All the Single Ladies (3 page)

More than all that, though, was the now overwhelming conviction that, if we didn’t take drastic action, we were going to be left there, abandoned and destined to live a
Lost
-style
existence. With no food, water, Factor 25 or Matthew Fox, I didn’t like that prospect one bit.

In short, in the space of ten minutes we’d gone from not wanting to bother anyone with our troubles to being so desperate we’d have stowed away on a white slave ship.

Unfortunately, that point came at the exact moment when the boats fired up their engines and prepared to do the one thing we were keen for them not to do: leave.

‘Surely they won’t go without us. Surely,’ said Ellie, breathless. ‘What do you think, Sam?’

‘No, they won’t,’ I replied with a conviction totally at odds with how I felt. ‘Surely.’

‘Yep, I’m sure too,’ added Jen.

‘As sure as sure can be,’ Ellie said for good measure.

As the boats started heading back one by one to the main island, there came a point – with about three left – when there was only one thing to do.

Scream.

I’d thought I was loud – until Jen opened her gob and emitted a noise like the wail of a demented banshee on her way to the seventh circle of hell. But no matter how loud we shouted,
how pathetic we looked, how blue in the face we turned in our attempts to catch someone’s attention, we were ignored by all but one.

His voice swam across the Indian Ocean and swept me up. It had the lilt of an accent I recognized immediately, and although it said a dozen things it meant only one: we were going to be
saved.

Jamie had taken the job with the long boat company four weeks earlier and he told us that night that ‘incidents’ like ours were common. Very common. In fact, the
more pressure Ellie put on him to reassure us we weren’t imbeciles, the more common they became.

I often reminisce about that first evening, when we ended up alone, drinking cold Singha beers on the beach and sharing stories beside a fire we’d built, its flickering flames reflected in
our eyes. It was terribly romantic – apart from the fact that chronic sunburn had left my shoulders, nose and forehead looking like a walking strip of pancetta.

I had a sense even then that it was one of the defining moments of my life, an unforgettable snapshot that would remain with me for ever. But it wasn’t the setting that made such an
impression. It was Jamie.

He was beautiful in a way I’d rarely seen up close. Lean and tanned, his body was the equivalent of a gorgeous, gooey cream cake I was never going to be allowed. So why did I think I
wouldn’t be allowed him? For a start, with his blue, cool-water eyes and a heart-stopping smile, he was too good-looking for me. I was punching above my weight and I knew it.

Yet I wanted him so badly it made my head spin.

He was well-travelled and well-read, intellectual and thoughtful. He talked about books by John Fante and Bukowski (no, I’d never heard of them either) and had a CV of exotic jobs ranging
from tour guide in Borneo to jobbing guitarist in Sydney.

But with that Liverpool lilt betraying the fact that we’d grown up less than ten miles from each other, his dazzling experiences weren’t intimidating. He and I shared a history and
sense of humour that created an instant connection.

‘Isn’t it difficult constantly moving round? Maintaining friendships must be hard,’ I said, pushing my feet into the warm sand and feeling it run through my toes.

‘I make new friends. You get used to it,’ he shrugged, letting a handful of sand slide through his fingers. ‘Though I must admit . . .’

‘What?’ I asked, sensing his hesitation.

‘I miss having a girlfriend.’ He looked into my eyes and smirked. ‘It’s been . . . a while.’

I raised an eyebrow. He laughed. ‘Oh I don’t mean sex – I’ve not struggled with that . . .’ Then he widened his eyes. ‘Oh God! That came out wrong!’

It was the first sign of self-consciousness I’d detected.

‘What I mean is –’ he took a gulp of beer – ‘I’m not saying I’ve been an angel . . . but sleeping around holds no interest for me. I want intimacy with
someone on every level.’

I sipped my beer. ‘Good for you.’

‘Does that surprise you? Given that I’m bumming my way around the world, I mean. The thing is, there’s a big part of me that wants to find someone to spend, well, forever
with.’

I peeled off the label from my beer bottle. ‘Forever’s a long time. And that might be tricky given that you are, as you say, bumming your way around the world. Maybe you can’t
really decide what you want in life.’ I flashed him a challenging grin and he laughed.

‘Oh I know what I want. I have a list.’

‘A list?’ I laughed. ‘What’s on it?’

‘Let’s see . . . adventure. Love. Happiness. Fun . . .’ His eyes twinkled as he was unable to suppress a smile. ‘Lust.’

We both giggled. He’d moved closer to me, so close I could feel his breath on my face.

‘That’s a great list,’ I whispered, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ he replied as his lips melted into mine.

The girls and I were supposed to be staying on Choeng Mon beach for only a few days. But, for one reason or another, we stayed two weeks. What I really mean by one reason or
another is Jamie. He was the reason. And my friends, loyal and lovely as ever, indulged the holiday romance they could see developing. Even if it did involve remaining in the ‘luxury beach
hut’ whose shower facilities consisted of a tap that intermittently vomited dirty water and more wildlife than a David Attenborough box set.

Jamie and I couldn’t stay away from each other. It was one of those intense relationships that felt like a drug addiction. When we were apart, all I could think about was my next hit. When
we were together, the pleasure was so sweet it made me glow.

I told him every day of the last week on Choeng Mon that it would be my last. I had to move on. My friends were getting restless and I owed it to them to continue with the trip. Yet the thought
of leaving him was unbearable.

On the day we were due to sail back to mainland Thailand, I felt like I was being ripped in two. We’d exchanged numbers; we’d promised we’d email; we’d agreed that, if he
ever came back to the UK, we’d go for a drink. A drink. It sounded so small and unsatisfactory compared with the explosion of emotion I’d experienced in the last fifteen days.

‘Come on, gorgeous – I’m sure your paths will cross again,’ Ellie said, as we loaded our backpacks onto the taxi and climbed on. It was one of those open-air Thai ones
easily mistaken for a milk float. ‘Besides, it’s never the same when you get home. Without the sunsets and the tan you don’t get that rush of blood to the head.’

‘It would have been different,’ I insisted, as Ellie squeezed my hand.

And I meant it. I knew it. I could feel it in the sting of my tears when he kissed me for the last time outside his hut and told me he’d never forget me.

I often wonder how fate would’ve played out if our taxi hadn’t broken down on that dusty road to the harbour. If we’d set sail on time. And if I hadn’t looked up as the
driver stood at the side of the road gesticulating – and seen a motorbike racing in our direction.

It was only as it skidded to a halt, dust billowing around the driver, that I realized who his passenger was. As Jamie stepped off the back of the bike and strode towards me, I was alive with
anticipation.

‘What’s up?’ I managed.

Then I noticed his backpack, his guitar. He put them on the ground and held my face in his hands, kissing me slowly, as if we had all the time in the world.

‘I had a moment of realization,’ he said eventually.

‘Oh?’ I replied, holding my breath. ‘What did you realize?’

He smiled. ‘That I’ve found someone to share my list with.’

When I first heard the name of my new client, Lorelei Beer, I pictured a vaguely slutty type whose main talent is giggling.

I’ve only once met Lorelei in person – during our kick-off meeting for an event I’m organizing for her company – but she’s nothing like I’d imagined. A large,
loud redhead of indeterminable age, with a thick Cardiff Bay accent, she isn’t remotely slutty (as far as I know). And there was no giggling.

‘I’ve looked at the celebrity guests you’re proposing,’ she booms down the phone, almost setting my earlobes on fire.

‘Right,’ I say, as brightly as I can. Despite being confident about the quality of my guest list, I’m struggling with work today like never before. ‘What do you
think?’

She doesn’t miss a beat. ‘They’re a shower of crap, my love.’

I take a deep breath and attempt to compose a lucid response, even though there’s only one thing on my mind – and it isn’t work. She beats me to it.

‘That’s a generous assessment, by the way. A kind one. I should get a frigging OBE for not having torn up that list and spat on it.’

I open my mouth to speak.

‘I said I wanted A-LIST, my darling.’

Lorelei, I discovered early on, has a unique ability to combine terms of endearment with insults as toxic as nuclear waste. ‘Some of these soap stars wouldn’t go to the opening of a
Netto, my lovely. And where’s Coleen? You promised me Coleen.’

Lorelei is the Marketing Director for a massive charity that was launched in Liverpool nearly a century ago to help vulnerable young adults. Despite the fact that the charity now helps teenagers
in need in several corners of the world and its main HQs are in London and New York, it continues to have a major office here, and the local connection means that they still have the odd event in
the city.

The event I’m in charge of is one of a string of parties marking the charity’s centenary in November. The others, including a black-tie ball, a networking event for suppliers and a
staff shindig, are all in London. But they wanted to throw the hundredth-birthday party itself in the place where it all began.

Which is where I, as Events Director (Liverpool) for BJD Productions, come in. If the grand title gives the impression that I have scores of minions to jump to my every creative whim – be
it a chocolate fountain the size of Victoria Falls or Bill Clinton as an after-dinner speaker – don’t be fooled.

It’s not that we don’t do ludicrously proportioned chocolate fountains or former presidents, because we do and we have. It’s just that, despite BJD being a big London-based
company with several sub-branches, there are only a handful of us in Liverpool – and, far from being minions, one or two of the staff like to think of themselves as only slightly lower in
status than the Sultan of Brunei.

‘Well, the list’s a work in progress,’ I say, attempting to placate her, at least until I’m feeling my usual efficient self again – which I sincerely hope will be
soon. ‘I’ll review it this afternoon and add some more, erm, brand-appropriate names.’ I hate that term with all its contrived David-Brentness. The clients are universally
orgasmic when you use it, though, and who am I to argue? ‘Plus, if you feel Coleen is central, you have my word that we’ll do our best. We have good contacts with her people and
I’m confident that the celebrity turnout will be second to none. But bear in mind that the bigger the name, the less likely they’ll commit until closer to the time. They see
what’s on their schedules and—’

‘Listen, luvvie,’ she snaps with a voice that makes my root canals tremor. ‘Don’t give me that crap. Have I told you Kevin S. Chasen might be coming?’

Kevin S. Chasen, by the way, is God. In fact, he’s more important than God as far as Lorelei’s concerned because he is the CEO of Teen SOS (whose name is the result of a relatively
recent rebranding of the charity that one hundred years ago was simply called Buffets).

Despite the high-profile job, he’s a shadowy figure, keeping himself relatively out of the public eye; when I Googled him I discovered only two blurry pictures taken several years ago.

The fact that he may grace an event Lorelei has commissioned is a prospect that’s got her knickers in such a twist it’s a surprise she can walk properly.

‘If Kevin S. Chasen is there this event has got to be show-stoppingly brilliant and nothing less. So don’t feed me any crap. Because I’ve been around the block enough to know
when I’m being fed crap and this is such blatant crap I can virtually smell it.’

I take another deep breath. ‘Ms Beer—’

‘Lorelei, my gorgeous,’ she corrects me. ‘We agreed to dispense with all that surname crap.’

‘Lorelei. All I can say is that everything is in hand—’

‘Soz, luvvie – another call’s coming through. Just sort it for me, won’t you?’

She slams down the phone and I’m left gazing at the handset.

I look at my to-do list and add to it a review of Lorelei’s invitees. My to-do list now runs to six pages. Any more and I could wallpaper my downstairs toilet. Under normal circumstances,
I’d whizz through it, picking off tasks and doing my best to demolish them. However, my brain feels as though it’s made of butternut squash soup this morning. And I hate it.

I look around the office; the place is quietly buzzing. The BJD team occupies one floor of a large, overly expensive building that we share with several other companies. The fact that my bosses
pay over the odds for impressive views and top-of-the-range furniture is a reflection of how important image is to them. It does, however, mean that we have to work very hard at keeping our team as
profitable as it is. Which can be a challenge given some of the staff members I inherited, as anyone who’s come across Natalie and Deana would testify.

Natalie and Deana work here, but only in the technical rather than the literal sense. They turn up (usually). They remain in the office for eight hours (if you’re lucky). They leave
(hastily). And they get paid for all of this. Whether this constitutes work is a moot point, particularly since they rarely engage in activity even vaguely beneficial to their employer.

‘I asked Ged for flowers the other day,’ announces Natalie, our Administrator, pausing briefly from reading her
Take a Break
. Both she and Deana are about the same age as me,
but that’s where the similarities start and end. ‘He started banging on about it being the twenty-first century and it should be me bringing him flowers. I said to him: “If
you’re such a sodding feminist, get your Marigolds on and scrub that bog for a change.” That shut him up.’