The Single Girl's To-Do List (14 page)

‘You woman.’ I tried not to wince as I pulled away my own dressing. Three little black stars sat out in sharp contrast to my pale skin. ‘I can’t believe we got tattoos.’

‘I know,’ Matthew replied, sticking his bandage back down. ‘We should go and get some cider and drink it in the park while we smoke a pack of Lambert & Butler or something.’

‘Behold people, item number four. Bloody busy couple of days.’

‘A toast,’ Matthew raised his Diet Pepsi to mine. ‘Do you feel any different? Now that you’re a third of the way along the road to being a real singleton?’

‘I feel amazing actually,’ I said. ‘Like I could do anything.’

My wrist hurt. My head buzzed. I wanted to look at my tattoo. Because I had a tattoo.

‘You can,’ he replied, rubbing my back. ‘That’s the point of this list, isn’t it? To help you realize that.’

‘It is,’ I nodded slowly. ‘And I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have my OCD validated.’

‘I don’t think it would be that good an idea to try and bungee jump off Westminster Bridge. Two’s enough for one day, don’t you think?’ Matthew let his arm settle on my shoulders.

‘Simon hated tattoos,’ I said. ‘He would hate this.’

‘Well, you didn’t do it for him,’ he reminded me. ‘You did it for you. Because you wanted to do it. That’s how you’re making all your decisions from now on. Remember that every time you look at it.’

‘And I can totally cross it off the list.’ I was delighted. Being terribly careful about my wrist, I pulled out the scabby napkin, found my black pen and dutifully ticked off ‘Get a tattoo’.

‘And you’ve already got your crush, your makeover, and Emelie tells me you attempted to exercise,’ he said, ruffling my hair. ‘You’re doing so well.’

‘You as well.’ I gave him a nudge in the ribs. ‘Just exactly who were you entertaining last night?’

Since StephenGate, Matthew hadn’t actually allowed a man over his threshold. Not that he hadn’t been over theirs; he just couldn’t mentally deal with the idea of someone else in his and Stephen’s place. It was understandable, or at least it was now.

‘Just a friend.’ He dismissed my question out of hand. ‘We’ll do me when we’ve done you, don’t worry.’

‘Well, I’m thirty-three-and-a-third per cent more successfully single than I was on Saturday, so I’ve got thirty-three-and-a-third per cent more time to worry about you,’ I said with some pride. ‘We’re getting down to the tough ones though. Might have to wait until tomorrow. Apparently Em and I are going out tonight, some charity thing, and she says I have to dress up. Could take some time.’

‘Sounds tough,’ he replied. ‘Dress up like a girl?’

‘Like a girl. And not just put on a dress, the whole shebang,’ I confirmed, stashing the napkin carefully back inside my handbag. ‘Em, you ready to head home? I’m feeling a tub of Marks and Sparks Rocky Road bits coming on … oh shit, Matthew.’

On the opposite bench, Em was slumped forwards, her head tucked between her knees and a very attractive puddle of puke on the floor by her feet.

‘Emelie, are you OK?’ I asked as I rushed over, crouching down at the side of her; being very, very careful not to get near the vom. New shoes. New suede shoes. ‘Em?’

‘I puked.’

‘You did,’ I pushed her hair back from her face. She had not puked in her hair. Result. ‘But it’s OK.’

‘’Bleurgh,’ she whispered. ‘Puke.’

‘Matthew!’ I called back to the bench but I’d been replaced by a tall, combat-short-wearing man who was preening himself and trying to give Matthew a piece of paper. Dear god. It would all have been terribly cute. If our friend hadn’t been throwing up in front of the Tate Modern. ‘MATTHEW.’

A little giggling, acceptance of the piece of paper, followed by an awkward handshake, followed by a face like thunder stomping over in my general direction.

‘What?’ he demanded, looking at Emelie unimpressed. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s sick,’ I said, stroking her hair. The universally approved action for consoling a pukey friend. ‘We need to take her home.’

‘Excellent timing.’ He bent down and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder. Which was when she threw up down his back. ‘Brilliant.’

I followed dutifully, trotting behind and knotting her hair into a bun on the back of her head. ‘And she’s not even drunk.’

‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ I said, hobbling slightly in my high heels. ‘I look ridiculous.’

‘You look hot,’ Emelie replied. ‘Now just be quiet. Chin up, tits out and follow me. Let me show you how we do this.’

Following her public pukeathon, Emelie had spent two hours in my bathroom and emerged looking as if she’d had a full night’s sleep. It really was disgusting. Her hair was glossy and curled, her skin soft and scented and, once I’d been at her with my make-up kit, she looked like a goddess. I’d tried my best. My red hair was shiny and smooth, I’d gone all out with my make-up in that I was actually wearing some, and I’d added my new black platform heels to make me feel more ladylike. Somehow, it was sort of working. I had to admit, we looked good.

‘
Bonsoir
.’ She batted her eyelashes and laid the accent on thick for a group of very well-dressed smokers outside The Savoy. ‘Light?’

All three men began patting themselves down feverishly, staring at Emelie’s skintight red dress. Eventually one held up a lighter, triumphantly shoving the other two out of the way.

‘It’s crazy inside, right?’ She placed the cigarette between her lips and nodded for him to light it. The flame lit up her perfect make-up and he was done. Completely smitten. ‘We had to step outside for a break. It was just getting so … sweaty.’

I didn’t know where to look. She was shameless. But so, so effective. It was some sort of charity do, an auction of original artworks to raise money for, well, something depressing. Em had donated an original Kitty Kitty sketch. Not being eleven, I sometimes forgot about Kitty Kitty. To me it was that cat cartoon she used to do when she should have been studying, the one Matthew would inevitably redraw to make it obscene. To the tweens of Great Britain, the Netherlands, Brazil and Germany, it was the highest grossing non-media brand for girls under fourteen. Quite impressive really. And happily for me, that income kept her in designer outfits for me to borrow at times like this. Declaring the event a mission, she had pulled the two tightest dresses from her wardrobe and declared the evening on. We were going to find me a date to my dad’s wedding if it killed us. It was a charity do, after all: surely some well-meaning man with too much time and money would take pity on me?

‘I don’t think being outside has helped me at all,’ Em announced to the assembled gents. ‘Perhaps you would like to get me and my friend a drink?’

She ground her unsmoked cigarette into the ground and smiled brightly. Partly because she didn’t smoke and partly because, as she’d explained on the way, this was all part of her plan to teach me the art of flirting. Her role was to chat up likely suspects. Mine was to shut up, look pretty, and do as I was told. I believe it was Meatloaf who had said two out of three ain’t bad … The dress she had chosen for me was genuinely beautiful. I’d actually gasped when she held it out. Narrow black straps at my shoulders cut into a super low V neck that on Emelie must have been indecent. Given my comparative lack of charms, I had convinced myself I made it look elegant. At least, judicious use of double-sided sticky tape meant that I wasn’t going to make it look pornographic. The tightly fitted top half billowed into layers of ruffles that I could just about manage not to trip over if in the platforms. Of course, they provided their own problems. I was not going to be able to drink. Or I was going to have to drink a lot, I wasn’t sure which. I’d gone for neutral lipstick and my most carefully applied winged liquid eyeliner – maximum drama, minimal touch-ups. Definitely elegant.

Em, on the other hand, did not look elegant. She looked stunning. Her red strapless gown clung to her curves like it had been made for her and the skirt fell all the way to the floor in a cascade of delicate pleats. Every time she moved, it moved with her, a deep slash in the front of the skirt revealing yards of leg right up to her thigh. A slash of MAC Russian Red lipstick lit up her entire face and she’d somehow managed to tame her curls into Veronica Lake-style waves. It was ridiculous. If it hadn’t been woefully inadequate, I’d have said she looked like Julia Roberts going to the opera in
Pretty Woman
, except she was twice as beautiful and somehow managed to give the impression that she’d be better in bed than a pro. It was quite impressive.

The owner of the winning lighter held his arm out to Emelie. ‘Let me get you that drink,’ he beamed like a lottery winner. His friends accepted defeat, looked at each other for a moment before one of them held his arm out to me.

‘Charmed,’ I muttered, taking him up on his offer. Whether he liked it or not.

Within five minutes of sailing through the doors of the hotel ballroom, Emelie and I had lost our escorts and were merrily quaffing champagne at the free bar.

‘This is amazing,’ I said, staring around with wide eyes. ‘How do you not come to these things every night?’

‘They’re usually really boring.’ She accepted a questionable-looking canapé from a very handsome waiter. ‘But we should do this more often, girls’ night out. You’re not that likely to meet the love of your life in a dark room in Vauxhall.’

‘Don’t,’ I shuddered. First and last time I ever went to Fire Nightclub with Matthew. Do not, I repeat, do not open the wrong door in that place. Terrifying.

‘I can’t remember the last time we did a girls only night.’ Em sipped from her champagne flute delicately. I tried not to chug. As much fun as this was, I still felt wildly out of place. The easiest cure for that, of course, was booze. I was pretty sure Shakespeare said something similar. Probably used more words though.

‘The last time we were out properly on a Saturday night was last Christmas.’ She smoothed down a stray strand of my hair and smiled. ‘At that thing with Matthew and Stephen.’

‘How is that even possible?’ I returned the favour and brushed a touch of loose eye shadow from underneath her eye. I was a perfectionist. ‘That’s months ago. And we’ve totally been to The Phoenix since then. Loads of times.’

‘Two hours in the basement of a pub once a month is not the same as “out”,’ she explained. ‘I’m not complaining, I know when you’re with someone you don’t want to be trekking around London in high heels when you could be at home watching
The Inbetweeners
with your boyfriend but, from an entirely selfish perspective, I’m really happy you’re here now. I’ve missed you.’

I didn’t really like the picture Em was painting. Maybe I had abandoned her a little bit over the last few months. In days gone by, even when Simon and I first got together, we would be out round town more often than not but, once we’d bought the flat, I’d started to hibernate a little. Having her as a constant presence for the last few days had felt so natural. I’d totally taken our friendship for granted.

‘I’ve been so pathetic,’ I moaned. ‘Honestly, I don’t deserve you to be this awesome. I’m so sorry.’

‘Shut up,’ she pulled me into a hug and brushed away my apologies. ‘I’m always here for you whenever you need me. And yeah, so we haven’t seen each other as much as we used to, but that’s what happens. You were always there for me when I needed you. That’s what matters.’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ I said with an awkward half-hug. ‘Time just got away from me. Now everything’s changed, I feel a bit like I’ve been sleepwalking the last couple of years. If I’d opened my eyes to the situation sooner, maybe I wouldn’t be here now.’

‘Hindsight is a fine thing.’ Emelie nodded towards two tuxedo-clad guys at the bar. ‘As is that. Blond or brunette, which do you want?’

I considered the options. They were both attractive; the blond guy was chiselled, clean cut, tall. The darker-haired guy looked more like the Geography teacher everyone has a crush on in Year Eight.

‘Brunette.’ My mouth felt dry. My armpits felt sweaty. Perfect pick-up combo. ‘Remind me again what this is? In case it comes up?’

‘Charity thing; they’re always charity things,’ she hiccupped as she finished one glass of champagne and readily accepted a second. I really wanted to tell her to calm down; there was no way she was chucking up on the night bus looking like that. ‘I want to say children’s charity.’

‘You are a great philanthropist.’ I couldn’t help but stare at all the attractive men around us. Granted, they were in tuxedos and everyone alive looked hotter in a tuxedo. It was just a stone-cold fact. Just as the man coming up to us was a stone-cold fox. The blond.

‘Ladies.’ He nodded to us both but I knew before he even started which of us he had come to talk to. I wasn’t even offended. At this point, I was very close to adding ‘go gay with Emelie’ to the to-do list. ‘Would you like to dance?’

Ever the good friend, Emelie looked to me for approval before accepting his arm and venturing towards the dance floor. I waited for the Geography teacher to make his move, but instead he held position a few feet away, staring somewhere off to the left of my ear. Oh god, what did I have to lose?

‘Hi,’ I held my hand out and prayed he would take it. After an incredibly uncomfortable couple of seconds, he did. ‘I’m Rachel.’

‘Asher.’ He didn’t quite smile but he didn’t turn and run either. ‘I’m sorry, I just really hate these things. Tim dragged me along; his wife is pregnant and she’s not feeling well and he didn’t want to come on his own and I hate wearing a suit and it’s been a really long day and … Well. Hmm. Quite.’

Because it wouldn’t be enough for one of us to be socially awkward, would it? Nothing like a bit of verbal diarrhoea to get things off to a good start.

‘What do you do?’ I asked, watching married father-to-be Tim whisk my friend around the dance floor. Funny how he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring while he danced with the prettiest girl in the room.

‘I’m a yoga instructor.’ He sounded much more comfortable in familiar territory. ‘Tuxes aren’t my usual uniform.’

‘Suppose not,’ I gave him a supportive smile and tried not to imagine him in a downward dog. Champagne wasn’t good for me. ‘Where do you teach?’

‘Oh, all over London.’ He picked up a glass of champagne from the bar and knocked half of it back in one. Good boy. ‘Do you practise?’

‘I dabble.’ I’d been to one class, refused to accept that bending could be difficult and immediately put my back out. ‘I’m more of a runner.’

I’d tell him that was a lie after he proposed.

‘You should come to one of my classes.’ He coloured up a little bit underneath his heavy glasses. I liked it. ‘One class and I promise I’ll convert you.’

My brain told me to laugh girlishly and accept. Instead I made a sort of snorting noise, blushed from head to toe and sank an entire glass of champagne.

‘Could you excuse me for a moment?’ Asher backed away slowly. ‘Back in a minute.’

Of course you will be. I watched him all but run towards the exit. Of course you will be.

I managed almost an entire minute before I began to feel conspicuously alone on the edge of the dance floor. Rubbing my bare arms, I accepted a refill on my champagne and decided to take a turn around the room. My experience of balls was limited to the dances attended by Meg and Jo in Little Women and Jane Austen adaptations. They were always taking turns around the room. Not that this event could really compare; for starters there wasn’t a bustle in sight and I couldn’t see a Judi Dench anywhere.

Following a sign for ‘silent auction’, I headed down a darkened hallway, my heels sinking into extraordinarily plush carpet. Since I’d already sank three free glasses of champagne and blagged a free ticket from one of the patrons, maybe I felt obliged to donate something somehow. Didn’t seem like it would be the kind of event where I could chuck a tenner in a bucket at the end of the night, and I was almost certain no one was walking around selling raffle tickets.

The auction room was almost empty; just a few partygoers wandered around looking at the paintings and photographs on display, occasionally pausing to write on slips of paper and pop them into envelopes beside each work. I stopped in front of a black and white photograph. It was beautiful. A wide desert sky, clouded over, with someone kneeling in the lower left-hand corner, her face in the shadows. It was one of those moments where someone is caught completely off guard and isn’t trying to be anyone. It felt raw and honest and just very special. And according to the guide price, the charity was expecting to get five thousand pounds for it. No wonder it was a silent auction, I thought. That direction was presumably to stop me shouting ‘bloody hell, how much?’ out loud.

‘You like it?’

I was so busy trying not to look shocked at the price of the photograph, I didn’t see him coming. And even if I had, there was no guarantee I would have recognized Dan in a tux in the first place. Wow. Never having seen him in anything other than jeans and T-shirts, the transformation was startling. The intense black fabric of his tux contrasted with the sharp white shirt, making his light tan glow, and the perfectly fitted formality of his outfit clashed against his slightly too long brown curly hair. He really was not a bad-looking man. Tall, broad, gorgeous dark brown eyes …

‘I love it.’ If anything was going to tear my attention off that picture, it was going to be him. Something winged and fluttery was happening in my stomach. But this was Dan, couldn’t possibly be butterflies, more likely killer moths. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘And good evening to you too,’ he replied. ‘I work with the charity. I’m assuming you’re here with Emelie?’

‘Yes?’ OK, so I’d been a bit rude, but really, he’d taken me by surprise. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because I was the one who got her involved with the charity in the first place. I introduced her after your birthday party two years ago?’

Blank stare.

‘At karaoke?’

Blank stare.

‘Karaoke Box? Smithfield?’

‘Ohhh,’ the penny finally dropped. He really did have a good memory. ‘Well, it’s a great photo anyway.’

‘It’s one of my favourites.’ He handed me a small stiff card programme. Desert series number four, Daniel Fraser. It was his picture. ‘You were on the shoot, don’t you remember?’

‘Oh my god, I was.’ I took another look. Dan took this? ‘Morocco, isn’t it? What, four, five years ago?’