Year of Being Single (17 page)

‘Grace.’

A different, but horrifyingly familiar, male voice was speaking. Cutting across the air between them like a scythe. Grace turned her head.

It was James. His hair was all gelled, like he did it for nights out. He was in his best, going-out clothes. If she didn’t hate him so much she would have said he looked good.

‘James,’ she said flatly.

‘I’ll just go and get some water,’ said Greg and he stepped away into the crowd.
No! Come back!
she pleaded silently, at his retreating back.
I know you think you’re doing the gentlemanly thing, but please don’t! Don’t leave me with him!

She turned back to James. Her bastard ex-husband had a stupid look on his face she couldn’t read.

‘You always said this was a good show,’ he said. ‘Who’s the guy?’

‘
You
said it was for girls and gays!’

They were standing very close to each other. They had to. The bar was packed. It was hot in there. People were laughing loudly, men were braying, women were cackling. There were lots of bare arms jangling with jewellery jostling against each other, bottoms being squeezed past, wobbling liquids in small glasses being carried. One of James’s cousins, who she’d met once at a party, slapped another on the back and they both roared with laughter. It suddenly seemed incredibly claustrophobic. She wondered if she punched James low in the gut, if anyone would notice. She wished she actually
had
taken up Taekwondo.

‘Yes. I suppose I did.’

‘Is Joanne here?’

‘Yes. She’s at the bar. Who’s the guy?’ said James again.

‘His name’s Greg.’

‘Where’d you meet him?’

‘None of your business.’

‘He doesn’t look your normal type.’

‘What, cheaters and bastards?’

James was finally beginning to squirm a little. ‘No, he looks dapper. Very smart.’

‘He is. He’s a gentleman. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Unlike some.’

‘Oh.’ James looked around the bar, pretending he were just casually taking in the scene. ‘Well, this is awkward.’ He tried to smile conspiratorially. Grace ignored him and finished the rest of her wine.

‘For you, yes.’

Greg approached with a glass of water. The ice was clinking; someone had just knocked his arm slightly. ‘Okay, beautiful?’ he asked, smiling widely at Grace.

‘Yes, thanks.’

Greg stroked her arm and her ego, just when she needed both attended to, and looked into her eyes. Yes, that would do. Perfect. ‘This is my ex, James. The one who cheated on me.’

‘I see,’ said Greg, in a friendly tone laced with steel. ‘You’re
James.
Well, you’re an idiot, mate. An absolute buffoon.’ He put a warm arm round her and gave her a little squeeze. ‘Grace is one of the loveliest women I’ve ever met.’

Grace blushed and felt absolutely wonderful. This was the way to be treated.

‘Right,’ said James. He had a stricken look on his face, suddenly. He started looking desperately towards the bar. A girl there caught his eye and smiled. Ah. Joanne. She had a pint in one hand, a glass of white wine in the other. Classy, thought Grace, and so typical of James – sending his woman to the bar for him.

Joanne started walking towards them, looking quizzically at James. He halted her with a sharp glare and a shake of the head. She was frozen to the spot, excitable people bustling around her drinks. Beer sloshed over the rim of the pint glass and down onto the ancient carpet, but she didn’t seem to notice. No one did. It would just blend in with the thousand other spills that carpet had absorbed over the last hundred and fifty years. It had probably seen it all.

Grace studied her. She was really attractive. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. A little bit of the Zeta Jones about her. Silky blouse. Black skirt. Grace could just make out the outline of the infamous breast – breasts – underneath. She was sleek, pretty, almost understated. A rictus smile was anchored to Joanne’s face like it had been face-painted on.

‘Right, well, see you around,’ said James and he bowled off in Joanne’s direction, with that confident walk of his.

Grace shook her head.
See you around?
She was actually seeing him on Monday. He said he had a day off and could pick Daniel up when his coach got back from Paris and take him out for tea. But that wouldn’t sound half as dismissive, would it? Or arrogant. That’s if he even turned up. You never knew, with him.

‘Thanks, Greg,’ she said gratefully, turning to face him.

‘I aim to please. Would you like another wine?’

‘I’d love one.’ She handed him a ten-pound note.

The bell rang for the second half of the performance as they were finishing their drinks. Grace felt a little tiddly. Warm. Excited.

‘Forget about him,’ said Greg, his arm back around her. ‘I promise you’ll soon realise just how easy that is.’

I could forget about anything with you by my side,
thought Grace.

As they re-took their seats, she realised James was a few rows behind them. He was leaning into Joanne and smiling towards her ear. Gloria was sitting next to him. It was typical that most of James’ family had accepted his new relationship so quickly. The man could literally commit murder and they’d still think he was the best thing since sliced bread. In Grace’s opinion, he and Joanne shouldn’t be out in public. They should be hiding out in some dingy room somewhere. They shouldn’t be
out
and showing off.

She
should
try and forget about him. Greg was so much better-looking. Women had been looking at him since they came into the theatre. In the foyer, as they went up the stairs, in the bar. With appreciation. She wasn’t blind to it. She loved it. She knew she and Greg looked like a dream couple. They looked like they belonged together. She wished it was real.

After the curtain call, Grace and Greg returned to the bar for Nana’s after-show party. Nana beckoned for Grace to come over. She was high on a barstool, sipping a dirty martini. She put down her drink and grasped Grace by both hands.

‘Gracie, my darling. There you are! Thank you so much for coming. You’ve brought a young man, I see. Let’s have a look at him.’

‘Not that young,’ laughed Greg, but he did an amusing little turn for her.

‘Very nice,’ said Nana, looking at Grace intently with her piercing blue eyes. ‘You don’t let the grass grow, do you Gracie? When I said plus one I thought you’d bring a friend. Did you not need a little time to take stock?’

‘James didn’t.’

‘No. Quite.’ Nana nodded sagely. ‘But you could try being an independent woman for a while, you know. You might like it. You could google a few of them… Amelia Earhart, she was one. Someone who flew solo.’

‘Amelia Earhart flew solo then disappeared somewhere over the Pacific,’ said Grace.

‘Oh, details, details,’ said Nana, in her raspy, cut-glass voice. ‘Don’t think about the end but the journey. She was brave. She was a pioneer. I had ten years on my own, once, you know.’

‘Did you?’

‘Of course I did – 1935 to 1945, the best years of my life. I gave quite a few men the runaround, I can tell you. I had an absolute ball. I sang to my own hymn sheet, danced to my own drum…’

‘If you had men, though, Nana, you weren’t really on your own.’

‘Let’s just say I dipped in and out. I wasn’t
saddled
to anyone. Right, get yourself some drinks,’ she said, flapping them away. ‘Enjoy the evening. And if you want to abscond with this handsome devil away from all the old farts and my recalcitrant grandson, I don’t mind… I would!’

Grace took her advice. After another hour of small talk with people she didn’t know, or slightly cringey talk with people she did, who gave her the ‘sad face’ about James then proceeded to quiz her relentlessly on Greg, they decided to make a move. She had made her point: if James had someone else then so did she. Sort of.

As they walked back down the staircase – she a little unsteadily – she studied Greg’s face. He really was gorgeous. She hoped the show hadn’t bored him, even if he was obliged to say he’d enjoyed himself. He’d had a sleepy look on his face in Act 2, a sexy one. Had he nodded off a little? If he had, she didn’t mind. And he’d behaved impeccably in the bar. He was attentive. He was gracious to anyone who came to chat to them. He said all the right things. Oh God, she liked him, she thought. She really mustn’t. He wasn’t hers. He
wouldn’t
be hers. He was just the hired help.

They stepped out onto the warm London street, teeming with post-theatregoers, diners, drinkers and lovers, and headed towards the Tube station. She had her hands in her jacket pockets. Greg gently removed the one from her left pocket and took it in his. He also let her walk on the pavement while he walked on the road. She knew if it was the olden days (not exactly sure when; history was never her strong point) and it was raining, he would have laid down his cloak in a muddy puddle for her.

When they got to Liverpool Street, she saw
them
further down the platform, getting on the train. They must have left early, too. Joanne had a white jacket on now. James had his arm round her. James and Joanne. He’s in a new couple she thought. A brand new couple. While she was paying someone to be the temporary other half of hers. It suddenly made her feel unbearably sad.

Greg said goodbye to Grace at Chelmsford station. She now knew she’d definitely drunk a little too much. She knew she was clinging on to him too tightly as he kissed her on the cheek. She knew she looked a little smitten when he bent his head down and gave her a brief kiss on the lips. She knew her eyes were like saucers. Her breath hot and expectant. She wanted to grab hold of the back of his neck and never let go.

She’d spent the train journey with her head on his shoulder. Her hand on his knee. She really liked him. Oh no! She really, really liked him.

A black cab pulled up, Greg said, ‘This is yours, Grace,’ but she just stood there, wrestling with her emotions. Should she dip into Gran’s money and ask him to come home with her for the night? What would it matter? No one need ever know.

She was so, so tempted. She was also unbearably tempted to ask him if he wanted to come home with her anyway, without it being a transaction. She wondered what his skin felt like. How it would feel to run her hands up his back and smooth them down his arms. She had had a sudden urge for him to really like her. To find her attractive, irresistible, to want to sleep with her.

The cab driver beeped his horn and reluctantly, she got in and let herself be driven away from him. She looked back to Greg, who was giving her a half wave.

He did like her, didn’t he?

Damn, she didn’t really know.

Under the circumstances, it was impossible to tell.

Chapter Thirteen: Imogen

Imogen walked across the marble-tiled lobby in her click-clacky heels and got into the lift. She admired her reflection as she smoothly ascended to the twenty-eighth floor. She knew she looked good. Buttery soft leather pencil skirt. Off the shoulder, close-fitting black top. Hair blow-dried and just so. Perfect no make-up make-up.

At the top of the Gherkin, Richard was waiting.

Richard. She loved his name. It was sexy. It made her think of Tom Selleck’s character in
Friends
. She’d always thought Monica should have chosen Richard, not Chandler. Chandler was a child. Richard was a full-grown, fully mature man: large, tall, sexy. And that voice! Her Richard had that voice.

It had been a month since their dinner date and Richard had texted her every day since. He’d spent most of that month in Singapore on some important business, having been called there a few days after their encounter, and a text from him would usually arrive about 7p.m., when she was on her way to a dinner or a play, and he was back in his hotel room after a long night entertaining clients. He would ask her how her day had been and she’d text something amusing that had happened, and he’d laugh (as you can laugh, by text) and come back with a funny comment about his own day. There was usually some banter about insurance or re-insurance, and the pompous world of actors, daaahling, and England and America and which country made better use of the word ‘fanny’. They’d decided it was much more fun to tease each other about their nationalities, after all.

She knew she shouldn’t be doing it. She knew when his first text arrived, the day after they met, saying how much he’d enjoyed meeting her and he hoped they could do it again, she should have ignored it. Deleted his number. Put the barriers up and shut up shop. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t resist him. Making contact with him. Thinking about him nearly every minute of every damn day. When he told her he had to go to Singapore, she’d thought ‘good’, but it hadn’t stopped them, they’d carried on texting and she’d carried on thinking about him
all
the time. The distance just made it all the more tantalising.

He made her laugh. His texts made her day. Although her days were pretty fabulous anyway, it had to be said. The new job was going great. She’d already signed up eight actors she’d been desperate to get her mitts on and had found two of them work already, one in a brilliant sitcom about life in a mobile phone shop, the other in a hot ITV drama about adultery.

It was great fun working with Marcia; she knew it would be. Marcia was loud and funny and enthusiastic and they laughed pretty much all day long. The upbeat mood of the office meant loads got done. Imogen couldn’t be further from Carolyn Boot and her fascist rule of terror and she loved it.

She also loved the location of her West End office. She could pop into Soho every lunchtime for a lovely ciabatta panini, or a duck wrap, or a Greek salad with loads of feta and mint, or whatever she fancied. Not that she was eating a whole lot. She often didn’t finish her feta salad. She was excited, jittery. About Richard. Every time she thought of his eyes, his nose and his smile, his head, shoulders, knees and toes (okay, she hadn’t seen those, but she could imagine they were pretty special), she had a fluttery feeling in her tummy. He was just really sexy. Charming, funny, American. That
voice
. She couldn’t wait to hear it again.