All the Single Ladies (14 page)

‘The fact that I get to strut my stuff,’ he grinned. ‘Come on, they’re playing “I am the Resurrection”.’

He grabbed my hand to lead me back into the Palm House, but I froze.

He spun round. ‘What’s up?’

‘Erm, nothing,’ I replied. ‘I’m not a fan of dancing. You go, though. Luke’ll dance with you.’

He screwed up his face. ‘If I dance with Luke I’ll risk the wrath of half the bridesmaids. Come on, I insist.’

Reluctantly, I approached the dance floor, feeling increasingly anxious. I don’t do dancing in public. I don’t know why, exactly, because I’m not catastrophically shy or
anything – but this is my Achilles heel, even at a dad-dancing extravaganza such as a wedding, where the standard doesn’t exactly match Anton du Beke’s.

As we reached the dance floor, Luke was pogoing with his arms around one bride and two bridesmaids, which was good going even by his standards. Jamie took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt
sleeves as we made our way to join them. He looked instantly more comfortable, instantly cooler.

The same could not be said for me. From the second I set foot on that dance floor, surrounded by guests giving it their all, I was overwhelmed with a realization of how uncool I was.

‘I need the loo,’ I muttered, leaving Luke, the bride and the bridesmaids to dive about enthusiastically with Jamie, who shook his head in mock despair. There’s a part of my
subconscious that now wishes I hadn’t made my excuses; a part that knows I shouldn’t have sought solace in another needless application of eyeliner, but put a bit more effort into being
the sort of woman Jamie would’ve found impossible to leave.

Oh look, I know this isn’t a big issue. In the scheme of things, it’s minute. But it’s another one for the list. The list of things that ultimately contributed to our
downfall.

I’ve seen my sister perform at the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Hall more times than I can remember but I still feel like an impostor when I walk through its doors.
It’s so achingly sophisticated, despite the RLPO’s valiant attempts to encourage plebs like me to give it a whirl in the hope that one bite of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 4
will convert them for life.

Of course, I don’t need converting; they’ve got me for life already, courtesy of Julia. Which is a good job. Because, no matter how much I enjoy the experience, and it can be
soul-stirring stuff, my knowledge of classical music wouldn’t win me a Brownie badge in the subject.

It’s not that I don’t like how it sounds; I do, especially live and when my sister’s playing. It’s simply that most of the time I haven’t the first clue what
I’m listening to.

‘Were you at Sibelius the other week?’ asks the man from the row in front. He’s a friendly sort in his late thirties, who never removes his
Dr Who
scarf, even if
there’s a heat wave. I’ve sat near him several times, though I’ve no idea if this is coincidence or because there’s a season-ticket-type set-up, like at the football.

‘I’m afraid I didn’t,’ I say earnestly, as if it was only because it clashed with Prokofiev at the Manchester Halle and not because I was probably at home waxing my
bikini line.

‘It was a real high point in the season,’ he enthuses, in blissful ignorance of my blissful ignorance.

‘Really?’ I smile. ‘Wish I’d been here.’

‘You probably struggled to get a ticket?’

‘Absolutely!’

He smiles. ‘So what was the last concert you went to?’

‘Er . . . the Killers,’ I mutter, as the lights fall.

I’m soon listening to Mahler’s Symphony No. 1, which I am determined to remember because it’s electrifying. Of course, I know I won’t. I’ll do what I always do:
recall the name of it for a week, at the end of which it will become the victim of my memory’s indiscriminate delete button. I have this conversation with Julia when I meet her at the stage
door at the end of the concert.

‘How is it that I have no problem in remembering anything by Kasabian or Florence and the Machine, but this baffles me?’

‘Because you’re a simpleton?’ she offers.

‘Thank you, dear sister,’ I smile sarcastically as we make our way down Hardman Street to grab a quick drink before we head home.

As I push open the door of the Magnet, my stomach rumbles and Julia glares at me. ‘Haven’t you eaten?’

‘I meant to, but work was so crazy today I didn’t get a chance. Remind me to get a bag of crisps in here.’

They don’t have crisps; but they do have G&Ts, and that’ll do for me at the moment, especially since I’m fond of this place. It’s an intimate bar with eclectic music
and lighting so dim you’d think there was an air raid.

‘Have you done anything about your letter?’ I ask, as we locate a booth and sink into its 1950s-style leather seats.

She shakes her head and gazes at her drink. ‘No.’

‘But you’re obviously thinking of doing so?’

She nods and looks up. ‘I wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel if one of my parents sought me out. It’s opened up all sorts of questions and, for the first time in my life,
I’ve started to wonder what they’re like. Curiosity’s getting the better of me.’

‘Has Mum said anything more?’

‘We’ve had a brief chat, but she simply repeated the reassurances she made the other day.’ Julia, who’s usually unflappable, is clearly unsettled.

‘So what are you worried about?’

‘Oh come off it, Sam. You know why. There’s a difference between the theory and the practice. Now that the prospect of me meeting him has become real, I think something’s
shifted in Mum. I can see it. It’d be impossible for this to be no big deal for her.’

I sip my drink. ‘Do you think you’ll end up meeting him?’

‘Oh there are lots of steps before I have to decide that. I haven’t even written back yet. I just need to put one foot in front of the other. I suppose, though, that once I think
I’ve got my head round the idea, I may take the plunge.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I’ll be terrified.’

I lean over and clutch her hand. ‘Anyone would be.’

‘Well. We’re a long way from that. So, come on,’ she says, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘What’s the latest on Jamie? Have you seen him recently? It must
be a month since you split up, is it?’

I nod. Then I wonder where to start. Julia always liked Jamie. Well, almost always. There was one occasion when he turned up late to Sunday lunch following a marathon drinking session with the
band, and she was more indignant on my behalf than I could bother myself to be. But mainly they got on well. Although she’s a classical musician, she loves all types of music and was more
than happy to chat to him about his band, his guitar and his own aspirations. Even if Split Atom were as likely to hit the dizzy heights of rock stardom as they were to win the Ryder Cup.

We’re two drinks down and about to call it a night, when a shadow is cast over our table.

‘You, lady, look gorgeous!’ It’s Lisa, Jamie’s sister. She is dressed in leggings, jelly sandals and a cardigan so large it must’ve taken several decades to
knit.

‘Er . . . so do you.’ That is the best I can do. I stand to give her a kiss on the cheek.

‘I’m on a hen night,’ she tells us, slurping her drink as she motions to a group of women in the corner. ‘Denise at work is getting married. She’s fifty-seven. Let
that be a lesson to you, Sam. Just because our Jamie – the idiot – has been daft enough to let you go, it doesn’t mean you’ll be left on the shelf.’

‘Oh I never—’

‘Speaking of Jamie,’ she continues, barely pausing for breath, ‘he’s out tonight.’

I swallow. ‘Really?’ I reply, trying not to look too interested.

‘The blokes from work have dragged him out. We bumped into them in Mathew Street. Don’t think he’s enjoying it much. You know what he’s like . . . only usually goes to
all those weird grungy places. Tonight, he’s surrounded by people drinking alcopops and talking about
Top Gear
. Hey –’ she nudges me con-spiratorially – ‘get
down there and say hello.’ She gives me a protracted wink that makes it seem as though something’s flown into her eye.

‘We were heading home, actually,’ I tell her, glancing at Julia. ‘It’s a week night and I was already out on Saturday and . . .’

‘Suit yourself,’ Lisa shrugs. ‘Well, I’d better run. Denise has been given a shop’s worth of sex toys and the poor love hasn’t a clue what to do with them.
Looks like I’m in for a long night.’

As she scuttles away, I take a sip of my drink and glance furtively at Julia.

‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she tells me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Drink up. Mathew Street, here we come.’

A strange transformation overcomes me as we head to Mathew Street in a taxi. Maybe it’s due to the combination of alcohol, adrenalin and a particularly bumpy taxi
ride.

‘Why do you look so nervous?’ Julia asks. ‘You lived with the man for years.’

‘It’s ridiculous, I know,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘But I want him back so badly I feel as though every time I see him, I’ve got to make the impression
count.’

She frowns. ‘You look gorgeous. It’ll count without you doing anything. So relax.’

What Julia is forgetting is that Mathew Street is permanently populated by the most glamorous women in the north of England . . . and their sisters, cousins and badminton partners. And, while
Jamie is undoubtedly attracted to understated beauty rather than full-on razzle-dazzle, he’s also a red-blooded, one thousand per cent heterosexual man.

Julia seems to read my thoughts. ‘Sam, you look gorgeous,’ she repeats.

I take a deep breath and open my make-up bag, examining myself in my compact mirror. Actually, I really don’t look bad tonight. Losing half a stone helps, but it’s more than that. My
make-up is sultry, the black chiffon shirt sexy (at least now an extra button is undone), and I’m having my first good hair day since 2009. Or maybe, after only two G&Ts, I’ve got
beer goggles about myself.

It’s a good job too. It’s only a Thursday night, but I step out of the taxi into a blingathon: flocks of short spangly dresses, sky-high heels and acres of flesh on show. This has
the potential to intimidate me, but I’m determined that it won’t. I’m a woman on a mission.

‘Where do we start? It’s years since I’ve been down here,’ mutters Julia, striding to keep up as I march down the street. There are seven or eight bars and we’ve no
idea where Jamie might be.

I look up and spot someone I recognize smoking in a doorway: Kevin, a young colleague of Jamie’s with a Jim Royle paunch and a goatee so patchy it looks as though a family of field mice
have been at it. I decide not to let on to him as we glide past the bouncers. That’s not because I don’t want to talk to Kevin eventually, but simply because my immediate priority is
locating my target.

The bar is loud, hot and starting to get busy, but despite the number of revellers, I spot Jamie seconds after I walk through the door. The experience is like being winded.

Instead of weeping into a beer bottle, mourning our relationship, my ex-boyfriend is pinned against the bar by a brunette who is the definition of glamour.

My first instinct is to dive over and rescue him. But as I head in his direction I realize something that makes me feel queasy. It’s not that he’s exactly reciprocating. Not . . .
exactly. But though her body language is so assertive it’s one step short of unzipping his trousers with her central incisors, there’s something undeniable about his reaction. The look
in his eye. The way he’s breathing.

He’s not saying or doing anything wrong . . . not that I can see from this distance. And while I couldn’t say for certain it’s an experience he’s actively enjoying, I can
say for certain that it’s an experience he isn’t not enjoying. Which is enough to stop me in my tracks.

I flash a look at Julia.

‘I’m sure he . . . wishes she wasn’t doing that,’ she says without conviction as the woman dips her finger in her drink and licks it slowly, as though she’s
appearing on a DVD with four Xs in the title.

‘I’m sure,’ I reply through gritted teeth as anger – and jealousy – bubble up inside me.

I could react in one of two ways. I could leave in tears, my short-lived burst of self-confidence shattered. Or I could do what any self-respecting woman would do. Have a large drink – and
fight back.

I’m not going to let Jamie and this harlot make me feel envious. No bloody way. I’m going to beat them at their own game.

I scan the bar like a heat-seeking missile programmed to locate the foxiest-looking male in the place.

It doesn’t take long. Within minutes, I’ve bought myself a super-sized G&T and have zoomed in on someone at the other end of the bar who appears to be by himself. Which is
baffling – and a miracle. This guy isn’t just handsome: he’s dynamite, with electric-blue eyes and features so chiselled they’d be at home on a Mills & Boon hero called
Maximilian De Bigbollocks.

‘Are you all right by yourself for a minute?’ I ask Julia.

‘Of course. I need to pop to the Ladies, anyway. Are you going to talk to Jamie?’

‘Not yet,’ I mutter, heading in the opposite direction.

I stride purposefully towards Mr Miracle, undoing another button and fluffing up my hair; behaviour that’s totally alien to me. Even when I was single I never used to ‘come on’
to blokes. I couldn’t do it. It was one of those things, a bit like an overarm serve in tennis, that I could never master, no matter how long and hard I tried.

Add to that the fact that my inner goddess hasn’t had a proper outing for six years and I’m petrified. In the light of this, all I can do is employ the same tactic advocated for
public speaking: tell myself that all that counts is to look and sound as though I know what I’m doing. Even if I’m falling to pieces inside.

‘Um . . . hi,’ I murmur, lowering my voice breathily as I lean on the bar. I’d be less intimidated if he wasn’t so spectacular-looking, but that of course would defeat
the object.

‘Oh, er, hi,’ he replies.

‘I’m Sam. I couldn’t resist coming over and saying hello . . .’ I take a large mouthful of my drink to compose myself. ‘I think you’re . . .
lovely.’