Year of Being Single (33 page)

‘Darlings!’ Marcia exclaimed and she embraced them all in a theatrical group hug. Frankie got a faceful of over-perfumed cashmere and too-orange BB cream.

‘Hello, Tarquin,’ said Imogen a little tersely, once she’d got Marcia off her. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘Oh, I had to bring him!’ gushed Marcia. ‘He was at a terribly loose end, weren’t you, poppet? You don’t mind, darling?’ she said to Imogen, laying a burgundy-taloned hand on her arm. ‘He’ll be the life and soul, I absolutely promise.’

Tarquin was puffing up his ruffled chest like a dodo and trying to catch Frankie’s eye. She was expecting him to say ‘How you doin?’ like an ageing Joey Tribiani but when he spoke his voice was very English, very posh and very high. ‘How do you do, ladies?’

‘Fine thanks,’ said Frankie, trying not to laugh.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Grace, politely, although it looked like she was trying to back away.

‘Okay, he can join us, but this was
supposed
to be a girlie night,’ Imogen hissed at Marcia, ‘I’m really not in the mood for men.’

‘Well, we know that, darling,’ said Marcia. ‘But Tarqy’s hardly a threat. And perhaps after a few cocktails, you’ll see things differently. You never know, there might be some highly eligible men in there tonight.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Imogen, tersely. ‘And I don’t need
cocktails
to realise that all men are dicks.’

‘Sometimes a dick is
exactly
what we need,’ said Marcia, and she raised one caped arm and swept into a passing section of the lobby’s revolving doors like Zorro, leaving them to haphazardly jump in the one behind her. As they scuttled out the other side – Frankie had missed the exit, somehow, and had to go round again – a weasly-looking man in a grey pinstriped suit was waiting like a sentry to meet them.

‘Nicholas, darling!’ cooed Marcia, pinching poor Nicholas lightly on one loose, grey buttock.

‘Marcia,’ said Nicholas, in a thin little voice, and gave her a weedy kiss on each cheek. Marcia was beaming like a camping torch. Nicholas looked moderately terrified. He and Tarquin looked each other up and down and didn’t look particularly impressed with what they saw.

‘Shall we?’ he said, and escorted them through the white marble lobby, down a soft-carpeted corridor and into a magnificent bar. It was fabulous: twinkling optics above a shiny stainless steel bar, white leather sofas and squashy armchairs, low lighting and high glamour. Frankie had never seen anything like it.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas proudly, as though he took sole credit for it. He held out his arm and saw them to their seats, then clicked for a cocktail waiter to come over.

‘I’ll be back to escort you to The Summer Garden,’ he said, bowing slightly and turning to go.

‘Thanks, ducks,’ said Marcia, with a wink and two clicks that people make to horses. ‘And I hear the beds are really bouncy here, if you fancy a bit of a fiddle later.’

‘I’m not really in the market for a
fiddle
,’ said Nicholas, ‘if you don’t mind. Thanks all the same.’ He gave a small bow. ‘See you in a while.’

‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’ cooed Marcia. ‘I bet you’re still a horny bugger underneath all that grey. What a shame I won’t get to find out.’ And she slapped him merrily on the bottom in full view of the young, handsome waiter who had just arrived at their table. The waiter tried hard to suppress an almighty smirk; Nicholas looked absolutely mortified and fled, his violated bottom a flopping rhapsody in grey pinstripe as he ran to the exit.

‘Cocktails, ladies?’ said the handsome man.

‘Ooh, yes please,’ said Frankie, settling back in her gorgeously comfy chair.

It was going to be a very good night.

Chapter Thirty-three: Grace

Grace ordered a pina colada and looked around her. This bar was incredible. Really swanky. And so
clean
. She was going to have to ‘buck up’, as they said in books, and do her best to enjoy tonight. Good friends, good conversation and good food. That was a good thing, right? She needed it. She’d been in a horrible, emotional limbo since the denouement with Greg. Confused, sad, resigned and with a kind of flatness as though a large iron had been plonked on her. She’d cried a lot more over the past few days. Sometimes over James. Sometimes over Greg. Sometimes over what had become of her life.

She sighed and reached down to her bag. Her phone was chiming from inside it. (Was it Maggie? – she was babysitting.) Grace allowed herself a small smile as she glanced at the screen. It was a text from Gideon, wishing her a fabulous evening.

Amongst all the flatness, something miraculous had happened with her boss, and it happened when she got to work on Monday after her showdown with Greg. Gideon had been in a right mood. He hadn’t appeared to be talking to her, which suited her fine. God knows what had rattled his cage this time; his cage was extremely flimsy and could be rattled at the slightest provocation.

At three o’ clock, he’d disappeared for over half an hour and she was astonished to discover him in the stock room, sitting on a step stool and sobbing into an enormous hanky.

‘Sorry!’ said Grace, taken aback. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘It’s okay.’ Gideon gave a huge sniff. His voice was a wobbly squeak.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, nothing. I’m fine.’

‘You don’t
look
fine.’

‘I’m
fine
, Grace.’

She’d pulled over another stool and sat down next to him. The horrible meeting with Greg and all the tears she’d shed made her feel brave, or was it reckless?

‘Can I ask you something, Gideon?’

‘If you must.’ He looked up at her and his eyes were red raw.

‘Why are you so miserable? Why are you
always
so miserable?’

He fixed his bloodshot eyes on her.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s my ten-year anniversary.’

‘Oh, well, congratulations,’ said Grace, hesitantly. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be a happy thing?’

‘Not when someone died ten years ago, it isn’t.’

‘Oh Gideon, I’m so sorry. Who was it, your mother?’ Gideon had never, ever mentioned his family. He’d never really mentioned anything.

‘No. I’m afraid to say the old gay-bashing bag is still alive and living in Basingstoke,’ snorted Gideon. ‘No, my partner, Dominic.’ He did a gigantic sniff and balled the hanky in his fist. ‘The love of my life. My partner. For thirteen years. He died.’

‘Oh God, Gideon, how horrible for you. How did he die?’

‘Electric shock. At work.’

‘Oh, Gideon, that’s awful. I’m really sorry.’

She was. She realised she was actually really sorry about a
lot
of things, mostly that she had never tried to get to know him, as difficult as he had made it.

‘I really
am
sorry,’ she repeated. She tried to take his hand.

At first, he resisted, flinched and moved his hand away, onto his lap. Then he let her take it. They sat there for a while, in silence. She rubbed the back of his hand. It was soft, and surprisingly warm.

‘Do you want to go to the pub?’ she said, suddenly.

‘What?’

‘The pub. We could go for a drink. A chat. Get to know each other.’

‘What about the shop?’

‘We’ll close the shop. It’ll still be here tomorrow. Let’s just bunk off.’

She had been taking a massive chance here. She had half expected Gideon to fly into a sweary rage.

‘Okay,’ said Gideon. ‘I’d really like that.’ And he’d looked at Grace properly for what seemed like the first time ever.

She thought about it now. They’d had a good chat. A really good chat. He’d told her his entire life history – and there was a lot of it! – she told him about James, about Greg, about the whole sorry state her life had descended to. They’d got drunk on Baileys and it had been fabulous. A fabulous relief amongst all her angst and despair. She and Gideon were now friends.

A second text came through. Gideon again.

By the way, I’ve had some amazing feedback on you re. the wedding fair. You were a hit, girl! I’m happy to step aside and let you do them all on your own in the future.

She’d forgotten all about the wedding fair, with everything that had gone on since.

And don’t forget what I said to you. Don’t jump out of the frying pan into the fucking fire!

He
had
said that. She remembered now. It was after their seventh or eighth Baileys and he’d clutched her hands imploringly as he’d said it. She replied something about fires being warm and better than being out in the cold, but she considered his words now. It’s what Nancy, the girl from the wedding fair, had said too. Grace took a large sip of her pina colada, which had now arrived, through a bright pink straw. People had been saying a lot of things to her recently she’d been totally ignoring. Gideon, Nancy, Frankie, Imogen, even Greg. That she was amazing just as she was. That she could make it on her own. What had Nana McKensie said? Be a
pioneer
.

Why hadn’t she been
listening
to anybody? She’d been focusing on all the things she hadn’t got and none of the things she had. She had been
blind
, but not in the way she’d thought. She’d been wanting to plug the gaps of her life when a gap was exactly what she needed. She looked around the bar again, at her friends – so proud and single – and thought about her life. Friends, Daniel, a job with – finally! – a nice boss. She didn’t need anything else. She’d been to the school fundraiser on her own and survived. She’d done the wedding fair and been a ‘hit’. She’d given Greg what for, confronted Gideon at last and had shown James she could live a perfectly decent life without him, thank you very much. She could be a pioneer in her own life, couldn’t she?

She could make it on her own. With her friends, and Daniel – the very best thing in her life – she could make it on her own.

She was about to put her phone back in her bag when she remembered something else. Tim’s message. She had never replied to it. Now was the perfect time.

Hello, Tim. I’m sorry, but I’m not dating at the moment – I’ve had some shockers too and am taking a break! If you haven’t been snapped up, I may be free next January. Give me a try then?

There. Single for at least a year. Sorted. She smiled to herself and took another big sip of her cocktail.

Two pina coladas later, Nicholas re-emerged to take them all into The Summer Garden. Marcia was even more on heat, but Nicholas was wise to her. He attached himself to Grace and talked politely to her as they made their way through the hotel. At one point she helped physically steer him away from Marcia’s clutches. He was almost sprinting to keep a safe distance from her. Nicholas would be pleased to clock off tonight, Grace thought.

As they walked into The Summer Garden, Grace gasped. It was amazing. They were in a huge atrium, flanked on all sides by eight magnificent storeys of hotel. Each level was festooned with cute, shuttered windows, Juliet balconies and cascading foliage, and the atrium was topped with a stunning glass roof through which you could see the stars. It had elegant, marble pillars, wrapped in reams of twinkling lights. Huge palm trees, their glossy leaves gleaming in candlelight. White tables with silver candelabras. Blooms of the most gorgeous flowers in pale summer pinks and creams were everywhere. Peonies, sweet peas and roses spilled from huge, ornate vases and tumbled from rococo plinths.

In one corner was an enormous white piano where a tiny bald man was tinkling the ivories. They walked in to ‘Strangers in the Night.’

Nicholas showed them to their table with a flourish, pulling out their chairs for them, and he flamboyantly shook a huge linen napkin onto each of their laps. Imogen and Marcia were on one side, Grace and Frankie the opposite, and Tarquin looked proud to be head of the table.

Grace was almost transfixed by Marcia. First, she held Nicholas’ hand down on her leg as he laid down the napkin and he yanked it away, as though burnt. Then, after he’d escaped – with Marcia laughing and calling out, ‘Tonight’s the night, Nicholas!’ – she started an inordinate amount of faffing and rummaging in her bag. She finally unearthed her reading glasses and her Dictaphone and set them on the table next to her wine glass. Meanwhile, Tarquin was rearranging the ruffles on his shirt and pulling faces in the back of his knife.

Frankie was beaming, glowing. A little smile kept creeping up on her face. Single life was really suiting her, thought Grace. It was going to suit her, too, now she was properly ready for it. By contrast, the birthday girl looked miserable. She smiled when someone addressed her directly, but otherwise she just looked morose. On the train up, several times Grace had caught her staring blankly out of the window looking like her dog had just died, not that Imogen had ever had one. She was not a dog person, not with those floors.

‘I’m going to the loo,’ said Frankie, getting up and leaving the table. Marcia and Tarquin started bickering about wine.

‘White wine has me pie-eyed within ten minutes, Marcie,’ Tarquin was insisting. ‘I’ll be all over the place.’

‘You are anyway,’ said Marcia. ‘Well, I can’t drink red. It exacerbates my irritable bum.’

‘You have an irritable bum?’

‘Oh, grumpy like you wouldn’t
believe
, Tarqs! There’s things going on down there they’d be too squeamish to put in
The Lancet
!’

Grace stood up. ‘I’m going to the loo as well,’ she said. ‘All those cocktails.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Imogen. ‘Order some champagne, Marcia. It’ll make things simple.’

‘The bubbles will make me burp like a navvy,’ warned Marcia, holding her stomach as though she were shoring up a balloon, ‘but okay, that sounds like an excellent plan. We
have
got a birthday to celebrate!’

‘Another year wiser,’ said Imogen, ruefully, as she got up from the table. There was definitely
something up with her, thought Grace. All Imogen’s previous birthdays as long as she’d known her had been riotous affairs, with Imogen on top form. Her fortieth had been an absolute scream. Oh dear, she feared the
returns
tonight
would not be happy ones. ‘Good God, those two are unbearable,’ hissed the birthday girl, as they moved away.