All the Single Ladies (31 page)

‘That’d be nice,’ I nod. ‘I’d like that.’

He smiles and turns towards the door.

‘How long will you be?’ I ask, hearing my voice wobble. ‘Just . . . an estimate, I mean.’

‘Oh I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty minutes. That long enough for you?’ he jokes.

‘Of course!’ I shriek.

He enters the hall and at the exact moment he stoops to pick up something, I can hear the creak of Ben’s footsteps.

‘What on earth . . .’

My pulse skyrockets. I know I’ve been caught. He’s heard Ben and the whole gaff is blown. Everything I’ve fought for, my entire future happiness, is up in smoke.

‘What are these doing here?’ Jamie grins, holding up a curled pair of lacy knickers.

I grab them so fast I nearly karate-chop his fingers. ‘I’ve just put a load of washing on. Must’ve dropped them. Right – see you soon!’ I say, shuffling him out of
the house. I slam the door louder than intended and take a colossal breath as I hear Jamie’s footsteps walking down the path.

Then I glance at my watch. I have to get rid of someone – fast.

I abandon Ben’s tea and toast downstairs. Given that my ex-boyfriend – sorry, boyfriend – will be back in fifteen minutes, a leisurely breakfast is no longer
an option. I gallop upstairs three at a time and burst into the bedroom as if it’s the O.K. Corral. Ben is sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel round his waist.

‘Ben . . .’ I begin the sentence without knowing how to end it. In the event, I don’t have to.

‘Don’t worry, I’m on my way. Are my clothes still downstairs?’

‘They are,’ I mumble.

He stands up, clutching his towel, as I follow him downstairs silently.

When we reach the living room, I scurry to the kitchen to retrieve his clothes and hand them to him. He sits on the sofa and pulls his T-shirt over his muscular chest. I look away, awkwardly
pulling my dressing gown tighter. When he’s dressed and tugging on his boots, something strikes me.

‘Were you . . . leaving anyway?’ I ask, my mind whirring with the events that got us here. He looks at me and softens his intense expression.

‘Actually, I was looking forward to having tea and toast then possibly making love to a beautiful woman all morning. Looks like I’ll be going for a run instead.’

I bite my lip.

‘I wasn’t listening to your conversation with Jamie . . . but I couldn’t not hear.’ He pulls on his jacket. ‘And . . . obviously, there’s no choice for you. I
know that. Of course I do.’

I instinctively reach out to touch him, but think better of it at the last second. ‘I’m sorry, Ben. I . . . I don’t know what to say.’

He grabs his wallet, pushing it into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ he says, forcing a smile. ‘I understand.’

I glance at the clock and realize that more than five minutes have elapsed since Jamie left. Panic must register on my face.

‘It’s all right, I’m going,’ he says.

Then he touches my arm and kisses me slowly on the top of my head, breathing in my hair. He lingers a little too long and a rush of something with which I became very familiar last night makes
my heart race.

‘Bye, Sam. And good luck.’

I don’t know what I’d expected from Jamie moving back in, but the experience is beyond expectations. Perhaps I’d become so pessimistic about it happening that
I hadn’t ever pictured the scenario. If I had, I’m enough of a realist to have never imagined it being this good.

‘Is it weird? It must be,’ asks Ellie on the phone. I’m in the car on the hands-free four days after his return.

‘It is weird . . . but amazing. I haven’t just got Jamie back. I’ve got a new and improved Jamie.’

‘Wow,’ she laughs. ‘Well, I must admit I’m surprised. Pleased, obviously, but surprised. I’ve been worried that if it ever happened, it’d be a let-down.
Sounds as if that’s far from the case.’

It definitely isn’t a let-down. Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel hideous about the circumstances in which it came about. If ever there was a man who didn’t
deserve to suffer the indignity of sleeping with a woman then being booted out before his toast is cold, it’s Ben.

It’s not just that, though. While I was perfectly within my rights to sleep with Ben, the postman or half the GB shot-putting team, there’s no way I can compromise Jamie’s
feelings by letting him know about it. And carrying the secret – as though what happened was dirty and shameful, as opposed to lovely and mind-blowing – feels horrible.

‘Have you spoken to Jen much since her date?’ I ask, changing the subject.

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? She hasn’t been off the phone.’

‘It went well, by the sound of it.’

‘Er . . . yes. Except he hasn’t been in touch.’

‘Are you serious?’ I say incredulously. ‘I haven’t spoken to her since the day after the date; she left a voice message earlier today but by the time I phoned back she
was busy with patients.’

‘Well, it’s been five days since the date and not a peep. And she won’t contact him, clearly, after reading that book. I fear the worst.’

‘Oh God . . . poor Jen,’ I groan. ‘She did everything right this time. No shagging or anything. She can’t win.’

I finish the call as I enter the house, and I am engulfed in such a delicious smell, I’m momentarily convinced I’ve walked into Sylvia’s, next door.

‘Hi!’ I call, bewildered. ‘I’m home!’

The bewilderment, incidentally, is because Jamie and cooking simply do not mix. The last time he was put in charge of catering for the household it almost resulted in a 999 call. Nevertheless,
he appears at the door of the kitchen wearing his combat shorts, vintage Billabong T-shirt (now so vintage that it boasts an effective air-conditioning system in the form of several holes under
each armpit) . . . and my pinny. It’s the strangest sight I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. I was going through a Cath Kidston phase and, in all
honesty, that’s not really me. And the delphiniums-on-acid look definitely isn’t Jamie either.

‘What are you wearing?’ I laugh.

‘Sexy, eh?’

‘Do you want the truth?’ I grin, dropping my keys on the sofa and walking towards him.

‘Come on, you love it really,’ he says, sliding his arms around my waist and kissing my neck.

I close my eyes and try to relax. But I can’t shake the strange sensation that if I get too close, Jamie will somehow work out what happened between Ben and me. I know it’s stupid,
but I can’t help it.

I kiss him on the cheek and head into the kitchen. ‘So, what’s going on? Has the real Jamie been abducted by aliens?’

He follows me and puts his hands on his hips. ‘I’ve been cooking.’

‘Well, it looks inspired . . .’ I reply, spotting a jar of ready-made sauce, ‘by Crosse and Blackwell.’

‘Aww! I’m busted! ’

I laugh. ‘Look, I’m not complaining. This is a whole new you.’

He throws a tea towel over his shoulder and shrugs, serious all of a sudden. ‘I just want to do everything I can to make this work, Sam. That’s all. I did everything wrong. Now
I’m determined to do everything right. And I’m going to prove to you – in case there is any doubt – that you were right all along. You and I, Sam, are for ever.’

My phone beeps and my first thought is that it’s Ben texting. I’ve heard nothing from him since the horrific events of the weekend.

‘Have I got five minutes before dinner to get changed?’

‘Take all the time you want.’

My heart is pounding as I pick up the phone – and find a text from Jen.

I’m lying in bed that night, drinking cocoa made by my boyfriend and reading a book – looking a lot like Sybil Fawlty, minus the rollers and Silk Cut.

Jamie’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, using his old-fashioned toothbrush, which he insists is more effective than electric ones, despite overwhelming expert opinion to the contrary.
When he enters the room, the handle on the bathroom door comes off in his hand. ‘Bugger,’ he shrugs, throwing it onto the floor before climbing into bed.

It strikes me how much better he looks now he’s happy.

‘Our break-up could be the best thing that ever happened to us,’ I say, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Perhaps it’ll make us appreciate how much we mean to one another. I
mean, look at you – cooking, buying me flowers. If I didn’t know any better I’d be suspicious.’

He laughs. ‘It’s as simple and unexciting as this: I recognized what I’d lost.’

I must admit, there’s a part of me that’s taking some getting used to another change in circumstances. Or maybe it’s the hint of scepticism I retain about how long this perfect
version of Jamie will last. Will Stepford Jamie disappear as fast as he appeared?

Don’t get me wrong: I wish I wasn’t thinking this. It’d be far easier to simply enjoy it. But I can’t help it. It’d be naive to not even think about our
imperfections as a couple – imperfections that I can’t pretend never existed. Even though I’ve done a good job of trying over the last few months.

If I’m entirely honest, our relationship was never this perfect. And maybe it’s the contrast between now and before that makes me realize how long I spent rose-tinting our years
together, air-brushing the bumpy bits.

But bumpy bits exist for all couples, don’t they? To pretend they don’t won’t do any of us any good. It’s with this thought that, as I turn off the light and close my
eyes, I am assaulted by a vivid flashback of a time when Jamie was . . . less than nice. And he wasn’t the only one.

It was a year ago, after he’d recently joined a band called the Bad Scientists. It was an ensemble he stayed with for only four months, until the bass player, a bin man called Ronny, ran
off with the lead singer’s girlfriend, a nail technician named Charlene, who gave him significantly more than a manicure and buff.

Before the Ronny/Charlene debacle, Jamie was convinced that the Bad Scientists were his one-way ticket to success. The fact that he’s thought that about every one of the scores of bands
he’s joined over the years – and that it’s happened precisely never – was irrelevant. This time was different, and as a result he devoted as much time as possible to
them.

Don’t get the impression that this enthusiasm manifested itself in intense rehearsals, or endless creative sessions in which their self-proclaimed ‘urban lullabies’ were honed.
This manifested itself in going out and getting off their faces as often and as comprehensively as possible.

There wasn’t a single member of the band who let their modest day-job incomes get in the way of a thoroughly rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. And Jamie, as ever when he’d joined
a new band, was in it for the ride.

I say ‘as ever’ because, over time, I’d got used to his hedonistic binges. They started off as a few drinks after a gig. Then turned into a load of drinks after a gig. Then,
over the course of the six years I was with him, his nights of total wipe-out became days of total wipe-out.

Before I knew it, we’d got into a situation whereby Jamie could switch off his phone and disappear for two days, without me even contemplating phoning the police. I didn’t have a
clue where he was, yet he hadn’t gone missing. I’d got used to this enough to be certain that he was in a locked-up pub or someone’s basement or apartment, where he was living the
lifestyle of a member of Babyshambles, without the record deal or fan base.

When he returned to the house, whenever that finally was, he would look as if he needed hosing down and I’d be bubbling with bad emotions. Then I had to remind myself: we’re not
married; we have no kids; he’s a grown man and can do what he wants; I have no claims over him at all, so how can I disapprove? The most challenging I ever got was making the odd barbed
comment that leaped off my tongue before I could stop it.

But last June – the day before Grandma’s eightieth birthday – I said more than the odd comment. A lot more.

Now, Grandma Laura – my dad’s mum – loved Jamie. She died of a heart attack in November, an event as sudden and as unexpected as you can ever say it is for someone her age.
She’d seemed in good health and was living a full and enjoyable life right up until the day she died. And one thing’s for sure: she’d have been devastated to know that Jamie and I
hadn’t lasted.

You only had to see him in her presence to understand why she loved him so much. He flirted outrageously with her (to her utter delight, especially when it was around her nursing-home buddies)
and would listen patiently to her as if she was the only woman on earth.

The big family party Mum and Dad had organized at a hotel for her was the day after an average Bad Scientists’ gig. I could see trouble brewing when he refused to get a taxi home with me,
instead saying he was having one or two beers with the band. Only he swore – under intense questioning – that he wouldn’t miss Grandma’s party for the world.

I woke the next morning to an empty bed and a grinding knot in my stomach. After a frantic few hours of failing to reach him on his phone, I came to the conclusion that, yet again, his friends,
his band and he himself had all come first. I turned up at Grandma’s party alone and overflowing with excuses.

‘Where’s that lovely boyfriend of yours?’ she said as I handed over her gift. ‘He asked you to marry him yet?’

‘Not everyone gets married these days, Grandma,’ I told her. ‘And he’s had to go away for the weekend to visit a sick relative. He was devastated not to be
here.’

When he turned up on Monday evening – having been gone since Saturday night – we had the sort of row that shatters glass.

I’d had enough. So I screamed at him. And not just a little. I’m talking a full-blown slanging match in which I dredged the murkiest parts of my brain to produce the most cutting
accusations possible, and flung every one in his direction.

Urgh. The thought of that night makes me feel ill. Not only because of what Jamie had done, but because of how bitter I’d let myself become as a result.

‘I’ll make it up to her,’ he croaked, trudging up the stairs, reeking of booze and two-day-old clothes. To be fair, he did take her a box of chocolates the following week. And
it wasn’t his fault that the toffee ones dislodged one of her false teeth.