Year of Being Single (15 page)

‘Cross my palm with silver,’ said Grace. ‘Everything has its price. I’m deciding whether to sleep with you or not,’ she added, brazenly. To get my own back on James, she thought.

‘To get your own back on James?’ said Greg. ‘I don’t think that’s the right reason for doing it.’

‘You don’t want my money?’ said Grace. ‘Or you find me repulsive? You can’t bear to sleep with me?’ He wasn’t going to be a very good escort if he kept this up, was he? – if she excused herself another pun. Turning down offers.

‘Of course I’d be happy to sleep with you,’ said Greg. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. But my role as an escort – what I hope my role is going to be – is to make women feel good about themselves.’ How generous, thought Grace, somewhat scathingly. He rubbed two fingers over his chin and continued, ‘I think if you slept with me, tonight, so soon after James cheating on you, you’d feel very bad indeed. In fact, I can pretty much predict you’d wake up in the morning feeling terrible.’

‘Cross my palm with silver,’ said Grace, again. ‘So now you’re a fortune teller.’ But she knew he was right. She
would
feel terrible. She wasn’t ready to have sex with anyone: it would only remind her of James doing it…with that slut.

‘Shall we get the bill?’ said Greg. Subject well and truly changed, and she was glad of it, really. He was totally right. She didn’t want to have sex with him tonight.

Grace paid the bill. Credit card. She had already paid for
Greg
by bank transfer, before she left home.

They called for two taxis. Gazelle, at the wooden podium, looked surprised. They clearly looked like a couple that should be going home together. Greg had his arm around Grace and she was leaning into his shoulder. She was drunk, but they looked good together. Everyone could see that.

They stood outside in the breezy air. Greg insisted she got into the first taxi.

‘Call me if you want to see me again,’ he said, and granted her a light hug and a fleeting kiss. His lips grazed her cheek and he said, ‘I think you’re a really gorgeous girl.’

He thought she was gorgeous! A lovely warmth spread through her body.

‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘What are you doing on the 1st of April?’

Chapter Ten: Imogen

They were still in Chinatown and on dessert. Imogen always had dessert. Why come out for a meal if you weren’t going to have
everything
? She was having banana fritters and ice cream, Richard was having lychees in syrup.

He liked his food. He’d wolfed down everything they’d been brought: dim sum in those cute wicker lidded baskets, steam escaping from the woven gaps; noodles and rice on willow-patterned dishes; aromatic pork and peppers on sizzling skillets; chilli beef and cashew chicken. He’d seemed to really enjoy the whole experience – the over-lit canteen-type atmosphere, the clattering of trolleys, the way the waiters and waitresses stamped a card with pretty Chinese characters when you ordered your dim sum. Imogen liked Richard’s delight in everything and his boyish enthusiasm. It made her want to take him outside and rip his clothes off.

The muscles she could see bulging under his shirtsleeves weren’t helping matters. She imagined, not for the first time, what he would look like with his shirt off. Oh, she’d imagined it several times. When they’d had a drink at the tiny bar before they’d sat down, during the starter, during the main course and every time he’d raised his chopsticks to his mouth. Oh sod it. It had been pretty much constantly.

Richard was very polite to the waiters. This was a deal-breaker for her. How a man talked to waiting staff told you everything you needed to know about him. They had a guy who was slightly nervous. He told them it was his first week. He stumbled over his words a bit, apologised that his English was not that great and spilt some white wine over the rim of Imogen’s glass and onto the table. He was over-apologetic but Richard was great. He was really kind, told him not to worry about it, and even said, ‘We’ve all been in our first week, once.’

They talked about loads of things: his job, her job, his parents, her parents, New York, London, chat shows in both countries. She was careful how much wine she drank. Not too little – she didn’t want to seem boring. She wanted to look as though she enjoyed food, good wine and conversation, which of course she did; she was a seasoned old pro in going out for dinner, after all. But she was also mindful of not getting too sloshed. It was suddenly very important that she looked poised, in control. An English Rose. She didn’t think many English Roses got off their heads on white wine and found themselves face down in their fritters. So she slowly sipped one glass of wine. Savouring it. Holding the glass as she’d imagined she would when she was a little girl dreaming of going out for nice meals in smart restaurants with handsome men.

The conversation was relaxed and they laughed a lot. They had an excellent exchange about silly English words, when Imogen called herself a numpty for knocking one of the dim sum lids off the table.

‘Numpty?’ said Richard, in delight. ‘That’s a new one. He got out his Blackberry and pretended to write it somewhere. ‘I’ve learned quite a few quaint British insults since I’ve been here. Wally, berk, duffer – duff
er
, is that right?’ Imogen laughed and nodded. ‘Git, minger,
munter
, plonker, wombat,’ he continued. ‘Though I thought that could be Australian?’

‘Yep, Australian,’ said Imogen. ‘I sometimes use that one though.’

‘And an Irish guy, in jest, I hope, called me a boll
ix
? I always thought it was bollocks, but I could be mistaken.’

Imogen laughed. ‘Bollocks in English, bollix in Irish,’ she said. ‘It’s an education.’

‘It certainly is,’ said Richard.

They really did laugh a lot. They had the
power
to make each other laugh and it was a heady power that thrilled her. It was exhilarating to have your pithy one-liners and dry, witty observations bouncing across the table like exuberant ping-pongs and making an alpha male American roar with laughter.

‘You’re funny,’ he said, at more than one point. She took it as a compliment. He had a sense of humour she adored, too. Mocking, slightly sarcastic, so un-American – he was as far from have-a-nice-day, straight-down-the-line blandness as you could get. They laughed all the way through jasmine tea and those minty chocolates that come out on a saucer.

‘You’re my kind of girl, Imogen,’ said Richard, as they sat and waited for their bill to be brought to them. He looked all serious, suddenly, and she felt a thrill of heat surge all the way down to her toes.

‘Am I?’ she answered flippantly but doubted she concealed her delight.

‘Yep. You’re smart; you’re kinda sassy. You have a lot of chutzpah.’

‘Thanks!’ She grinned. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’

She glanced away and smiled at a passing waitress. She felt incredibly
naughty
, sitting here with this man. She was supposed to be single. She was supposed to be
ignoring
men. But she was finding him irresistible. Was he her kind of man? He was exactly what she’d been after all these years. A rich, successful businessman, somebody with perfect manners who would treat her right. It was all she had dated for a long time. There was supposed to be a safety in these type of men – as disappointing as they’d all turned out to be – an unspoken assurance that she wouldn’t fall in love with them. She suddenly felt afraid she couldn’t guarantee her own safety, not with this man…but she pushed that fear aside. Why couldn’t she just enjoy him?

Their bill arrived and Richard paid it, despite Imogen insisting it be split.

‘My treat,’ he said. ‘I invited you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

She didn’t want to get up. She wanted to sit at this table, with this man, all night. Talk about everything, talk about nothing. Just be with him. She was shocked at the intensity of this feeling, that she wanted to be with this man. She’d only just met him! Up until the moment she’d met him she’d been really enjoying being single. What was happening to her?

As they left, their waiter was walking briskly towards the kitchen, a look of intense worry on his face. Richard stopped him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hey, good luck. In a couple weeks you’ll be flying. Heck, you’ll be running the show.’ It was really lovely of him; she hoped to God it wasn’t an act.

‘So where can I drop you?’

They were outside the restaurant, on the pavement. Ah. This was new. A
really
perfect gentleman, although she wasn’t sure she wanted him to be. She was slightly aggrieved he was not asking her back to his place, or to a hotel. They always did!

She tried to arrange her face so she didn’t look disappointed in the slightest.

‘Don’t worry, I can walk to the Tube from here,’ she said. It was fine and dry now. And it was only ten o’clock. It was early! The night was still young. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to walk away from him just yet. They’d had such a great time.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ She had never been an actress, but she’d been around them long enough to pick up a few tips. She made her face bright and nonchalant and gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Thank you ever so much,’ she said in the Queen’s best English. ‘I’ve had a wonderful evening.’ Okay, so she wouldn’t be picking up an Oscar any time soon. She probably wouldn’t even pass an audition for am-dram Noel Coward at the local village hall. She sounded like an idiot. An idiot who’d swallowed a plum.

‘My pleasure,’ said Richard, ignoring her Celia Johnson from
Brief Encounter
impression, and he stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was thrilling, having his face so close to hers, his warm but cool lips on her flushed skin. He smelled wonderful, like honeysuckle and testosterone.

‘Bye, then,’ she said, and she walked away from him and towards Oxford Circus Tube. She felt sad and sorry to be leaving him but at the same time excited and buzzing. She’d felt like this once before… Oh God. The fear was back. She suddenly felt like she was at the top of a very tall building and perilously close to the edge. She had nothing to grab on to and she was terrified. She was in very near and proximate danger of falling for this man.

And he didn’t have her number and she’d refused his card.

‘Wait!’ called Richard. ‘I don’t have your number! Do you have a card?’

Oh thank God, thank God.

‘Yes!’ Knowing she didn’t look at all cool, she literally ran back to him, pulled a card from the little inside pocket of her swish bag and thrust it into his hands. And then, because she couldn’t trust herself not to fling her body onto his and beg him to take her to bed, she turned on her heel and fled.

Imogen frowned to herself as she put her ticket through the barrier in the Tube station. She was in big trouble. Really big trouble.

She was in grave danger of being a giant, absolute fraud.

Chapter Eleven: Frankie

Frankie walked to Tesco’s. She wouldn’t run; she didn’t want to look all dishevelled and out of breath before she even got there. She wanted to look cool, composed and wedgie-less. She’d got new gear, including a pair of leggings that actually fitted her and a T-shirt in a normal colour that didn’t say anything.

She’d decided to go to the Couch to 5k meet-up. Just to see what it was like. Train with like-minded people. Beat her personal best. See that handsome guy again… Why not? It was another Sunday without the kids and, to be honest, she was bored stiff and desperate to avoid another drop-in visit from her parents.

She’d run, on and off, since that first time two weeks ago. She was getting better at it. She could now go twenty minutes without a stitch and was beginning to enjoy that feeling of satisfaction when she got home and knew she’d done what she set out to. She liked it. She was a
runner
again.

He hadn’t been quite right about the car park. It was empty of people – there were only cars – but there was a group of sporty-looking people in Lycra and fleece limbering up in the parkland behind it. As she walked over, the man she’d met by the river was lolling against a tree, wearing black shorts and a turquoise T-shirt, and easing on sweatbands. She made a beeline for him. The other people looked scary: a couple doing mirror-image star jumps, a guy in a red tracksuit and matching towelling headband doing hamstring stretches, a woman thrusting a black and pink bum in the air as she tied her laces.

‘Hey! You came!’ He was as gorgeous as she’d remembered. His hair slightly longer and even more George Wickham. His eyes just as heavenly. He had a slight designer stubble thing going on this morning as well, which made him look incredibly sexy.

‘I did.’

‘And you’ve got new trainers.’

Frankie looked down at her new Adidas running shoes with the natty netted sides.

‘Yep. Cool aren’t they?’

He had a neat pile of stuff at his feet: sports bag, water bottle, perfectly folded sweatshirt. They were all lined up in a row. He even had what looked like three individually wrapped protein bars aligned like soldiers in a manly blue Tupperware box.

‘Well, you look great,’ he said, as she looked up. She noticed for the first time his voice had a slight northern quality to it. With his full and floppity hair, his impressive but tidy sideburns and his mesmerising full-lashed eyes, she half expected a neighing, saddled horse or a discarded pair of breeches to materialise behind him.

‘Thank you.’

‘My name’s Hugh, by the way.’

‘I’m Frankie.’

‘Well I’m ever so pleased to meet you, Frankie,’ he said, mock-formally. And he held out a hand, which she took. As their skin made contact he smiled and his gorgeous eyes crinkled at the corners. Wow. He was gorgeous. She felt all funny. ‘Right,’ he said, letting go of her hand despite her trying to hang on to it for a bit longer. ‘We’ll be off in a minute. Are you ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Let’s go for it then.’

He ran next to her for the entire twenty-five minutes. It was hard to chat when your knickers were up your bum (damn! New leggings, same problem), your boobs were one big wobbling block and you were out of breath. But she did her best. Hugh was very encouraging.