All the Single Ladies (30 page)

‘Not new, no. I rediscovered it. Right. I’ll get you a . . . er, bottle of wine.’

‘A glass will be fine for now,’ he says. ‘Unless you’re intending to get me drunk and seduce me.’

‘I’ll try to control myself,’ I joke and head for the kitchen before he notices that I’m blushing.

Given the fact that, since my tête-à-tête with Jamie last Sunday, I’ve done nothing but eat, sleep and breathe the subject, it might seem strange that
it doesn’t enter my conversation with Ben.

Raising the subject again doesn’t feel right. I’m conscious that the amount I’ve been banging on about my ex must be getting tedious for all my friends. Besides, our
conversation is no less interesting for its omission.

So we talk about work,
Mad Men
, losing our virginity, cooking and Halloween.

When Ben does finally bring it up, after I’ve cracked open our second bottle of wine, I feel almost uncomfortable.

‘So, Sam, any word from Jamie since your big talk?’

My chicken suddenly becomes difficult to swallow – and not because I inadvertently cooked it for twenty minutes too long when the virginity topic came up.

I take a deep breath. ‘Just a few texts but no firm decision yet. He knows the ball’s in his court, though. You were right. If he doesn’t want me, I need to move on. I’ve
been in limbo for too long.’

‘I’m not surprised you feel like that. I know what you feel for Jamie but, as insensitive as this sounds, it might have been easier if he’d made his decision and stuck with
it.’

I’m about to protest, when I stop myself, because I’m not sure I can argue with that. I’ve had a growing sense in the last few weeks that Jamie’s indecision hasn’t
been good for either of us. But I’m also clear that I can’t put the blame for that solely on his shoulders. I hardly let him go quietly.

‘You’re right. But it was me that embarked on this intensive strategy to win him back.’

‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Sam. We all do funny things where love is concerned.’

It strikes me that the bitter twist in my stomach is no longer so acute. I’ve set out to behave like a woman who is happy and self-assured – and tonight it’s a self-fulfilling
prophecy. Tonight, I feel more at peace with myself than I have since the day Jamie left.

The crux of the matter is this: I still want Jamie back and I’m still certain we should be together. But if he makes the wrong choice, it won’t be the end of my world. The difference
between now and nearly four months ago is that I don’t need him; I just want him.

‘Fabulous dinner, anyway, Samantha Brooks,’ says Ben, standing up to clear the dishes.

‘Ben, leave those,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll do them after you’ve gone.’

‘What sort of guest would I be if I let you cook without offering to wash up?’ he tuts, grinning as he goes to the kitchen.

As the last song on my Rumer album fades away, I head to the iPod and scroll to the first playlist I come across. It’s only as I sit down again that the opening bars reveal what it is: the
compilation I put together to seduce Jamie. It’s far too sexy to play in Ben’s presence; he’ll think I’ve been popping Viagra between courses.

But, before I flick to something else, the house is plunged into darkness, stopping me in my tracks. The iPod continues, backed up with batteries, but the pulsating beat of Goldfrapp’s
‘Ooh La La’ is violently interrupted by an almighty crash from the kitchen.

‘Ben, are you okay?’ I yell, edging to the door and trying to remember where everything is. I’ve lived in this house for four years, but still manage to bang my knee on the
table before I reach the kitchen.

‘Sorry. I’ve dropped your casserole dish,’ he confesses. ‘What happened? I can’t see a thing.’

‘There was a power cut earlier, but the electricity returned within a minute, so hopefully it’ll be back soon. Let me guide you to the sofa.’

I reach for his hand and inadvertently find my fingers on his stomach. They’re there for an instant, but the feel of his taut body underneath my fingertips sends a rush of heat to my
cheeks.

‘Sorry. I wasn’t trying to feel you up,’ I joke.

He lets out a gentle laugh and threads his fingers through mine. The blanket of darkness intensifies his touch, sending shockwaves up my arm. My breath quickens, and I swallow as I turn back to
the door.

‘This way,’ I whisper, while the sliding bars of the next song, ‘Wicked Game’ by Chris Isaac, fill the house.

Slowly and silently, I lead him from the kitchen and across the living-room floor. Guiding Ben is a strange and lovely sensation; I don’t know why but it is. And with a wine buzz tingling
round my body, we reach the sofa and fall into the cushions.

Except, Ben doesn’t just fall back; he catches his shin on the edge of the coffee table and we simultaneously burst out laughing. Which is a relief, because it momentarily diffuses an
atmosphere that was starting to feel . . . too strange and lovely.

When the laughter dies down, I realize that the diversion was temporary.

Electricity throbs in the air between us and my heartbeat gallops through my ears. I realize we are both still. The room’s pitch black and my eyes haven’t adjusted. Technically,
there is no evidence that he’s looking directly at me, nor me at him.

Except . . . we know.

I pull up my knee onto the sofa and it brushes his leg, making us freeze. My head is swirling, but I have a moment of total clarity: I know what I want and I know it’s not right. But
I’ve never cared less.

This is a moment in time, a snapshot in the dark, when two people sit before each other and instinctively know – without speaking or even seeing – that desire scorches their
veins.

My chest rises and falls, and just as I am starting to wonder if I should do something or say something – anything – I get my answer. Ben’s hand sweeps up my leg and round the
back of my waist. He pulls me towards him, so fast and decisively, that it takes my breath away. Our bodies press together, my breasts against his chest, and I’m tingling with hunger for
him.

I have an unstoppable urge to be even closer to him and instinctively swirl my hips in his direction. He responds by pulling my entire body onto his in a smooth, powerful movement. And before I
can think, I’m sitting on top of him, my thighs gripping his hips and his hands on my backside. He buries his head in my hair and presses the crotch of his jeans into mine, while my body
floods with desire.

He kisses me softly at first, but it’s soon not enough for either of us. Suddenly, I don’t just want his lips on mine. I want his lips everywhere. And as he lifts my T-shirt over my
head, I know that’s exactly where they’re about to be.

Waking up with a new lover is a strange sensation, not least because it’s something I haven’t done for more than six years.

I remember it as an awkward experience. It would start with an under-eye swipe to de-crust your mascara, and would be followed by a clandestine bathroom dash to brush your teeth (it being
essential to create the impression that you always wake up fragrant and minty, no matter what quantities of curry and lager were consumed the previous night). Then there would be that other moment:
when you debate whether a cuddle is in order – because the last thing you want is to look clingy.

However, this morning, I don’t have time to think about the teeth brushing or the mascara or anything else before I feel a strong arm across my body and Ben’s cheek against my
neck.

It’s an extension of my dreams, for he’s filled my subconscious all night. I failed utterly to fall into a deep sleep, but it didn’t matter. Not one bit. It was an exquisite
insomnia during which I bubbled with euphoria and had to work hard to stop myself from continually kissing the soft skin on his arm.

I don’t even open my eyes before we melt into each other’s naked body and make tender morning love in a way that’s totally different from the first time the night before, or
the three-thirty time, or the five-fifteen time. Afterwards, I lie in Ben’s arms and he presses his lips to my forehead and squeezes me into him.

‘You’re quite a hostess, Samantha Brooks,’ he smirks.

I grab a pillow and gently swipe him with it. ‘Not all my dinner guests get those extras, you know.’

‘I should hope not. I dread to think what those nuns who taught you would think.’

I can’t help laughing. ‘Are you going to keep reminding me of that?’

‘As often as possible,’ he grins.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll try not to hold it against you. I’ll go and make you some tea and toast, shall I?’

‘That’d be wonderful. Make sure you don’t tread on the casserole dish.’

‘Well remembered.’ I go to stand up but he grabs me by the arm and pulls me back, kissing me on the mouth.

‘Last night . . . this morning . . . It was wonderful, Sam,’ he whispers.

A smile creeps onto my lips as I return the kiss. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’

To say downstairs is a scene of devastation doesn’t give you the complete picture.

I tiptoe into the kitchen to discover shards of Pyrex and chicken jambalaya on every available surface. It looks like someone has taken a machine gun to my crockery.

Once I’ve cleaned it up as best I can, I fill the kettle, put some bread in the toaster and enter the living room. Which isn’t a great deal better. The lights came on at half-past
three, which I know because, having thus far successfully prevented Ben from seeing my wobbly bits, he got an uncompromising eyeful of the lot at exactly that point. Still, they can’t have
been all bad, given subsequent events.

The curtains are drawn and every lamp still glows. Clothes are everywhere: hastily removed jeans with one leg inside out, a bra with curled-up straps hanging comically from the door handle,
Calvin Klein trunks peeping from underneath the sofa.

While the kettle is boiling, I spend five minutes piecing the room together so that at least it looks less like the scene of a TA assault course.

I return to the kitchen, place the folded-up clothes on the work surface, fix the toast and tea, and then take a sip from one of the mugs. God, tea tastes good after sex, doesn’t it? I
know that’ll never be a slogan for a Typhoo advert, but it’s so true.

Smiling to myself, I put down my drink and pick up Ben’s to take it up to him with his toast. I’m almost at the stairs when the doorbell rings. Lazily, I pad to the front door, still
feeling barely awake, despite it being after ten.

It’s not a sensation that lasts. As I open the door and stare wide-eyed and dumbstruck at my visitor, I’ve suddenly never felt more awake in my life.

‘Jamie,’ I splutter, as my legs almost give way. ‘What a surprise!’

Yes, I know, ‘surprise’ is an understatement. And being confronted by Jamie is not the only thing that unsettles me. This time yesterday, no man had ever bought me
flowers. Now it’s happened twice in just over twelve hours.

If I was being a total pedant, I’d say Jamie’s aren’t quite as tasteful as Ben’s, but it’s the thought that counts. And the thought terrifies me. I know the second
I set eyes on him as he stands on the doorstep – gazing at me in my dressing gown while I clutch the tea and toast of my new lover – what they represent.

I know what he’s about to say before he opens his mouth. These flowers might be swathed in plastic, with a supermarket sticker revealing that they had £3 off. But they’re
flowers – and there’s only one reason why a man who’s never bought flowers makes a sudden and drastic policy change.

To show he means business.

So when Jamie asks if he can come in and talk, because he’s come to a decision and he thinks I’m going to be happy about it, frankly, I can barely hear what he’s saying.

As I show him into the living room, my eyes dart about, surveying the environment for stray pants in a similar technique to that used by Kiefer Sutherland in
24
when he’s looking
for unexploded bombs. My breathing is shallow and I can think of nothing except my muted prayers that Ben does not move. An inch.

The room swims in and out of focus as Jamie sits opposite me, smiling. He looks confident and happy – two qualities totally alien to him lately.

‘I’ve been a fool,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You, on the other hand . . . Sam, you’re a revelation. You’ve stayed strong, you’ve stayed beautiful.
You haven’t got angry, you haven’t wallowed. You’re amazing. I don’t know how it took me so long.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work?’ I blurt out.

‘I took the day off. I had to. I couldn’t wait a moment longer to tell you this.’

‘What is it you’re telling me, Jamie?’ I manage, but I don’t even care about his response. It’s a response for which I’ve yearned for months; yet, while
I’m conscious that what happened last night hasn’t changed that, the immediate, horrific circumstances – and getting my arse out of them – is my only priority.

All Ben needs to do is go to the loo and step on a creaky floorboard for me to be busted. It’s a fact of which I’m excruciatingly aware.

‘I’m coming home, Sam,’ Jamie tells me with glazed eyes. He stands up and approaches me, first taking me by the hands, then throwing his arms around me. All I can think of
– as I struggle to breathe with anxiety – is that I smell of Ben.

‘That’s . . . amazing, Jamie,’ I reply, pulling away.

He smiles.

‘Do you mind if I ask . . . when?’

He looks puzzled. ‘When what?’

‘When are you moving back?’

He grins widely. ‘Now’s as good a time as any.’

Only one response pops into my mind – and straight out of my mouth: ‘I’m not sure now’s a good time.’

He looks stunned. ‘What?’

‘I just mean . . . I . . . I don’t know what I mean.’ My head is spinning.

‘Have you changed your mind?’ he blusters.

‘No!’ I leap in, squeezing his hand. ‘Of course not. Not at all.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘Look . . . this is obviously a shock for you. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Why don’t you get dressed while I get my first load of gear
from Luke’s house? We can go out for breakfast together and talk.’