Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (17 page)

However, you have to bear in mind that the people inviting me to the party are a couple.

Couples invariably invite other couples to parties. This is the way of things. Similarly, single people tend to mainly ask other single people to their shin-digs.

I’m thinking of ringing up the Natural History Museum and telling them
Darwin
got it wrong. Not all human beings are the same species, after all.

There are in fact two distinct types, who only like to mix with their own kind whenever possible:
Homo couplus
and
Homo singlus.

Sure, there is interaction between species when necessary, but it is often stilted and awkward. It always comes as something of a relief when the other one eventually buggers off.

As very much a member of the
Homo singlus
crowd I had to weigh up the pros and cons of being invited to a party that would no doubt consist predominantly of the enemy camp.

Was it worth the discomfort and possible social inadequacy to avoid another Saturday evening on my own, watching whatever crap Ant and Dec are hosting at the moment on ITV?

I concluded that it probably was…

It would be bad enough if there had only been a sporadic number of my fellow
singlus
species at the party, scattered amongst the happy couples, but it turns out I’m the
only
single person invited.

Yep, it was three happy partnerships and one miserable Jamie Newman sat round the dinner table eating Chinese food.

Hosts for the party are my mate Dave and his wife Katherine. They’ve been married for seven years, so have reached the stage where the shine has well and truly been rubbed off the apple.

This suits me fine, as if I’m going to engage with members of the
Homo couplus
crowd, I’d prefer them not to be enthusiastic about the whole thing. There’s nothing worse than a new relationship being flaunted in front of you when you’re all on your own.

As for couples two and three, they are the epitome of horrifying middle class self-obsession, and were both ostensibly invited along for the entertainment value.

One couple are Dave’s friends, the other Katherine’s.

‘You’ve got to
come
mate, it’s going to be hilarious,’ Dave had told me over the phone. ‘You know how bloody awful they both are – especially when they get together.’

That’s what really swayed it for me. I very much doubted Ant and Dec could come up with anything as potentially amusing as two middle class couples trying to out-do each other in the materialism stakes.

Angela and Mitchell know Dave and me through work, while Katherine had introduced Sophia and Iain to our social circle about six months ago. Ever since then, whenever they were in the same room together, you could almost feel the tension crackling back and forth between them.

I begged David to let me be the one to get the ball rolling this evening. I hadn’t been given the chance yet and was thoroughly looking forward to it.

So, about an hour into the dinner party, with most of the kung
po
chicken eaten and a relaxed, convivial atmosphere in the room, I drop the following bombshell:

‘So then everyone, are any of you going on your summer holidays in the next few weeks?’

It’d taken me mere seconds to decide on this particular opening gambit. I knew damn well that both couples hadn’t been on holiday yet and were planning to go away, so this was the perfect catalyst for tonight’s entertainment to begin.

Dave stifles a laugh and Katherine has to get up to pour another glass of wine before she gives the game away.

‘Oh yes!’ Angela says happily. ‘Mitchell and I are off to the
Maldives
for a fortnight at the end of the month!’ Mitchell nods smugly as she says this.

‘We’re not that keen on the
Maldives
these days,’ says Sophia. ‘Getting far too commercialised for our liking. We’re headed for the
Seychelles
.’

 
‘Really?’ Mitchell pipes up, barely able to disguise the sneer on his face. ‘I never feel it’s exclusive enough there.’

‘Oh, it is indeed,’ Iain retorts, sitting up in his chair. ‘We get the same vibe from going there as we do when we ski in Val
d’Isère
every year.’

‘
Aspen
’s the place for us when we want a bit of après ski,’ Angela says, attempting to smile. It looks more like she’s chewing a dog
turd
.

‘Pfft!’ Sophia exclaims, sounding like a tyre going down. ‘The place is full of Americans. It’s also heavily commercialised.’

‘Maybe the parts you’ve been going to,
hun
.’

Zing! That’s round one to A&M.

‘We’re going to
Devon
in a caravan next week!’ Dave says happily, draining his glass.

I have to get a piece of this. ‘Really? I’m going camping in the
New Forest
! Even going somewhere this year with toilet facilities, so I won’t have to shit in a bucket!’

Katherine spits her wine out.

Angela, Mitchell, Sophia and Iain all look at Dave with barely concealed contempt. They don’t even bother trying to conceal it when they look at me.

Dave ratchets things up a notch by moving on to an even more electric topic: ‘See you’re driving the new Mercedes SLK, Iain.’ He turns and regards Mitchell. ‘Tell me Mitchell, has that got a better spec than your BMW or not?’

Ooh. That’s a good one…

Mitchell and Iain spend the next ten minutes arguing who has the better traction control system, heated rear seats and on-board computer.

They probably should have just whipped down their trousers and measured up - it would have saved a lot of time. I have a feeling neither would win any awards if they did.

Iain wins the car round by correctly identifying that his over-priced German executive cruiser costs about a grand more than his opponent’s.

I thought Mitchell did very well to not bite into his wine glass.

‘My Punto went through its MOT last week!’ Katherine tells us all.

‘Good for you,’ I congratulate. ‘My
Mondeo’s
suspension makes a noise like a cat throwing up whenever it goes over a speed bump!’

Dave nearly chokes on a prawn ball.

It’s Katherine’s turn to stoke the fires now and she really hits a home run with: ‘I see you’ve got a new handbag, Sophia.
Chanel
, is it?’

Perfect.

If cars get the lads going, handbags are sure to set the women off.

‘Yes! Wonderful isn’t it?’ Sophia holds up a ghastly brown snakeskin monstrosity that features two golden buckles slightly larger than my head.

‘I had that one last year,’ Angela comments in an off-hand manner that in reality is anything but.

‘Really? What have you got now?’ You could have cut diamonds with Sophia’s tone.

Angela pulls out a slim, silky grey number that certainly looks more aesthetically pleasing than the bulky
Chanel
job and waggles it in Sophia’s face. ‘
Prada
.’

Game, set, and match Angela and Mitchell!

Silence descends.

You can almost hear Sophia chewing on her own liver. Iain has gone a somewhat disturbing shade of puce.

I’m trying very hard not to giggle every time I take a sip of wine.

Then Angela ruins it. ‘Have you found yourself a girlfriend yet Jamie? Maybe you can take one camping in the
New Forest
with you?

Bitch.

‘Not yet,’ I tell her and knock back the rest of my Merlot.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You should try speed dating.’

I bite back a suitable retort and resist the urge to jump across the table and throttle middle-class Angela, with her shameless materialism and oh so
helpful
nuggets of advice.

‘Or the internet?’ Sophia adds. ‘My assistant Karen found somebody on a dating site, bless her. She’d been single for
years
by the time she gave it a go. It’s not something I’d ever consider, but it looks like it’s worked for her, the poor girl.’

Is it possible to throttle two people at once? Or should I just go and buy a shotgun?

Then I come out with the well rehearsed and practised lie that every singleton knows off by heart: ‘I’m not really looking at the moment, actually. Happy being free and single, to be honest.’

You pathetic, lying bastard Newman…

Katherine sees the look on my face and quickly pours more Merlot into my empty glass. I can see veiled sympathy in her eyes, which is almost worse than the barbed comments from the other two women at the table.

‘How are things at the company, Iain?’ Dave asks, trying to steer the conversation away from my barren love life.

Iain and Mitchell proceed to try and beat each other in the ‘who gets the better job perks’ argument, but frankly my heart’s not in the contest anymore.

For the first time I’m acutely aware that I’m the only single person at the table. The half bottle of red wine I’ve now consumed is not helping my mood, so by the time the clock hits
ten thirty
, I make my excuses to leave and get up from the table.

I manage to suppress the urge to strangle both Angela and Sophia as they air kiss me goodbye.

Dave claps me on the back as I walk to the front door, blackening my mood further.

I don’t need people feeling sympathetic for me anymore than I need to be told I should try internet dating like that ‘poor girl Karen’.

My house is about a thirty minute walk from Dave’s place so I amble home in no particular rush, attempting to lift my mood by breathing in the fresh summer night air and thinking happy thoughts.

Needless to say, even though it’s gone
ten thirty
at night, there are still reminders of my terrible singularity everywhere.

…this always happens.

There’s nothing more guaranteed to bring hoards of happy, loving couples out onto the streets than when you’re trying to forget how single and lonely you are.

I decide to count how many examples of
Homo couplus
I stumble across in the two mile walk back to my house.

Eleven.

Eleven
bloody love partnerships between me and my front door.

Can you believe that?

The bastards were coming out of houses, passing in cars, walking hand in hand down the street.