else dresses like him. ‘There’s no way I’m going on television.’

‘No, of course not. You don’t need to.
I
could give you a makeover.’

How have I never thought of this before? I smile at my idea, at its brilliant simplicity, then I catch sight of Henry. He doesn’t look convinced.

‘Believe me,’ I continue, ‘as someone who has spent most of her adult life studying attractive men in detail, I’d know how to sort you out in the clothes department. And hair and skin – you’d benefit from a bit of microdermabrasion.’

‘Isn’t that how they remove corrosion from car panels?’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I tell him, ‘let’s do this properly.’

‘What do you mean?’

Inspired, I look him in the eyes. ‘This can be a project,’ I declare. ‘
Project Henry
!’

‘Oh God.’

‘I mean it. Dominique could help. What she doesn’t know about flirting isn’t worth knowing.’

‘Is that what you call it? I’ve seen Dominique flirting and it’s like a lioness pouncing.’

‘It works,’ I argue. ‘
And
Erin used to be a personal shopper before she did her current job. She’ll have you looking like Brad Pitt in no time.’

I stop and take stock. Henry looks terrible.

‘Sorry,’ I say, deflating. ‘I didn’t mean to get carried away.’

There’s silence for a second. ‘You didn’t, Lucy,’ he says to my surprise. ‘And you’re right.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. I don’t want to spend a lifetime as a loser, as your terminally single friend. I mean, you’re not going to be around for ever.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Sooner or later, you’ll settle down and have a family with someone. It might even be whatsisname – Jack.’

I frown.

‘The guy you’ve a date with on Friday.’

‘Jake,’ I say.

‘Whoever. The point is, that at some point in the not too distant future, I’ll be your sad bachelor friend who no longer has anyone to butter bagels for.’

‘You’ll always be my best friend, Henry. Always.’

‘Well, good. But I’d still like to get laid.’

I laugh. ‘You say that like you’re a virgin. What about your relationship with Sharon? And what was that girl’s name at uni?’

‘Karen Allagreen.’

‘That’s her.’

He looks at me. ‘One fleeting relationship and a single drunken fumble in ten years. Casanova would be crapping himself.’

‘Point taken. So is this reinvention a goer?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

‘Great,’ I say coolly, picking up the trifle bowl and heading for the kitchen.

When I get there, I have to bite my fist to stop myself squealing with glee. If you’d told me yesterday that Henry would agree to a makeover, I wouldn’t have believed it. This could be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Scrap that: I’m going to make sure it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I’m going to make sure that my single friend isn’t single for very much longer.

I’m so excited about
Project Henry
, I was almost tempted to bring proceedings forward and rearrange my date with Jake tonight.

But Dominique’s out anyway, with a wealthy older man she’s been seeing recently, and Erin and her boyfriend Gary have gone to the cinema. Besides, we couldn’t have done it properly on a Friday night. Instead, we have the whole of tomorrow in which to hit the shops and begin Henry’s reinvention.

Consequently, I have stuck to Plan A and arrived at the shabby-but-trendy bar where Jake and I arranged to meet. Judging by how sexy he looks when he walks in, it was a sound decision.

‘Lucy, how are you?’ He smiles as he approaches me at the bar.

Jake is a lecturer in Theatrical Studies, so as well as having a bum I could keep under observation all day, he’s a renaissance man too. He’s wearing slouchy jeans, vintage trainers and a T-shirt showing off biceps that could have been inflated with a tyre pump.

I’ve dressed in what could be the first thing to fall out of my wardrobe – skinny jeans with an Indian cotton shirt and biker boots.
Could be
because I spent three lunchtimes scouring every retail outlet in the city for them – not that he needs to know that.

We met last week while I was handling the media for the Circle Theatre’s new play. He was on a field trip with his students. And I am
so
glad.

‘My tutorial group enjoyed the play the other night,’ he tells me, taking a sip of red wine. ‘I thought it had hidden depths. Despite the garish disco theme. Perhaps because of it.’

Personally, I wasn’t a fan of the play. If I’m honest I have no idea what it’s supposed to be about, even though I’ve sat through it three times.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I tell him, trying to recall one of my press-release quotes. ‘I think the writer aimed to describe the “new reality” in which he’s living. Where all communication with the outside is through the telephone or the internet.’

I sit back and scrutinize his expression. Okay, so my artistic impression is entirely off the shelf, but I’m quietly pleased with myself. And he looks impressed.

‘You are
so
right,’ he nods. ‘That really came across. That and the boundless tragedy of human disconnection and how that has somehow mutated into the twenty-four-hour world.’

‘Hmmm,’ I say earnestly.

‘Of course, the whole thing was so kitsch,’ he laughs. ‘You couldn’t fail to walk away with a grim sense of the inexorable, phony electro-fun you get in places where all the joy has to be imported. This was electronic masturbation for the soul – in its most glorious, disgusting configuration. Don’t you think?’

‘Definitely,’ I add, hoping he’ll change the subject.

‘That isn’t to say the kaleidoscopic nature of the play wasn’t one of the most moving elements of it. Even the most hardened of nay-sayers couldn’t dispute
that
.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about them. Excuse me – I’m just going to the loo.’

After a touch-up of mascara, I return to the table, where Jake’s on his mobile.

‘No, I . . . I can’t have this conversation now. Honestly, Mother, I’ve got to go.’ He puts his mobile on the table and looks at me sheepishly. ‘That was my mum.’

‘Oh, right. Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘Everything’s fine. She’s a little clingy sometimes. You know how mums are.’

In fact, my mum couldn’t be less clingy if she was made of Teflon but I nod for the sake of politeness.

‘Where were we?’ he continues. ‘Oh, yeah, the kaleidoscope effect of the writer’s—’

But he’s cut off when his phone rings again. ‘Sorry about this. It’s easier if I take it now.’

‘Of course. Go ahead.’

He answers the phone and begins the conversation at the table, but when the voice at the other end becomes more agitated, stands up and gestures that he’s taking it outside. I sit at the window, nursing my glass of wine and watching Jake pace up and down, waving his arms so much it looks as if he’s trying to take flight.

After six or seven minutes, he ends the conversation, takes a deep breath and returns inside. ‘
So
sorry about that.’

‘Really, it’s not a problem,’ I smile.

‘Did I hear you saying you were a fan of avant-garde theatre the other night?’

Shit. Did I say that? I think I might have. ‘Oh, I like it as much as the next person.’

He looks disappointed.

‘At least, the next person who’s seen every one of Samuel Becket’s plays five times over,’ I chuckle.

He brightens up. ‘Wow. You and I have so much in common.’

‘Haven’t we?’ I lean forward and hold his gaze.

‘You’re an amazing woman, Lucy,’ he says dreamily.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I reply modestly.

‘I’ve never met anyone else with such a passion for theatre. Britain would be a better place if everyone was like you. We wouldn’t need Arts Council subsidies and the independent theatres would be thriving.’

I smile at him in wonder at how well this is going. Okay, I might have to swot up between now and our second date, but that’s no big deal. I managed to cram into my head everything there is to know about John Donne the week before English Lit A-level – so I’m sure I can manage this.

‘You know, there’s a play on in Manchester in a couple of weeks called
Translations into Spirituality
– oh, excuse me . . .’

His phone is ringing again. Shaking his head apologetically, he answers with a resigned look.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he says despondently, listening as she talks. And talks. And keeps on talking.

Eventually, he pauses and sighs. ‘Okay, Mum, okay. Hang on a sec.’

He puts his hand over the phone and looks into my eyes. ‘Um, Lucy . . . sorry about this. I won’t be long, promise.’

Two hours later, Jake’s mum has phoned eight more times and, with no one to talk to, I’ve taken solace in alcohol. I am now pissed out of my head. This would be bad enough, except it’s made Jake’s already challenging conversational manner near incomprehensible. He’s banging on about some play he went to see in Barcelona now. It’s like listening to the incessant crackle of a broken radio.

‘The thing I love about Covas is his unique ability to assimilate so many layers of the physical versus the fantasy. It’s not half as coy as it sounds, Lucy, believe me.’

A trickle of red wine escapes from the side of my mouth. ‘It doesn’t sound coy, Jake.’

‘Good,’ he grins. ‘Because the collaborative effect of synthetically-generated visual and aural materials can be joyous beyond imagination – like the inhalation and exhalation of a revelatory journey.’

‘Jake,’ I whisper.

‘The easeful death of the characters in that play, Lucy – well, what can I say? It represented a noisy montage of repetition and sensuality, a—’

‘Jake,’ I repeat.

‘– harrowing version of childlessness that writhed in and out of focus. A diagonal representation of terror and—

‘JAKE!’ I slam down my glass.

He looks stunned. Suddenly I don’t know what to say. So I stand up.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.

I down my drink, grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

‘I’m terribly sorry about this,’ I slur, ‘but I’ve got to go.’

He frowns. ‘Go?’

I nod. ‘It’s been lovely, Jake, but unfortunately, I’m feeling a bit . . .’ I can’t think of anything appropriate.

‘Ill?’ he suggests.

I click my fingers and point at him. ‘Ill. That’s it. Ill. That’s exssactly what I am.’

He stands to pull out my chair and the wounded look on his face makes me feel a surge of guilt. I am about to apologize and try to start again, when his phone rings.

He lets go of the chair and turns his back to me as he answers. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he says, and I head for the door with firm conviction but distinctly wobbly legs.

Dominique looks as if she’s bitten a jellyfish and washed it down with lighter fluid. ‘That’s
beyond
weird.’