All the Single Ladies (5 page)

Besides, this is different from other Manhattan prints I’ve seen; its vivid colours against the black of night make me feel alive; it is a reminder of a place that makes the blood in my
veins buzz as soon as I step off the plane.

Tonight, I can’t bear looking at it. It’s a symbol of my failure to compromise, to make him happy, to make him love me enough to stay. I walk to the wall and lift it off, carrying it
awkwardly up to the spare room, where I slide it under the bed.

Then I walk silently around the house, going from room to room, but soon realize that the picture isn’t even half the problem. Jamie is everywhere.

He’s in the bottle of beer abandoned on the patio table, the blurry pictures of his travels on the kitchen wall. He’s in the T-shirt lying on the bathroom floor and the faint smell
of deodorant on our sheets.

I flop onto the sofa and, with blurred eyes, put on my iPod, feeling an instinctive pull to a song I’ve always loved but which has never before meant so much.

Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’.

Her words make my stomach clench as a downpour of tears soaks my cheeks in the bitter realization that these things – the bottle, the T-shirt, the pictures – will shortly be
gone.

Jamie was everywhere in this house. Soon he’ll be nowhere, nowhere at all.

Having a sister ten years older than me is great in every way but one: people can never tell which of us is the younger.

Although she is thirty-eight, Julia’s results on a Ten Years Younger survey would come back at twenty-five – and that’s without Botox, veneers or questionable fashion overhaul.
If it wasn’t for another factor, people might think we were twins. The other factor being that she is mixed-race and I’m not.

If you want the whole story, Julia isn’t my real sister. She was adopted four years after Mum and Dad married because they had such a horrendous time trying to conceive a baby that –
although doctors could find nothing wrong – they became convinced they’d never have children naturally.

That was eventually disproved by my existence, but, after suffering five miscarriages, you can see why my parents had their doubts. Not that me coming along any sooner would have changed their
decision; they love Julia and me exactly the same and there’s never been a shred of evidence to the contrary.

‘You’re going to hate me for saying this,’ says my sister, coolly scanning her menu, ‘but there may be some sense in what Jamie’s saying.’

I throw her a look that stops just short of my eyes turning red and me breathing fire in her face.

We’re in the Monro, a gastro-pub on the edge of the city centre that serves good, simple food and is big on atmosphere. It’s Friday lunchtime and so busy that we were lucky to get a
table, particularly one in a relatively private corner.

‘Look,’ she says, in that uniquely serene way my sister does so well. ‘I know you’re upset. Of course you’re upset. Your whole life has been turned upside down.
Plus, you and Jamie were great together. But there always was that small issue hovering in the background.’

‘What small issue?’

‘His itchy feet.’

‘What?’

‘He’s always had them, Sam. No matter how much you adored each other, his feet were blatantly itchy.’

‘Great,’ I mutter. ‘The most significant relationship of my entire life can be boiled down to a conversation we could be having at the chiropodist.’

A waiter arrives and we place our order. I change my mind twice and mispronounce the name of the wine. Then he turns to Julia, and although she asks only for a smoked chicken salad, he’s
left gazing in her eyes as if she’s read him a sonnet.

Which brings me to the other reason we’d never be mistaken for real sisters: Julia oozes grace and elegance. When she enters a room, she glides, turns heads along the way. The last time I
turned heads as I entered a room, it was because I’d tripped over the carpet. And that’s probably why I could never do her job, preferring a vocation which keeps me firmly behind the
scenes.

Julia is a professional musician. I know that when most people over thirty describe themselves thus, they’re either one of those ageing club acts that none of the
X Factor
judges
wants to mentor, or a tortured, too-serious-for-their-own-good type trying to avoid a proper job.

My sister falls into neither category. She is a cellist with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, and a talented one as far as I can work out. I’d like to say her musical skills
have rubbed off on me, but in a round of Singstar I could lose to a squeaky door.

‘You know what I’m saying, Sam,’ she continues. ‘You can’t change a man. It’s pointless even trying.’

‘I never tried to change him,’ I hiss. ‘I love him as he is.’

‘I know,’ she says softly. ‘But by staying in a job selling iPhones, he’s hardly being true to himself, is he?’

I’m getting annoyed now. ‘What about love conquering all? And he does love me, Julia. I’m not deluded. He’s told me.’

Tears spring to my eyes and it strikes me how unbelievably sick I am of them being there. I’ve spent more time checking my make-up in the Ladies in the last two days than I have in the
last six months. I can tell without looking that my eyeliner’s starting to run again.

‘I believe you,’ she whispers, reaching over and squeezing my hand. ‘And I know you’re right: he does love you. Oh look, I hate seeing you like this. Why don’t you
move into my place for a bit? It’ll be just like old times. I’ll even let you borrow my make-up this time. Plus, I’ve got a date next week so you can cover for me,’ she
winks.

The reference is to the fact that when Julia was growing up, despite never inviting male attention, she got it. Tons of it. I’ve tried to conceptualize her appeal over the years, though
these things are difficult to pin down when it’s your own family. Julia is pretty, of that there’s no doubt; she has a slender figure, generous smile and a gorgeous cappuccino
complexion. But this isn’t a looks thing; it’s more than that. Men find her mysterious without being unapproachable. She doesn’t throw her charms in anyone’s face and yet,
between her instant likeability and quiet confidence, they’re there all right.

‘Is your car fixed now?’ she asks.

‘Just about.’

‘Are you going to get a new one?’

I sigh at the mention of this, because the fact is I love that car. I know it’s nothing special, and it has some way to go on the reliability stakes. But I bought it only a year and a half
ago; and on the day I picked it up Jamie and I went on a long, sunny drive out into the Cheshire countryside. It was one of those beautifully perfect days that you know you’ll remember for
ever.

‘I’m sure it’ll be all right now,’ I say, then change the subject. ‘Has Mum said anything about Jamie and me?’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Of course. She’s worried about you.’

I squirm. I’ve never been one for maternal heart-to-hearts. Despite what I’ve discussed with Ellie and Jen – with each of whom I spent an hour on the phone last night –
I’d prefer to spill the details of this break-up to
Heat
than to my mother. This isn’t because she’s not sympathetic; the problem is that she’s too sympathetic. Also,
I hate the thought of her worrying about me. That said, I can’t pretend my reluctance to share anything vaguely personal with her is entirely altruistic. It’s a characteristic I was
born with. The day she sat me down to discuss the birds and the bees I feigned a sudden onset of food poisoning and locked myself in the bathroom until she’d found something else to occupy
her. Sorry, but sex education was for biology teachers,
Just 17
and Claire Tunney (whose extensive rear-of-bike-sheds experimentation was the subject of endless interrogation), not my
mother.

‘You need to go round, Sam. I know it’s probably the last thing you want, but you’re going to have to face her. Besides, it’ll give her something to talk about other than
my biological clock.’

I catch her eye and smile softly.

Julia has never wanted children and is determined that she never will. Maybe that’s why she’s never married or settled down, although she has had a couple of relationships lasting
three or four years. How much of this has to do with her own background, I’ve no idea; but I’m sure a psychotherapist would have a few theories.

Julia was taken in by my mum and dad when she was a tiny baby, after being rejected, essentially, by her birth mother, for reasons that only that anonymous woman knows. Yet Julia’s never
expressed anything more than a mild interest, and certainly not enough to go on a
Who Do You Think You Are?
-style hunt for her biological parents.

You might think this is because she’s worried our mum and dad might be upset, but that isn’t the case. Both say they’d understand. But Julia genuinely doesn’t feel a need
to know more than she already does.

‘I’m going to the Ladies before our food arrives.’ Julia pauses and puts her hand on mine. ‘You okay?’

‘Of course,’ I reassure her. However, I can feel my eyes getting hot again before she’s even a foot away. For some reason, my frustration at the semi-permanence of these tears
seems to make them all the more determined to reappear. I sniff and try to pull myself together, keen to avoid yet another trip to the toilet. Instead, I pick up my bag, rooting through it for my
compact mirror.

I have no idea how long I spend looking for it, but it quickly becomes evident that I’d be more likely to find a haul of buried Inca treasure than my mirror. And all the while I continue
attempting – and failing – to compose myself. Certain my cheeks are by now covered in mascara, I’m willing Julia to return so I can go to the toilet myself.

I finally lay my hands on my mobile phone and ingenuity strikes me. Checking that my fellow diners are suitably distracted by their food, I hold out my phone, spin it round and take a photo of
my weeping self – the idea being that I can see what I look like without any requirement for a mirror.

Unfortunately, at the exact second that the flash goes off, I glance up to see the waiter, plate in each hand, looking at me as if he’s discovered his mother in bed with the milkman.
‘Would you like me to take one for you?’ he offers, as if this is a moment I want to keep for posterity.

I have never felt less like going on a night out. I want to stay at home sobbing to ‘Nothing Compares 2U’ and inhaling the neckline of one of Jamie’s
T-shirts. Ellie, however, has other ideas. My best friend has never respected anyone’s right to a quiet night in, and she is treating this evening’s recreational activities as if
she’s organizing my hen do.

‘Okay, fish face, give us a smooch,’ she grins, standing on her tiptoes to kiss Alistair, her darling boyfriend. He is on the threshold of their Victorian semi, dodging an explosion
of overgrown wisteria. Given that he’s six foot four, my friend has to stretch, even with her spectacular suede heels.

‘Thanks, fatty,’ he replies, smacking her tiny backside. ‘Don’t I get a proper snog since I’m stuck in babysitting?’ He rolls up a sleeve of one of his
ubiquitous checked shirts (in the four years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Alistair in anything else).

‘Babysitting?’ blusters Ellie. ‘It isn’t babysitting when it’s your own child, my friend. And to think I used to consider you a metrosexual.’

He laughs and she tootles down the driveway, hair swishing as she hops into the taxi.

‘Right,’ she says firmly, clapping her hands. ‘We, ladies, are on a mission.’

‘I can tell,’ I say, feeling worried. When Ellie’s on a mission, all that the rest of the world can do is run for cover.

She clutches my hand. ‘Getting out tonight is absolutely the best strategy, Sam. The worst anyone can do after they’ve been dumped is sit around moping. You need men lusting after
you. And you need alcohol. In copious amounts.’

I roll my eyes and smile. ‘The men or the alcohol?’

‘I’d recommend both,’ grins Jen, pausing from her frantic texting.

Jen is wearing a small, sexy, printed dress with a slashed neck and the sort of hemline that can only be carried off by somebody who models tights for a living. Fortunately, Jen could easily
model tights for a living, though she’s in no hurry to pack in her job as an A&E doctor, especially since she was recently promoted.

‘You both know I can’t even think about other men,’ I point out.

‘Of course we know that,’ says Jen. ‘How are you feeling, Sam?’

‘Oh . . . I’ve got all night to bore you with that again. Who’s the man?’

She innocently suppresses a smile. ‘What makes you think there’s a man?’

Ellie sniggers. ‘A, because there’s always a man, and B, you’ve texted so much since you got in the taxi, your fingertips are almost on fire.’

Jen begins to tell all about her latest squeeze, who can be summarized thus: he is gorgeous, he texts her five hundred times a day – or thereabouts, he’s a fireman, divorced and
lives in Mossley Hill. Oh, and he is gorgeous (in case we didn’t get that the first time).

Essentially, this means he has muscles, lots of them; for this characteristic is non-negotiable as far as Jen’s concerned. Any bloke who doesn’t look as if he could wrestle a
rhinoceros and emerge unscathed isn’t worth considering. She proudly pulls up his Facebook profile on her phone.

‘I’ll give you one thing, Jen,’ says Ellie. ‘You never deviate from your type.’

‘If my “type” is highly attractive, I admit it,’ she grins, putting her phone back in her bag. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Ellie shrugs. ‘Only I do wonder if the muscle fixation might be the source of some of your troubles. Maybe you should try a bloke without them. You might
discover other qualities.’

‘I want muscles and qualities,’ she replies. ‘Is that too much to ask?’

‘Muscles and qualities is Daniel Craig,’ I tell her, ‘and if you pull him in a bar in Liverpool, I’m afraid you’re going to have to share him with the rest of
us.’

The ‘troubles’ to which Ellie refers is putting it mildly. We’ve seen Jen at the top of this spiral so many times we ought to buy her a crash helmet. It’s not that
she’s short of a date. That never happens. What she’s permanently short of, however, is a boyfriend. At least, one that sticks around for longer than three or four months (and
that’s if she’s lucky).