The Single Girl's To-Do List (2 page)

Because no plan can succeed without the assistance of reliable wingmen, I had drafted in my best friends, Emelie and Matthew. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at The Phoenix, Emelie was wasted. The queen of pre-partying had put away almost an entire bottle of red at my flat and was now trying to convince us to join her in a round of shots. And, for whatever reason, only known to himself, Matthew was encouraging her. Generally speaking, I didn’t drink. Hangovers really didn’t sit well with my job: there weren’t many models or celebs that wanted a make-up artist stinking of gin, breathing on them for an hour at a time, and applying liquid eye liner half cut is not something I’d recommend. That said, I was a pretty good drunk, more happy than emotional and, nine times out of ten, I managed to keep my kebab down. Emelie, however, was not blessed with that talent. Despite knowing that she was incapable of drinking so much as a shandy without vomming all over the night bus, she never gave up. Amazing tenacity, that girl.

‘Come on, Ray, it’s Friday,’ she said, brandishing a shot glass, brimming with thick, sticky-looking liquor. ‘And, you know, liquid courage.’

‘One shot,’ I warned, more an order for her than a promise to myself, then knocked it back in one. My throat scorched with sambuca afterburn and, by the time I’d prised my eyes open, she was ordering a second round. Too bad tonight would not be a night spent holding back her hair while she brought up half of Burger King.

‘If you leave me with her, I will destroy you,’ Matthew said, reading my mind. I shrugged, trying not to smile. He loved her really. Matthew (never Matt) and I had been friends ever since he walked out of a queer theory lecture at uni, declaring it ‘a great big bag of wank’.

As his brand-new flatmate, I felt obliged to chase after him, and we spent the afternoon, evening and much of the early morning in the union, drinking pints and making up our own queer theories. Mine hung on the idea that men were just greedy, Matthew’s on his belief that ‘touching a vagina would make him vomit’. There was evidence to back both schools of thought. After that, we were bonded for life. It was a win-win for me – I never had to worry about him trying to get in my pants and he had a stand-in girlfriend to keep his grandmother happy. His mother had known he was gay from birth, by his account, but his grandparents weren’t quite so accepting. Which was possibly why he wore a skintight, neon-pink T-shirt to his grandfather’s funeral.

The poor lamb hadn’t had an easy time of it as a kid. His dad had skidaddled before he was even born and only shown up again a year earlier, shortly before shuffling off his mortal coil and leaving Matthew an absolute ton of money, leading him to quit his air steward job and spend the last twelve months generally fannying around London with absolutely no aim in life. Even when he wasn’t rich, he was pretty much a catch, however you looked at it. The boy was huge, well over six feet tall, and broad with it. Handfuls of thick blond hair dropped into his dark blue eyes and his skin was always tanned, despite my constant sun-bed warnings. Looks-wise, he was somewhere between Hitler’s Aryan dream and Louis Walsh’s wet dream. Personality-wise, definitely erred more on the side of fascist dictator than Gary Barlow. Which was pretty much why I loved him. That and because he came over and killed my spiders when Simon wasn’t around.

It was still early, only just after ten thirty, but the club was already busy. Over in a dark corner of the small, sweaty basement, my brother and his friends were cooing over some guest DJ’s vinyl collection and debating which records to play. I raised a hand when he looked up. They ran this night every month, mostly so they could hang around the DJ booth and look cool to girls. The things boys did to get laid. Said the girl still trying to find a way to get comfortable after her speculative Brazilian.

‘Have you said hello to Paul yet?’ Em asked, distributing the second round and looking at my brother with puppy-dog eyes. ‘We really should.’

I threw back the shot and shuddered. ‘We really shouldn’t,’ I disagreed. ‘Actually, you really shouldn’t. Seriously, Em. No.’

‘I’m just saying we should say hello,’ Em said, absently licking a drop of sambuca from her little finger, completely oblivious to the fact that every man in the bar was waiting to offer to do that for her. ‘As if I fancy your brother.’

Emelie Stevens and I knew everything about each other. We were each other’s secret-keepers. She knew I hadn’t lost my virginity until I was 22. She knew I couldn’t get to sleep at night unless I knew where my childhood teddy bear was. She knew I accidentally ran over Matthew’s cat when I was supposed to be looking after it. I knew she had spent several years of her childhood starring on a Canadian children’s TV show. I knew she had got a pregnancy test in the first year of uni after she let John Donovan touch her up behind halls after the Halloween party. And I knew she’d had a crush on my brother since he came to collect me for Christmas break in the second year.

It was ridiculous, really – Emelie was beautiful. As in, I worked with supermodels day in and day out and I still thought she was beautiful. Medium height, medium build, slightly more than medium boobs, from the back maybe you might think she was a regular girl, but then she would turn around and you would literally stop in your tracks. She had the longest, thickest auburn hair and offensively green eyes that were lined with the thickest, flutteriest eyelashes this side of Bambi. Her outfits were always faultless and she could make a bin-bag look sexy if she wanted to. If that wasn’t enough, Em had grown up in Montreal and, even after ten years in London, had an adorable lilting French-Canadian accent that slipped out when she was stressed, or angry. Or on the pull. As a package, she was unbelievable. Unfortunately for mankind, she was ridiculously unattainable.

While I hadn’t been single since I was 16, Em hadn’t been in a serious relationship in, well, ever. It wasn’t for the want of offers, she went through men like I went through pickled onion Monster Munch, but they never lasted more than a couple of weeks. Either they liked her too much, they didn’t like her enough, they were too rich and showy, they were too poor and boring. No one stood a chance. She constantly rattled on about how she was looking for ‘the one’, how she’d know him as soon as she saw him and that there was no point wasting time on losers, but Matthew had another theory: that she was so hopelessly in love with my slag of a brother, no one else stood a chance. As pop psychology went, it wasn’t a bad call. Unfortunately, my brother wouldn’t dare mess about with her. Paul’s feckless womanizing was a badge he wore proudly and, while he’d made his intentions towards Emelie quite clear over the years, I had intervened at every opportunity. My best friend was not another notch on his bedpost. Not that there could be a lot of bedpost left by now. Oh universe, why would you surround me with so many manwhores?

‘Did you get the email from uni?’ I changed the subject while trying to convince my hair to stay behind my ears. There was just So Much Of It. ‘About the ten-year reunion?’

‘Got it, read it, deleted it,’ Matthew nodded, pulling my hair loose again. ‘They just want money.’

‘I just can’t believe it’s been ten years since we started.’ Emelie was trying to catch the bartender’s eye for some proper drinks. Luckily, the bartender was a woman so it was taking longer than her usual three seconds. Almost a whole thirty before a bottle of white wine was in front of us. ‘It doesn’t feel like ten minutes ago.’

‘And look at you two now,’ Matthew replied, wrapping an arm around Em to physically remove her from the bar. ‘Top make-up artist and super-successful … what exactly is it that we call you?’

She made a face and wriggled out of his bear hug. ‘I’m a graphic artist.’

‘You’re a what?’

‘She drew a picture that someone put on loads of stuff and then lots of little girls bought it,’ I clarified for Matthew. ‘A picture of a cat.’

‘Got it,’ he clicked and pointed, ignoring Em’s ‘I’m not amused’ face. As always. ‘You’re the one that weasels kids out of their pocket money.’

‘You can both fuck off, I’m a graphic artist,’ she started defensively. ‘And Kitty Kitty isn’t a picture of a cat, it’s a brand. And it’s one of the most successful tween brands in the UK.’

‘Tween,’ Matthew smirked. ‘Stop making up words.’

‘Em, we know.’ I pulled out my Kitty Kitty wallet and waved it in her face to prove my point before she went for Matthew. ‘He’s jealous because he’s unemployed.’

‘Taking a sabbatical,’ he corrected, spying an empty sofa and crossing the dance floor in three strides to bag it before a group of girls could hurl their handbags onto the table. ‘You’re only unemployed if you’re broke.’

‘Run that one past me again?’ Em asked with faux innocence.

Matthew closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His ‘I’m calm, really’ pose. ‘I’m taking time out until I work out what I want to do.’

‘For the last year,’ Em said, not quite quietly enough.

‘For the last year,’ he repeated pointedly, in her face. ‘Maybe I should just draw a crappy cat and stick it on lunchboxes instead of doing something worthwhile.’

‘Because serving people chicken or pasta at fifty thousand feet was worthwhile?’ Em snapped back.

‘No, you knob, that’s why I’m taking a sabbatical!’

‘For the last year—’

‘Children,’ I said loudly. ‘Inside voices?’

Matthew narrowed his eyes while Em stuck out her tongue before they both turned to look at me, argument forgotten. Really, I spent far too much time feeling like a primary school teacher on a field trip than was healthy. Which was one of the reasons I needed Simon back so badly. Perfect, adult, sensible Simon. The one thing in my world that reminded me I was a grown-up. Well, Simon and my tax return, but I really didn’t like to put the two of them in the same category if I could help it.

‘So tonight’s the night?’ Em asked, inching down the hemline of her tiny black Topshop dress. ‘With Simon?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed, forcing my hair back behind my ears again. ‘Tonight is the night.’

‘Is there a plan?’ Matthew asked, flicking my hair loose again. ‘Don’t put it behind your ears, you look like a sad mouse. And no one wants to shag a sad mouse.’

‘Thanks,’ I glared at the floor rather than at my friend and took a deep breath. ‘And no, no plan. I’m just going to go over with a drink and say hi to his friends because you know, his friends love me.’

Em and Matthew nodded encouragement. His friends did love me. I was the cool girlfriend. The one that thought it was hilarious that they went to Spearmint Rhino after their Christmas party. The one who made bacon sandwiches the morning after when they passed out on our sofa. The one who understood the offside rule. Or, at least, I was the one who tolerated the strip clubs, made the bacon sandwiches to sober them up and pretended to understand the offside rule. And elaboration on those facts was completely unnecessary.

‘And then you’re going to pull him to one side and tell him he’s the love of your life and this break stuff has only made you realize how badly you need him and that you want to have his babies?’ It would be an understatement to say that Emelie had something of a romantic nature.

‘Or pull him to one side and tell him that tonight’s the night he gets to go where no one has ever gone before?’ Matthew’s sensibilities were not quite so romantic.

‘Firstly, Matthew? Ew. And Emelie, your relationship advice is not required.’ I started to brush my hair behind my ears but stopped myself just in time, much to Matthew’s delight. ‘I’m just going to tell him that I think that the break has been really valuable, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I want and that now I think we’re ready to move on to the next level.’

‘Babies?’

‘Anal?’

‘Oh my god.’ I pressed my hand to my eyes, hoping they’d have disappeared when I opened them again. But no. Still there. ‘No. To both. But especially Matthew. God.’

Matthew shrugged and took a deep swig of his drink. ‘I’m just saying, if you really want to get his attention …’

‘I don’t think we need to pull out the big guns just yet,’ I said, checking my watch for the millionth time that night. It was almost eleven. Why wasn’t he here yet? He always came to The Phoenix on Paul’s nights. ‘I’m just going to suggest we talk. We’ve been together for five years, we finish each other’s sentences, we’re supposed to be together.’

‘Yeah, because blokes love talking on a Friday night,’ Matthew said to Em, who nodded in agreement.

‘He’s right,’ she agreed. ‘I mean, not about the back-door proposition; although, actually, he’s probably right about that too. Men are weird.’

‘This just makes more sense,’ I replied. ‘Simon isn’t good at planned one-on-one situations. He thinks I’m trying to give him an appraisal. I don’t want him to feel like I’m bullying him into a deep and meaningful, it’s just going to be a “hey, how’s everything?” casual chat during which he will remember how fabulous I am and how much he misses me, then it’s back home for mind-blowing sex and we’re done.’

‘And then he’ll forget all about whatever underlying reasons there are for this break bollocks and you’ll live happily ever after?’ Matthew stared at me and shook his head. ‘Piece of piss, Rach.’

‘I appreciate your input, really,’ I stood up and calculated my route to the bar. A drink would shut them up. It wouldn’t be my problem when Emelie had to pay a fifty-quid taxi-cleaning bill again. ‘Despite one of you being incredibly homosexual and the other not having had a boyfriend for more than two weeks since you broke up with Adam Rothman in Pizza Express three years ago because he finished your fudge sundae while you were in the lav. More wine?’

‘Touchy,’ Matthew drained his glass. ‘And yes.’

‘Well, you look good,’ Em said. ‘I mean, you know, like you’ve tried.’

I tried not to punch her in the face. ‘I have tried.’

‘And you can tell.’ She gave me an encouraging smile, as though she really did think she’d just paid me a compliment.

‘I think what our dear friend is trying to say, is that you look even more amazing than usual,’ Matthew corrected. ‘Seriously, you look great.’