All the Single Ladies (17 page)

Luke and I meet at Pod, a smart low-key tapas bar five minutes from his house. We’re there early but there’s still a decent post-work crowd, the female contingent
of which cannot prise their eyes away from my companion.

‘What’s it like, knowing you attract so much attention?’ I ask, sipping a Diet Coke.

‘Such a burden,’ he sighs, smirking.

I suppress a smile. ‘Yes, I can tell you hate it. Haven’t you been at work today?’

Luke is freshly showered, wearing jeans and a simple, long sleeved T-shirt. It’s nothing special, but he still manages to look as though his alternative career is modelling Y-fronts.

‘Day off,’ he replies. ‘Now, come on . . . I know you’ve spent every day since I met you disapproving of my every move, so what prompted the change of heart?’

‘What change of heart?’ I screw up my nose.

‘Well, you’ve asked me out for drinks, haven’t you?’ he grins.

‘I did not ask you out for drinks,’ I point out.

‘What’s this, then? I’m out. There are drinks. You asked me here. Therefore you asked me out for drinks. Oh look, don’t worry. You’re only human . . .’

I don’t rise to the bait. ‘I want a chat about Jamie.’

He tuts. ‘Credit me with some insight, won’t you? I was only kidding.’

I don’t know what to say to that. I suspect everyone’s sick of me talking about my failed relationship by now. He reaches across and squeezes my hand reassuringly. The female bar
tender, a pretty brunette wearing enough lip gloss to lubricate an internal combustion engine, looks consumed with envy.

‘Hey. Talk about it all you want. What do you want to know? Or ask? I’m not sure I can shed any light but I’ll do my best.’

He lets go of my hand and reaches for his beer as I take a deep breath. ‘Well, does he talk about me?’

‘You asked me that last time you saw me.’

‘What’s the answer?’

‘Mmm . . . yes.’

‘That means no.’

‘It doesn’t!’

‘You hesitated too long,’ I accuse him.

‘Oh the logic of the female sex,’ he mutters. ‘Look, I’m not sure I’m any good at this stuff.’

‘I thought you considered yourself a master at the art of manipulating women?’

‘Manipulating?’ he says, looking hurt. ‘I don’t manipulate anyone. I love women. And it’s true what I said, that I am looking for the right person. I am
just—’

‘Yeah, so you say,’ I interrupt, not believing him for a second.

He holds my eye. ‘God, you’re tough. I’m sure I don’t deserve the scorn you pour on me.’

‘Oh I’m sure you do.’

‘Another drink?’ purrs the brunette. I’m tempted to move the drip tray under her chin.

‘Before you completely give up on me, Samantha, I have some news for you that may alter your horribly low opinion of me.’

‘Do your best,’ I reply.

He looks down at his drink. ‘I’ve met someone.’

I frown, scrutinizing his expression. ‘Someone?’

He looks at me seriously, before his face breaks into a smile. ‘Someone . . . special.’

I blink. ‘Liar!’

‘I’m not lying!’ he protests . . . and boy, do I come to believe him.

I spend three hours with Luke, and at least two and a half of those are devoted to discussing the new woman in his life, who is beautiful, smart . . . and, from what I can tell, giving him a
serious run for his money.

‘I have no idea where I stand with her,’ he says, bewildered. ‘I’ve never been keener on someone. I’m so keen I hardly know what to do with myself. Yet I have no
idea whether the feeling’s mutual. This has never happened before. It’s a nightmare.’

‘How many dates have you been on?’ I ask.

‘Three. And they’re like no date I’ve been on before. We’ve only kissed – and I feel like a teenager again. I mean, what am I? Some sort of amateur?’

I grin. ‘You’re falling for her.’

He looks deeply worried. ‘Christ . . . do you think so?’

‘Who knows? Sounds promising, though.’

‘Whatever it is, I need to pull myself together. I’m starting to be embarrassed for myself.’

We do get round to discussing Luke’s take on his best friend’s state of mind, although it isn’t massively insightful. He simply says that Jamie still has feelings for me.
It’s also clear that those feelings are confused.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I mutter.

‘Come on,’ he says, finishing his drink and standing up. ‘It’s time I got you home.’

‘Why, have you got another date?’

He rolls his eyes as we head to the door and he holds it open for me. When I get to my car, I click the key to unlock it then turn to him.

It’s dark but the amber glow of the street light on his face makes him look . . . well, put it this way: I’ve known Luke so long that there are times I forget how breathtaking he is.
This particular moment in time isn’t one of them.

‘Listen, thanks for tonight, Luke. It means a lot.’

‘No problem,’ he replies. ‘What are friends for? Besides, I may be calling on you again for some advice. Assuming I get past date number four.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ I reassure him.

‘I’m not,’ he laughs, and as he heads in the other direction, I can’t help wondering if the man who’s broken a thousand hearts has finally met his match.

The approach employed by Piers Smith – a.k.a. my boss – when managing the Liverpool office isn’t what you’d call hands-on. I sometimes wonder if
he’s forgotten there is a Liverpool office until I turn up in Manchester at the fourteenth-floor penis extension that is his office, for our bi-monthly catch-up meeting. As ever, when I perch
on a seat across from his ridiculously proportioned desk, clutching my A4 pad and pen, I get the impression that it takes a few seconds for him to register who I am. Which, I can’t deny, has
some benefits. As long as I keep my head down and hit our targets, Piers leaves me to get on with things. But there’s a downside that’s been gnawing at me for months.

‘I wondered if you’d considered the issue of the reporting structure?’ I ask tentatively. I’ve already talked him through next month’s budget, explained our
targets, and updated him on nine imminent events and several business leads I’ve generated. He was looking sleepy before I’d got to item two.

‘Reporting structure?’ he asks lazily, clicking on his mouse and failing to tear his eyes from the computer screen. He’s playing Farmville, no doubt about it.

‘We discussed it in my last appraisal,’ I remind him, semi-apologetically. ‘About how there are two staff members in the Liverpool office who report directly to you. And how
that’s not practical, given the distance . . . and the fact that you can’t deal with them personally . . . and that the events they work on are ones I manage . . .’

I’m squirming through this waffle, though I don’t know why. The set-up makes no sense at all, and only an unmitigated egomaniac would construe my suggestion as an attempt to seize
power.

‘The upshot,’ I say, straightening my back assertively, ‘is that they’d be a lot easier to manage and motivate if they reported to me officially.’

Piers turns away from his computer, claps two suntanned hands together and inhales so deeply through both nostrils you’d think he was trying to hoover up dust on his desk. He’s in
his late forties and, to be fair, is looking well on it. Yet he’s one of those men who, while technically good-looking – a chiselled-featured, sharp-suited version of Barbie’s
boyfriend, Ken – is simultaneously deeply unsexy. At least, I think so. Given that he seems to have bedded half the Manchester, Birmingham and Newcastle offices, unbeknown to his wife, Tracy,
I’m apparently in a minority.

‘Let me tell you something about leadership, Sal,’ he purrs with a coffee-advert smile.

‘Sam,’ I correct him.

‘Sam,’ he repeats, nodding as if this was what he said in the first place. ‘Leadership isn’t something that comes from reporting structures. Leadership comes from
here.’ He taps a finger on his head. Twice. ‘Allow me to lend you a book.’

He opens a vast drawer and roots around in it before flinging a paperback in my direction. It’s bright red, with a retina-scorching pink title that reads:
Be a Winner Not a
Wally!

‘Have a read of that,’ he winks.

I shift in my seat. ‘So . . . you wouldn’t consider changing the reporting structure?’

He smiles. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you email me with your ideas about the structure and I’ll give it my consideration.’

‘Erm, I did, Piers – a couple of times,’ I mutter, finding it very difficult to conceal that I consider him a grade-A knobhead.

‘Did you?’ he replies, raising an eyebrow smoothly. ‘Hmm. Which staff members are causing the issue?’

‘It’s not an issue, exactly . . . I don’t want to overstate it. But Deana Arbinger and Natalie Maxwell.’

He looks at me blankly and shakes his head.

‘Both blonde. Long legs. Tanned. Very, very tanned.’

Realization seeps across his face. ‘Oh . . . those two! It’s been a while since I had a one-to-one with those two,’ he smiles.

I bite my lip.

He winks. ‘Email me again and I’ll see what I can do, eh?’

I’m still bubbling with indignation four hours later when I’m at Ellie’s house, sitting on her patio watching the sun go down. The one thing that can be said
for the issue is that, momentarily at least, it interrupts my constant thoughts about Jamie.

‘Any more of that sparkly stuff going?’ Ellie asks as Alistair emerges with a bottle of wine and some glasses.

‘You’ve cleaned us out,’ he says, pulling up a chair.

I wouldn’t say Jamie, Ellie, Alistair and I were a regular foursome, but we certainly did the odd thing together. Sitting here like this prompts a vivid flashback of a barbeque at
Ellie’s mum’s house last summer. I can’t put my finger on anything specific that happened, but I do remember, as the smell of burnt sausages and British summertime infused the
air, experiencing a real sense of contentment. Of everything being well and good with the world. It’s not a feeling I have today.

‘Don’t be depressed about your crap boss,’ says Ellie.

I snap out of my daze. ‘Oh I’m not too worried about him.’

She nods. ‘So what’s eating you? Let me guess . . .’

‘I’m fine,’ I shrug, but, now she’s mentioned it, my thoughts are dragged back to Jamie again.

She raises an eyebrow.

‘Oh Ellie, it’s not working,’ I bluster. ‘Our plan. My mission to win him back. Every time I think he’s going to change his mind, he doesn’t. He tells me he
needs more time. Or that I should “leave the door open”.’ I roll my eyes.

Ellie shoots me a look, then glances at Alistair. He excuses himself to check that Sophie’s still asleep.

‘Is that what he said? That you should leave the door open?’ She looks into the distance defiantly. ‘I don’t think that’s a reasonable thing to ask you to do, Sam.
I want to see you two back together more than anything. But part of me wonders whether this is just a prolonged period of purgatory for you while Jamie indulges his mini-midlife crisis.’

Now I start to get uncomfortable. ‘It’s not like that, Ellie. You know it isn’t. He’s confused, that’s all.’

‘How often are you in touch these days?’

‘We text every day or two.’

‘Well, he needs to start thinking of your feelings, not just his own.’ She turns and clutches my hand before saying tentatively, ‘You know, it really might be better for you to
make a clean break.’

I pull my hand back in horror. ‘Ellie! He’s the love of my life. I couldn’t make a break – clean or otherwise – even if I wanted to.’ I take a deep breath and
try to stay calm.

For the first time since the break-up I have a sense that she doesn’t really understand. That she doesn’t appreciate quite how much Jamie means to me.

‘Ellie . . . he’s simply asking me to give him some time, that’s all. I’ll admit it’s killing me because all I want is for him to turn around and make the decision
we all know is the right one. But I can’t force the issue any more than anyone else.’

She bends down and picks up the wine bottle at her feet, topping up my glass before turning to her own.

‘Okay,’ she concedes. ‘I’m frustrated with him, that’s all.’

‘You are?’

She bites her lip. ‘I do think something, though. Don’t bite my head off for suggesting this . . .’

‘I’ve already eaten.’

‘So far, the strategy has been for you to look like you’re moving on. To stay cool, to not go to pieces, to make him a bit jealous by doing the odd bit of flirting. I don’t
think it’s enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘So far, Sam, you’ve just pretended you’re moving on. You haven’t really been doing it. I think you need to stop pretending.’

‘But I don’t want to move on,’ I protest. ‘I want Jamie back and I’m not going to stop until either I succeed or he tells me he never wants to see me
again.’

Ellie shakes her head. ‘I think you’re wrong to look at it like that. It’s not healthy, Sam. You’re obsessing over Jamie, when you need to remind yourself that
you’ve got as much going for you without him as you did with him.’

‘This is starting to sound like an edition of
Loose Women
.’

‘At the moment, Jamie knows he could have you back in a second, so he has no incentive to get his act together. You need to disabuse him of that notion immediately.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘Easy,’ she says, draining her glass. ‘We need to get you a boyfriend.’

‘This is insane. Categorically, horrifically insane.’

Ellie throws me a look as if I’m exaggerating. I’ve never before questioned my best friend’s mental state. But she has me closeted in her study, along with Jen and herself, to
persuade me to do something I’d never have dreamed of doing. Even in the days when I was single and desperate. Join a dating website.

‘We need a picture of you,’ says Ellie, as if this is the most normal thing in the world to do on a Friday night.

‘What about that one at Paul and Wendy’s wedding last year? You looked gorgeous in that,’ says Jen enthusiastically.

I glare at them, unable to remove my chin from the desk. ‘Jennifer. Ellie. You. Cannot. Be. Serious. Not least because I had watercress stuck in my teeth in half those pictures.’