Year of Being Single (11 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘That was the name of Patrick Bateman’s company in
American Psycho
. It was fictitious. Made up. And his company was investment; mine is re-insurance.’

‘Re-insurance? Isn’t insurance boring enough the first time around? And I know what
fictitious
means. We invented the English language, remember.’

Richard nodded, smiling, his eyebrows slightly raised and teasing.

‘You seem to know a lot about
American Psycho
,’ she said. ‘That’s suspicious in itself. You know what suspicious means, right?’

‘Ha ha, touché!’ Richard’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. He had very attractive lines. How old was he? Late forties? How annoying it was that lines could look extremely sexy on a man’s face but never a woman’s. ‘I’ve seen the movie, that’s all. Look, I’m not a serial killer. Call one of my colleagues if you want to. I’m here in London for six months. Working at the Gherkin.’ He went to pull his card out of his pocket again.

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Good. It’s all fine and dandy then.’ He leant back, relaxed. He was a big man. Not fat big. Broad big. She imagined serious pecs and huge ‘guns’ under that crisp white shirt. She envisaged strong, hairy legs and sexy feet and toes. She pulled her eyes away from him and tried to be interested in what was going on outside the window, which was difficult, as all she could see was a static and traffic-blackened brick wall. The car was still not moving. It would have been much quicker to walk.

‘I’m someone who takes chances,’ Richard said, behind her head. ‘And I like the look of you and hopefully you like the look of me.’ She turned back from the window. Locked her eyes onto his. Oh sod it, he was gorgeous, why not just enjoy the fact? ‘So we’ll go have a little dinner. That’s how it works, isn’t it? People who like the look of each other go out on dates. I’m sure dating in London is not so different to New York.’

‘Do women jump into the back seats of cars with strange men in New York?’ she asked. ‘Okay, don’t answer that! We’re a bit more cautious here. Have you been to London before?’

‘Nope, first time. But I know all about the well-documented British reserve,’ he said. ‘The renowned stiff upper lip. Never let your guard down, don’t show emotion and when the going gets tough drink a nice
cup of tea
.’

‘Stiff upper lips and cups of tea served us well through two world wars, I’ll have you know.’
I’ll have you know?
Who was she, her dear departed nan? And what was she going on about? Soon she’d be prattling on about Eccles cakes and ration books. ‘Which we
won
,’ she couldn’t help but adding, unnecessarily.

She really didn’t want to get onto this. Did they really want to get into a discussion about GIs and Winston Churchill and all that
standing shoulder to shoulder
business? Although she wouldn’t mind standing shoulder to shoulder with this man, or indeed putting any part of her body against his.

She sighed. Did he have to mention tea and British reserve? He was so fabulously amazing, she hoped he didn’t turn out to be awfully disappointing – one of those Americans who laughed at all the stereotypical things that British people supposedly did, and bought Union Jack tea cosies thinking they were beanie hats and went around saying how quaint everything was. Surely, he wasn’t like that?

He was laughing. ‘I’m teasing,’ he said. ‘I know you Brits hate it when we
Yanks
– I’m kidding, we hate that, too – start going on about English clichés and putting on terrible accents that make us sound like Bert from
Mary Poppins
.’ He smirked and gave a slight wink. ‘I’ve never seen an upper lip here that was particularly stiff, and all the guys in my office drink coffee. It’s the only thing that keeps them awake for all that boring
insurance
.’

Now it was Imogen’s turn to laugh, but her laugh quickly faded away when she realised Richard was staring quite intently at her mouth. Was he looking at her lips, her
upper lip
? She had an urge to not be bloody reserved in the slightest and kiss him right there and then, in the back of his car.

She moved her head out of his laser stare and sat back, aware she’d been perched forward since she’d got into the car, like a budgerigar. She had a proper look around her. She was half expecting a drinks cabinet thing to automatically open up from somewhere, James Bond style, or a glass screen to pop up between them and Nigel, trapping her in the back seat and leaving her to the mercy of Richard. She quite liked the idea of that, to be honest, which was ridiculous, as five minutes ago she’d been terrified at the very thought.

‘So what do you do?’ he asked. Now it was her turn to study his mouth. She noticed his teeth. Super white. Nice. His lips were on the thin side, but curved upwards at the corner, like a fox’s. Tasty.

‘I’m an agent.’ Yes, she was. She was an agent, again. Hoo bloody ray.

‘CIA? Federal?’

‘Ha, funny. No we don’t have silly things like that in this country, as you probably know. We just have the police. Oh, and MI5, though I’m still not exactly sure what they do.’

‘Literary?’ He gave the word four full syllables. It sounded sexy.

‘No, acting. I’m an actors’ agent.’

‘Movies?’

‘Television. Mostly.’

‘Cool job.’

‘Yup.’

‘I bet you’re damn good at it.’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘English rose,’ he said, smoothing his tie. Oh God, don’t look at his hands, she thought: if he’s got nice hands as well, you’ll be powerless. She was a stickler for a man’s hands. And if they pleased her, she knew that they would
please
her. Neat clean nails, large, firm-looking hands, just the right slight smattering of hair on the backs – and she was a goner. Richard’s hands were perfect. She got tingles in parts of her body she’d rather not mention.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m afraid I’m wandering down stereotype alley here, after all, but you’re one of those English roses, aren’t you? Winslet, Thompson, Pike. Is your name Rosamund or Abigail or Imogen?’

‘Actually, it is. It’s Imogen. Imogen Henderson.’

‘Bingo!’ said Richard, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. He looked like a small boy who’d found a nickel on the sidewalk. (Imogen congratulated herself on her American analogy.)

‘Very lucky,’ said Imogen. ‘Aren’t English roses supposed to be blonde, though?’

‘I think so, officially. But I’d like to expand on that. I’d like to expand that to gorgeous brunettes with sparkling green eyes and a knock-out pair of legs.’

Imogen blushed, conforming to the stereotype after all. An English rose, eh? She’d never been referred to one of those before. And she wondered if she was too old to strictly qualify for one. No matter, she could go with it.

‘You know your British actresses,’ she said, trying to deflect the attention elsewhere.

‘I’ve watched a lot of British movies.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘Let me guess.
Notting Hill
,
Four Weddings and a Funeral
,
Love Actually
?’ The usuals.

‘Yes, those. But quite a few others, too. I’ve seen a lot of British films. From all the eras. Ealing comedies, Powell and Pressburger, kitchen sink dramas.
Kes
. Even the odd
Carry On
.
Ooh matron
,’ he said, in cod Kenneth Williams. Imogen laughed. He actually made Kenneth Williams sound sexy. ‘I like British movies. My favourites are
Trainspotting
,
Shallow Grave
,
The Full Monty
. The 90s is my era.’

‘Oh me too,’ said Imogen. ‘Especially for music. Blur, Oasis –’

‘– James, Suede, Elastica,’ he added. He knew his stuff. ‘Sleeper, The Stone Roses, Dodgy…’

‘
Dodgy
! There’s a blast from the past! Fabulous.’

They grinned at each other. Wow. He liked British films and knew his Britpop. Impressive.

‘What’s your favourite Blur song?’ she asked.

‘“The Universal.”’

‘Mine too,’ she said. Now she was more than impressed.

They both paused. Looked at each other. The pause was kind of electrifying. She needed to break it as it was almost unbearable.

‘I like a lot of American movies, from the 90s,’ she said. ‘
Goodfellas
. That’s my favourite movie of all time. The long shot, going into the Copacabana club, just genius.’

Richard nodded. ‘Yes, I know it. Ray Liotta and Lorraine Bracco.’ Now
he
looked impressed. She started to show off.

‘I met Paul Sorvino, once,’ she said, ‘in the 90s. He was Paulie, in
Goodfellas
. I met him at a party.’

‘Cool. Cool guy. I’m in awe of you already, Imogen.’

‘Are you, Richard?’ She was flirting now and she knew it. The conversation had got…exciting. Movies, music…they were on the same wavelength. She wondered what other areas they might be in tune on.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Oh God, it was corny, and she knew he was saying it slightly tongue in cheek, but the way he said
ma’am
made her feel weak at the knees. Oh goodness. They were doing so well, keeping away from all the clichés. She really shouldn’t be seduced by the cliché of a charming American. Good Lord! This wasn’t
Yanks
(although she loved that film! Richard Gere? Hello! Who didn’t?)

She felt her face colouring, so she turned to the window again. The expensive car would have purred had it been going faster than nought. Instead, it was stop start and it had started to drizzle.

She was excited about going for dinner with this man. She hadn’t been this excited about a man in ages. The last time she’d been really excited was when she’d been convinced a hot-shot guy from the Bank of England, whom she’d dated for five months, was going to propose to her. They were in the restaurant at The Flagship Hotel. He kept looking at his dessert. Trifle. She became convinced there was a ring in the bottom of it. She was wrong. He just really liked raspberries. In hindsight, she didn’t really want him. She certainly didn’t love him – love was for mugs. She just wanted the perfect proposal and the perfect marriage.

Why was she thinking about marriage? She was sworn off men! She had to remember that! God, it was tough, though. She was really struggling at the moment, to be honest.

She felt a hand rest lightly on her leg. She nearly shot off the seat and up to the plush, quilted ceiling. Richard was looking at her with a quizzical look on his face.

Bloody hell, he really was handsome. She was slipping. The ban was rapidly wearing off. Help!

‘So,’ he said.

‘So?’ she said.

‘We’re just about here.’ The door was opening. Nigel was outside. She stepped out. Richard came round from the other side of the car doing that sexy thing where a man reaches round to his back and tucks his shirt in. He was tall. Really tall. She’d been out with a couple of tall men, but they were more of the beanpole variety. He was tall, broad… All man. Oh God, she really shouldn’t be swayed by this stuff.

She looked up and down the street before they went in to Sai Kung Palace, which was ridiculous. Frankie and Grace were hardly going to be up in London, and no one else knew about her vow to be single for a year, or the fact she was not supposed to be anywhere
near
a man as gorgeous as this.

Chapter Eight: Frankie

Friday the 13th of March. Unlucky for some, dead boring for others. It was only Friday night but Frankie was bored already. She had absolutely nothing to do this weekend, and the novelty of the children being with Rob was beginning to wear off. She was fed up with having literally no one to play with.

She missed the children. The last couple of weekends they’d gone to Rob and his buy-to-let she’d stuck on a happy face but had had a little cry after the car had pulled away. She
missed
them. It was so
quiet
once they’d left the house. She was beginning to hate the weekends they weren’t with her.

They’d been gone about fifteen minutes; Rob had a day off and had picked them up at four. He was pretty chipper these days, she thought. There’d been no snarling recently, no barbed comments; he just picked the children up on a Friday and returned them on a Sunday, usually with a smile on his face. She didn’t get any complaining texts from him now, either.

She texted Imogen at work but got no reply. It was Friday. Frankie bet she was going out after work… There’d be a play, or a drink somewhere with those young girls in her office. Imogen still liked her nights out even though she wasn’t dating. Grace was also out tonight, at a Taekwondo class of all things! She’d told Frankie now she was single she wanted to take up some new hobbies and as Daniel already did it, Taekwondo was the poison of choice. It takes all sorts, thought Frankie. (‘Poison of choice’ were her words, not Grace’s.) It wasn’t something
she
fancied.

Bored, bored, bored. She felt at an utter loss. The weekend loomed before her dull and empty.

She lay on her bed and looked out the window at the sky. That cloud over there looked like a sausage dog. The one just above the telegraph pole resembled Boris Johnson’s hair. She heard a car pull up outside. She hoped it was someone exciting. She hoped it was Rob bringing the children back and saying he couldn’t have them after all this weekend.

Oh no
, she thought as she clambered to the window and looked down at the street. A black Fiat Panda was parked at the kerb and her parents were climbing out. She’d been avoiding them since she and Rob had split. She knew it was awful, but she couldn’t bear to tell them. She’d kept contact to a few truncated telephone calls and prayed they wouldn’t pop round.

Frankie’s mum and dad were Old School with a capital O and a capital S. Pam had been wearing print floral dresses on her self-confessed ample frame since the age of thirty, hadn’t worked since the Dark Ages (last known employment: the broken biscuit counter at Woollies) and firmly believed that a woman’s place was in the kitchen, or sometimes, the garden, butchering laburnum bushes, or sometimes, the living room, where she enjoyed looming over Ted and his nightly tea on a wicker tray, making sure he had enough salt and pepper or mustard or brown sauce, and was the gravy hot enough, or should she throw the whole thing back in the microwave for another five minutes? Pam was a terrible cook, a lover of shop-bought Battenburg and she liked things how they used to be; she took no
truck
with new-fangled gadgets or ‘women’s lib’ (interchangeable), and she believed men were to be served.