Bella Summer Takes a Chance (7 page)

‘Foot spray?’

‘No.’

‘Different socks?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘New shoes?’

‘B., I can’t. You know how sensitive I am to smells. I couldn’t even think of spending my life with that odour.’

‘But you got along so well. And the kissing.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s over.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘Of course.’

‘Reason?’

‘Irreconcilable differences. I’m not a monster. I couldn’t very well say it was because he smelled like he had Stilton between his toes.’

‘But what about the next woman?’

‘I’m not interested in fixing men for other women. Let them do their own work.’

Clare arrived just in time to hear her proclamation. ‘Amen to that!’ She punctuated her statement with faux praise-Jesus jazz hands. ‘Hello, my little chihuahuas. Good days?’ Faith rolled her eyes and I shrugged. In my case it was a rhetorical question since Clare and I shared a desk at the client’s offices. ‘What are we talking about?’

‘Faith was just saying that she’s ended it with The Teacher.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He sounded like a good one.’

Faith shook her head, pronouncing, ‘Smelly feet.’

‘But maybe–’ My look cut Clare off. ‘Oh, I see. Well, better luck next time.’

‘I’m not in the mood for next time.’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘I think I need a break.’

It may have seemed a small statement but I was stunned. Shocked, flabbergasted, gobsmacked, knocked for six, at a loss for words. This was Faith. Optimistic, glass-spilling-over-on-the-table Faith. She was never, ne-ver, tired of dating. It was her RoboDate tenacity that gave the rest of womankind the fortitude to go on. If she had doubts, what chance did the rest of us have? ‘Faith, you don’t mean that.’ Clare looked as if she’d just learned that her Manolos really came from Marks & Spencer.

‘I don’t know,’ Faith continued. ‘I suppose there are perfect couples out there. Look at Kat and James. They’re going strong. But the men I meet are all so fatally flawed.’

Clare and I traded glances. We were treading in a minefield. How did you tell your best friend that she was perhaps a tad stringent in her judgements without hurting her, or making her feel even worse? Anyone could see she was a commitmentphobe. Anyone but Faith. It was a subject to approach again when she was happily in a relationship, not in the midst of self-doubt. Unfortunately, it was a bit like buying light bulbs. The only time you thought to do it was when you’d just cracked your shin in the dark. Clare eyed me pointedly. She was right. It was not the time to detonate those bombs. Mental note: home truths for Faith the next time she was coupled up.

‘Faith, we completely understand your frustration. But like you said, Kat found James. I found Mattias. Even though he’s not right for me, he’s not flawed. He’s right for lots of other women. So the good ones are out there. And you don’t have the problem that most women have.’ I paused for effect. ‘Think about your history. How many times have you been broken up with? Right, hardly ever. It’s not as though you’re finding Mister Right and he doesn’t want to be your mister. You’re just, em, pickier than most women, that’s all.’

‘She’s right,’ nodded Clare. ‘Look at how many times I’ve been dumped. I’m almost always on the receiving end. It’s pathetic, really.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘I mean, the most stable relationship I’ve ever had is with a man I call late at night for sex. It’s really very depressing.’

The conversation was going downhill fast. ‘Oh no, not you too, Clare. This is a temporary knock-back, Faith. So The Teacher wasn’t right for you. Maybe the next man will be. And Clare, I’m sorry but I can’t take your moaning seriously when you’ve got The Shag.’

Clare, the lucky cow, had a shag buddy. He was the ideal man-in-waiting, the one who was fun, clothed or naked, and welcomed late-night booty calls with no expectations about staying for breakfast. We all envied her, but it was terrible in the early days when she wanted The Shag as a boyfriend. He’d sweep her off her feet, then neglect to be faithful beyond the weekend. We spent those years in emergency disaster relief, plying our friend with Häagen-Dazs and warnings against her destructive habit. She’d wean herself off him, but always give in to the craving. ‘I’m strong enough to handle it,’ she’d say. ‘Just the one time won’t hurt.’ So they’d get together. They’d shag. They’d part. She’d plan. He’d dodge. She’d cry, recover, repeat.

She finally had an epiphany during a wedding reception, compliments of an aged widow. She’d wheedled Clare’s entire sorry story out of her by the time they’d finished their starters, as only old people could do without you hating them. At the end of Clare’s explanation the wrinkled moral compass asked, ‘Well, if he’s so wonderful, dear, why is he behaving like a feckin’ arsehole to you?’ Maybe it was the shock of hearing a nana curse, or the common-sense truth of her question, but Clare took it to heart. She quit her addiction cold turkey.

Oddly, once the prospect of nudity was taken off the table, and the tears dried, she and the addiction became friends. He was really quite likeable, commitment issues aside. Not that we didn’t worry when they started sleeping together again, but Clare had finally discovered the uncomplicated joy of having great sex with a man she didn’t want to date. She likened him to slippers – super-comfortable but never seen on her in public. So far there’d been no regrets, not a single incontinent conversation (when ‘we’ slipped out).

‘That’s right, Clare,’ said Faith, brightening. ‘Your man in the wings disqualifies you. What’s that look for?’

Clare squirmed. ‘Now’s probably not the time to say that I’m stopping by his place after this, right?’

‘I rest my case. And you, B., you can’t complain until at least a year of horror dating has passed. Four months does not qualify you to moan. You’re still driving on a provisional licence.’

‘She’s right, buttercup. Come talk to us after you’ve been vomited on.’ This was Clare’s best worst dating story. They were having sex at the time. Missionary.

‘Or been taken out for a romantic dinner and told your date has an alter ego named Paula.’

Nobody thought Faith’s judgment was harsh that time. My friends constantly toiled at the coalface. Smug in my cohabitating life, I’d secretly assumed there was something wrong with them. It never occurred to me that I’d be there alongside them futilely wielding a pickaxe at the meagre lode, and coming away with fool’s gold.

They were right. My paltry few months of singledom didn’t give me a leg to stand on. No wonder they mocked my whinging. I’d do exactly the same thing if a fresh-faced newbie complained about how hard the music industry was. After decades,
I
knew how hard the music industry was. My last gig was not exactly a career-defining high. I was a little tired, I guess. And I hadn’t wanted to do it. I was depping for another singer, filling in while she had her bunions shaved or something. The room was stuffy and the equipment wouldn’t cooperate. Every time I hit high C the feedback threatened to deafen the patrons. And I was flat. Even on my best songs. The audience clapped politely. That was worse than being booed off stage.

My phone bzzzzd with a text. Faith glanced at the table before I could snatch it away. ‘B., what’s going on?’

‘Nothing, why?’

‘Oh really? Then why did Mattias just ask you out in a text, and say
Friday encore
?’

‘You shouldn’t read my texts.’

‘Please. I’ve held your hair out of the toilet bowl so you could be sick. Of course I’m going to read your texts. What’s this all about?’

‘It’s nothing. I’m not going to say yes. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Remember? I’m going out with The Musician on Friday.’

‘Yes, we know that, don’t we Clare?’ Clare nodded. It had been fodder for discussion at work since he called. ‘Don’t change the subject. The mystery remains,’ she continued, as I knew she would. ‘What did Mattias mean by
Friday encore
?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Pssh,’ Clare snorted. ‘You don’t really think we’re going to drop it, do you?’

Of course not. My friends had the Gestapo’s tenacity. I ordered us another bottle of wine and told them about Friday. By the end of the story I’d just about convinced them that it was nothing. I was nearly as persuasive with myself.

Chapter 6

The date arrived on Friday as scheduled but my confidence was taking its own sweet time. I hadn’t had to flirt seriously since Oasis were at the top of the charts. What if I had to relearn all my skills? What if… What if I didn’t have the touch any more?

There. I said it. I was afraid that my charms had begun to fade. Not to mention droop. There was definite drooping. Was that something I needed to worry about? In my twenties I went (briefly) to a gym where I was forced to discuss my flaws with a Lycra-bound woman posing as my personal trainer. ‘What are your
problem areas
?’ She’d asked with the concern of one discussing a death in the family. Looking back, I’d have killed for the body I found such fault with. Wasn’t it always the way? We didn’t know what we had till after it was covered in orange peel. At the time I told her I wanted bigger boobs. She drew me close and imparted her version of the secrets of the Sphinx. Religiously I did those workouts, but there wasn’t a squeeze, stretch or lunge that could win the battle against the draw of gravity. That hadn’t bothered me with Mattias. He’d had the benefit of the early, perky days, and a certain amount of settling had to be expected over time. But even with one careful owner they weren’t exactly showroom quality any more. Thank God for the efforts of Rigby & Peller. If only they made foundationwear to support a woman’s confidence.

‘B., if you don’t stop pacing, I’m going to tie you down. Now what an interesting thought. What do you say, darling?’ Frederick was digging at his eyebrows with my good tweezers.

‘Fred, I told you to go to the brow bar like the other metrosexuals. A quick threading and you’ll be sorted.’

‘I’m not
plucking
, dear heart. What do you take me for? There’s just one very long hair that keeps getting in my eye.’

If he said he had an errant brow hair, who was I to doubt him? The fact that he wielded those tweezers with well-practised accuracy wasn’t necessarily a damning indictment. ‘Just stop using my wax.’

‘I do not!’

‘You do. I found hairy strips in the bin the other day.’

‘Perhaps you should wax more often.’

‘Don’t be catty. How do I look?’ The contents of my closet were knee deep on my floor. I didn’t have the stomach for another wardrobe change. I settled on the first wrap dress I tried on at the beginning of the process.

‘Divine, I already told you. Stop worrying, he’ll love you. Just pull that down a bit.’

I slapped his hand away. ‘Tsch. What are you doing tonight?’

‘I have an exciting date with a gorgeous woman. Stop making that face. It’s unattractive.’

‘Sorry. Who’s this mystery woman?’ I was willing to bet she had an Adam’s apple.

‘My colleague set us up. She’s a stunner. Perhaps we should work out a system in case we’re both lucky in love tonight. I have it! Whoever gets back first hangs a sock on the door.’

‘What are we, in
The
O.C.
?’

‘Have you got a better system?’ He asked, plucking hairs off his fingers. I vowed to buy new tweezers.

‘Yes. How about I don’t bring him back here?’

‘Planning to sleep away?’

‘Planning to sleep alone. It’s a first date.’

‘Darling, you’ve been out of the game too long. You did wax, right?’

‘Frederick! That’s none of your business. I don’t even know this guy. It’s hardly likely I’m going to sleep with him tonight.’ Of course I’d groomed.

‘It has been awhile, though, hasn’t it? Ouch. Come on, you can tell me.’ He gasped in shocked horror. ‘B., you
have
had sex since Mattias, right?’ My face answered him. ‘Angel cupcake, but there are things you need to know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Techniques and such. Honestly, this shouldn’t be attempted without proper tutelage. You’re right, definitely don’t sleep with him tonight. You need guidance.’

‘Whatever. I’ve got to go.’ He suffered my school-marmish kiss on the forehead with minimal adolescent face-pulling. ‘Have fun with your date tonight. We’ll talk in the morning.’

‘Maybe you’ll meet her in the morning.’

‘Okay.’ I doubted that.

The Tube to Islington offered precious little to distract me from the fact that Fred was right. It would be my first real chance to sleep with another man since Mattias. What if everything
had
changed in the last decade? Not that I planned to sleep with The Musician on the first date. Definitely not. Almost certainly not. Even so, my nerves didn’t calm.

He saw me right away. His dark blue jeans were faded in just the right places, his jumper well-fitted and casually elegant. He was under-shaven, probably through careful grooming rather than a lack of it. He looked cool. I felt flushed. ‘Ah, just in time for me to buy you a drink,’ he said, kissing me on both cheeks as I shrugged out of my heavy coat. ‘What would you like?’

Ten years of elasticity back, please. My heart raced as we stood at the bar. I noticed he had great hands. Big hands. All the better to play his instrument. Hmm. ‘Glass of red please, er, Rioja. Is this a favourite haunt?’ It was a nice old pub with silly-sounding ales on tap like Bishops Finger.

‘Yeah, it’s got a nice atmosphere and it’s never too crowded. That’s not easy to say around here. Where do you like to go out?’

My mind blanked on bars, alighting only on restaurants. I was unlikely to impress him with a recitation of London’s TopTable suggestions. ‘Zuma.’

‘That’s a bit expensive to be your local, isn’t it?’

Probably so, but I wasn’t usually the one paying. Saying that, though, would open the Mattias can of worms. Was that appropriate on a first date? If I didn’t tell him and had to confront it later, it was a rather big piece of information to pretend to have forgotten. On the other hand, it was a rather big piece of information to digest before he’d finished his beer. ‘Er, I also like The Boisdale. But I work there sometimes so I don’t usually go when I’m not singing.’