All the Single Ladies (40 page)

‘But he hasn’t changed his standpoint?’

She sighs. ‘Dan wants to be friends . . . with benefits.’ She raises her eyebrow meaningfully. ‘And it’s not enough for me.’

‘He actually said that?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘I don’t think that’d be enough for anyone, Jen,’ I agree. ‘At least, not long term.’

‘I’ve told him that. And I’m not playing hardball. I’m not playing any games, in fact. I really don’t want to see him any more if this is all he wants. And for the
first time in my life, I mean it. I’m prepared to take things slowly, but I’m not settling for a man who feels lukewarm about me. And this is a
He’s Just Not That into You
situation if ever there was one.’

I look up. ‘You’ve read that book too?’

‘I’ve read them all,’ she says dismissively. ‘These days there is nothing I do not know about keeping a man on his toes. Sadly, the theory and the practice are two
different things. The point is that Dan doesn’t like me enough to commit to anything more than a casual shag. He can’t even say the word “girlfriend” without looking like
he’s got a chicken bone stuck in his throat. So I’m moving on. It’s that simple.’

I can’t help but be impressed. ‘How do you feel about that?’ I ask tentatively.

She takes a sip of water. ‘I feel empowered, obviously. And I feel like crap, obviously. What I really want is the one thing that isn’t going to happen.’

‘Which is?’

‘Oh for him to walk in here and— Hit me with a kipper!’ Her fork falls to her lap, sending a cascade of Caesar dressing across the table, while she stares at the door.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s just walked in here,’ she hisses.

I spin round to see Dan marching towards us carrying such a massive bouquet of flowers it almost qualifies as an RHS show garden.

‘Dan,’ she mutters.

‘A-a-aitchoo!’ I say.

‘Bless you,’ he says, failing to take his eyes off Jen as he plunges into the seat next to her.

‘Jen, I’ve been . . .’ He looks at his flowers as if he’s forgotten about their existence, though how that’s possible I’m not sure, given that some of them
are the size of a triffid. ‘These are for you.’

She takes them from him in silent astonishment. ‘What are they for?’

He closes his eyes and draws breath. ‘They’re my way of saying that I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking . . . how much I don’t want to lose you.’

‘I see,’ she says coolly. I suppress a smile. ‘And what does that mean?’

He swallows. ‘It means I think I’d better start acting a little more . . . like you deserve.’

He holds her hand and looks into her eyes. ‘It’s taken the thought of not being with you to make me realize how much you mean to me. I don’t want to lose you, Jen. And I asked
myself a question: why is the idea of being in a proper, committed relationship so difficult? The answer is . . . it isn’t,’ he shrugs, almost surprising himself. ‘Not one bit. It
is the concept I couldn’t cope with, not the reality. And, okay, I don’t know where this is going or could go . . . all I know is how I feel.’

‘Wh-what do you feel?’

‘That I don’t want to be without you. I can’t be without you. And I want you to meet my parents and I want to take you away for weekends and I want you to be my . . . my
girlfriend. I want us to be together, Jen. Just together. Is that good enough?’

She looks up at him and whispers, ‘As long as you mean it.’

‘Jen, I do,’ he says, reaching over and pulling her into his arms.

For the next few moments they’re so absorbed in one another that the rest of the world might as well not exist. All I can do is sip my coffee and ponder the fact that there’s a week
to go until Jamie travels nearly five thousand miles out of my life. And I wonder whether I’ll share a similar moment with someone I love, ever again.

The thing I’m discovering about moments is that they appear to come all at once.

After a busy and torturous few days, I’m up early on Sunday to take part in a charity event to which I signed up the Liverpool office of BJD Productions ages ago. I rarely do this, taking
the view that my obsession with doing my bit is mine and mine alone. But I (naively) thought the Santa Dash could be fun for the others too. Personally, I’m relishing the distraction.

It involves donning a Father Christmas suit that’s four times too large and running five kilometres in the company of thousands of other preposterously attired competitors. My enthusiasm
for the event has somehow survived despite the sleet, snow, rain, or all three, that consistently plagues it. And despite managing last year to appear in the local paper – in the background
of a shot of some page-three girls in mini-Miss Christmas outfits low-cut enough to make Santa’s hat stand on end. You can imagine how gorgeous I looked by comparison: as if I’d fallen
off the back of a Rotary Club float.

The event is overflowing with camaraderie and cheer. We’re all doing it for charity, so it doesn’t matter if you sprint home or, as in my case, limp.

Today, though, I feel deflated. I’m happy for Jen, of course. But it’s made me think even more, if that’s possible, about my own situation. I wish I felt as certain about the
man I want in my life as Jen does. And – whoever he is – I want him to want me back.

It’s this precise thought that is going through my mind as I head down Dale Street, red pantaloons flapping in the wind, with Deana and Natalie plodding alongside.

To say they’re unhappy doesn’t quite cover it. It’s not only the outfit they find offensive, although after Deana’s attempts to customize hers, she still looks like the
result of a breeding experiment between an elf and a cosmetic-counter girl, complete with trowelled-on panstick and lip gloss. It’s everything from the weather to the simple fact that this is
encroaching on their precious weekend.

‘I can’t run in these,’ Deana complains, dragging her Uggs through the slush.

‘I hope we’re getting overtime,’ grumbles Natalie for the fourth time.

‘It’s for charity, Natalie,’ I point out breathlessly.

‘I don’t give a shit!’ she hoots. ‘It’s Sunday. I shouldn’t be awake for another four hours.’

‘Spoken with the true spirit of Christmas in your heart,’ I mutter.

As we approach the flyover, I hear something that almost stops me in my tracks. At least I think I do.

‘Sam!’

I think little of it at first. It’s not as if it’s an uncommon name. But then I hear it again.

I grind to a halt and try to work out where it’s coming from.

Then I see arms waving at the side of the road. I stand, mesmerized, as Deana and Natalie run ahead, and a blur of red whizzes past. Among the crowds is a solitary figure, walking against the
flow of runners. He’s calling my name, but he hasn’t seen me.

Then he does.

I’m rooted to the spot as Jamie attempts to dodge the Santas but is knocked about like a Subbuteo ball. Before I know it, he’s in front of me, holding my hands while a stream of
runners keep coming.

‘Sam,’ he says, as the cold whips my cheeks. ‘I’m due to leave in forty-eight hours. I’m all ready. I’ve got my ticket. I’ve worked my last day at the
phone shop. I’ve sold my car. Basically . . . I’m all set.’

‘I know,’ I reply.

‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Leave,’ he says, his face ablaze with emotion.

I sniff. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t want to leave because I want you. I want to turn back the clock and pretend the last six months didn’t happen. I’ve been –’ he looks up at the
heavens as if searching for inspiration – ‘I’ve been a total and utter prick. I took everything for granted. But I want you back with every single bit of my heart. I’m
desperate, Sam.’

‘But what about your trip? Wasn’t that everything you wanted? Haven’t you maintained the whole time that you’d be unhappy staying here, settling down with me?’

He shakes his head, his blue eyes watery and red. ‘Like I said, I was a prick.’

‘No,’ I insist, then temper my statement. ‘I mean, you were a prick for cheating on me. But the trip . . . you had your reasons. You hate your job. You’ve got a host of
unfulfilled dreams and—’

‘Sam,’ he interrupts firmly, reaching into his pocket. ‘My flight’s booked and my bags are packed. If you don’t want me then there’s no longer anything here
for me. And I’d understand if you didn’t. You’ve got every right to hate me. But I couldn’t go without proving how much I love you. I couldn’t.’

‘Proving?’

I look down and register that he has slipped something in my hand: a box. I swallow, and my fingers are creaky from the cold as I open it up with total disbelief. It’s a diamond ring, a
beautiful one too. I can tell the second I set eyes on it that this is no cheap knock-off. It’s the real deal.

‘Will you marry me, Sam?’

He says the words with total certainty, as if all the doubts he’s ever had have evaporated like snowflakes in the sun. But I can’t look at him. All I can do is stare at the ring for
seconds or minutes, until a single hot tear lands on its tiny pillow.

‘But you don’t want to get married, Jamie,’ I mumble.

‘I do, Sam. I want to do everything I can to keep you,’ he insists.

‘Even if it means not following your dreams? Even if it means doing the thing you said you never wanted to do?’

‘Absolutely. Absolutely.’

I shut my eyes momentarily and breathe deeply.

‘Come on, love, don’t give up now!’ shouts a passing Santa, slapping me playfully on the back.

‘What’s your answer, Sam? This is make or break time. I need to know.’

‘My answer . . .’ I begin, my head spinning. ‘My answer is . . . I just don’t know.’

He closes his eyes as if the tumbling clouds above us are about to fall down. Then he nods and squeezes my hand. ‘The plane takes off at eleven forty-five on Tuesday morning. You know
where I am in the meantime. And you know what I want. I’d do anything for you, Sam – anything to put this situation right.’

‘I need to think,’ I mutter, shaking my head and handing back his ring. ‘I really just need to think.’

He swallows, his eyes heavy with tears. ‘I understand. But make the right decision, Sam, won’t you?’

I watch as he turns away. ‘That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.’

For the rest of the day, time passes excruciatingly slowly and terrifyingly fast. Every time I look at the clock in the kitchen I’m another hour closer to having to make
the most important decision of my life.

Yet, make a decision I cannot. On the one hand, Jamie has offered everything that I wanted, and more. All I ever wanted was him, so the idea that he’s now prepared to put a ring on my
finger is, or at least should be, the icing on the cake.

Except it’s not that simple, is it? The goalposts have moved since July. The Jamie who stood before me while ten thousand Santas ran past wasn’t quite the same man I loved for six
years.

He was similar, yes; but with some fundamental differences – ones I’d been entirely unaware of until this year. I fell in love with my most optimistic version of Jamie, and the
reality falls a long way short. Yet, that sparkling version of Jamie still exists on many levels. He’s still kind, generous and funny. I recognize now that he’s other things too, not
all of them particularly palatable.

But is anybody perfect? It’s hardly an attribute I could claim for myself.

Which brings me to the reason I don’t feel overly high and mighty about Jamie’s catastrophic mistakes: Ben. I’ve spent increasing amounts of my time thinking about a man
I’d thought was a decoy, a means to an end, a gorgeous pretender. Now, as I picture his eyes gazing into mine, I can’t help slipping into a fantasy that life with him could be a better
option.

Except . . . it’s not an option, is it?

The man is now ‘in a relationship’ – something that no doubt accounts for the fact that I’ve hardly heard from him, apart for the odd text, since the Teen SOS event. In a
relationship. How I despise that phrase. Particularly since, by the time I’d even thought about reinstating it on my own Facebook page, Jamie had buggered off again.

I’m considering heading for the gym for want of a distraction, when I receive a text from Julia telling me she and Mum are on their way over for a cup of tea.

‘Mum and I have been Christmas shopping,’ Julia tells me as they enter the house laden with so many bags I’m surprised they haven’t dislocated their shoulders.

‘At least, we’ve tried to. Your father is a nightmare to buy for,’ Mum mutters, plonking down herself and her bags.

‘What did you get him?’ I ask.

‘A jumper and some egg cups,’ she frowns, clearly not satisfied with her choices.

‘I thought you’d vowed never to buy him clothes again on the basis that everything ends up in a drawer, never to be worn?’ I point out.

‘Well, I know. But I was totally stuck,’ she huffs. ‘I had to buy this, even though I know he’ll decide it’s one of my attempts to make him more “with
it”.’

‘Even Dad can’t object to that,’ smirks Julia, as Mum produces the plainest of grey cashmere jumpers. ‘Besides, at some point he’s got to come to terms with C&A
having ceased trading.’

Despite the massive, dramatic revelations that unfolded, things feel decidedly normal between Julia and our parents. The theory she always had – about her past being irrelevant to her
feelings for Mum and Dad – has proved to be totally accurate.

Very little has changed. There’s an added sense of her own history, maybe. Oh, and one more guest for our annual Boxing Day party: Gary. Although whether he’ll ever return in the
future when he sees how competitive Pictionary can get is another matter.

They leave after an hour and I log on to my laptop in an attempt to concentrate on my work emails, not least because I have a stack of tasks to catch up on before the world closes down for
Christmas. There’s little in my inbox that offers a surprise or a distraction, though.

Until, that is, a message appears from Lorelei, with the subject matter ‘Feedback on Teen SOS event’. My stomach plunges. I cannot overstate my sense of dread about this.