Lindsey Kelk
The Single Girl’s To-Do List

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2011.

Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

ISBN: 9780007345632

Ebook Edition © April 2011 ISBN: 9780007383757

Version: 2017-05-23

Dedication

To all the single girls who gave hours of their lives,

livers and lipgloss to research the ultimate to-do list,

especially Rachael Wright, Sarah Donovan, Sarah

Benton, Emma Ingram and Alicia Romano. Your

sacrifice will not be in vain.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

‘If someone had told you, ten years ago, you’d be…

Chapter Two

Because no plan can succeed without the assistance of reliable…

Chapter Three

By the time the cab dropped me off at home,…

Chapter Four

‘I’m going to kill him,’

Chapter Five

After six bags of crisps, three bottles of wine and…

Chapter Six

‘Morning.’

Chapter Seven

‘Come on, Red, get up.’

Chapter Eight

‘That arsehole.’ My mum dropped a slightly floppy slice of…

Chapter Nine

‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Emelie groaned, her head…

Chapter Ten

‘Raaaa-cheeeeel.’ I felt a hand lightly tapping the top of…

Chapter Eleven

‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ I said, hobbling slightly…

Chapter Twelve

Matthew had been delighted when we’d called him from the…

Chapter Thirteen

‘Hi.’ Dan stood in front of me, back in his…

Chapter Fourteen

‘Oh, you know me so well,’ Matthew shouted over the…

Chapter Fifteen

Between the events on the sofa, the row, and a…

Chapter Sixteen

Fourteen hours, one first-class flight and several glasses of champagne…

Chapter Seventeen

‘I can’t believe you’re actually going on a date with…

Chapter Eighteen

I crawled into bed, still in my sundress, and got…

Chapter Nineteen

‘ohmygodthatwasamazing,’ I exhaled, as Dougie Howser’s backward brother released me…

Chapter Twenty

‘I’m coming!’ I yelled, dashing up the hallway in my…

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Other Books by Lindsey Kelk

About the Publisher

Prologue

Four weeks earlier …

It had been an odd Sunday.

My boyfriend, Simon, had got up and vamoosed for football before I’d even considered rolling out of bed and onto the sofa for a three-hour Friends-a-thon. Even though it was late July, the weather was pretty mediocre and there was nothing compelling me to get up off the sofa other than a judgemental cat staring through the window and the intermittent need to pee. Usually I was mega-motivated on a Sunday. It wasn’t too often I worked a regular five-day week, so Sundays were all together too often the only day I had to get anything done; but on that particular day, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything more strenuous than to repeatedly text my gay best friend Matthew to ask ‘how you doin’?’

I didn’t care if it was a fifteen-year-old joke. It was still funny.

And so it was to me in my faded-to-grey Juicy Couture trackie bottoms, a Pokémon T-shirt I’d worn semi-ironically at university and a greasy topknot that Simon arrived home at four in the afternoon. I rolled onto my back and gave him a sexy grunt. Rowr. Rachel Sexpot Summers.

I knew things weren’t right when, instead of giving me the standard kiss on the cheek and vanishing into the shower, Si sat down on the settee, elbows on knees, staring straight ahead and breathing loudly. After a couple of minutes, I muted Monica and shoved myself into a sitting position.

‘You all right?’ I asked.

‘Do you want to go to the cinema or something?’ He carried on staring at the fireplace. Not into it, just in front of it. As though he could see something I couldn’t.

‘I’m a bit knackered actually.’

So sue me. I wasn’t being that lazy; I’d been working fourteen-hour days all week long. No rest for the wicked, or the make-up artist. ‘Why don’t we get a Chinese and watch a DVD or something?’

He was quiet for another minute. My finger hovered over the volume button while I waited for confirmation. Or at least the suggestion of an Indian.

Eventually, he spoke. ‘OK. So I’ve been thinking.’ Whatever was in front of the fireplace continued to entrance him. ‘We should take a break.’

‘We’re going to Croatia in September.’ I gave him a nonplussed stare and draped my legs across his.

‘Yeah.’ He stretched the word out almost all the way through an Asda commercial. ‘No. I meant from … like … us.’

Now he had my attention.

‘We should take a break?’

Whatever it was that was so fascinating in the empty space in front of the fireplace had apparently just started doing a jig. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him concentrate on something with such intensity that wasn’t attached to an Xbox.

‘Are you dumping me?’ I pulled my legs up off his knee and curled into a semi-foetal position. I really wanted to brush my hair.

‘No,’ Simon shook his head. ‘It’s not that, I just need a bit of a break.’

‘Sounds like you’re dumping me.’ I was trying very, very hard not to cry. I already looked bloody awful; tears were not going to help my case. But then, neither was talking in a voice so high and squeaky that it made dolphins sound like they were smoking twenty a day. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Stop freaking out. I just need to sort some stuff out in my head. I’m not breaking up with you.’

‘Is there someone else?’

Oh my god, there was someone else. Five years, a mortgage, a co-signed car loan for a crappy secondhand Renault Mégane and he was seeing someone else.

‘No,’ he practically shouted. ‘Of course there’s not someone else.’

Fair enough.

‘Is this because I don’t want to go to the cinema?’ I wrapped my arms around my knees.

‘Do you want to go to the cinema?’

I shrugged, not knowing what else to do. ‘I might.’

And that was it. We ended up going to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean film but, to be honest, it was a bit difficult to concentrate. And when Johnny Depp can’t hold your attention, what chance does anyone else have? When we got home, I ran a bath and Simon moved his stuff into the spare room.

The next night, I got home from work to find a note on the bed to say he needed a bit of time to think and he was going to stay with a friend for a couple of days. But he did come home. Just as soon as I went away to work in Manchester for a week. And when I got back, he’d gone away on a business trip. Then I spent a week at my mum’s while she got to grips with a nasty broken leg. After that, he was off on a stag do. And then, one night, he just didn’t come home.

But we weren’t broken up. It was just a break.

A break that was rounding the four-week mark.

But still, it was just a break …

Four weeks later …

CHAPTER ONE

‘If someone had told you, ten years ago, you’d be standing here doing this, you wouldn’t have believed them, would you?’ Anastasia asked, adjusting the strap of her lacy bra. She piled a mass of artificial blonde curls onto the top of her head before letting them fall perfectly around her slender shoulders. ‘I mean, modelling? It’s not something your career adviser usually recommends, is it?’

I glanced up from the ridiculously painful kneeling position I’d been locked in for the last fifteen minutes and stared daggers at the clueless blonde.

‘Well, no, it’s not,’ I shuffled from side to side, trying to ignore the shooting pains in my kneecaps. ‘But, to be fair, if someone had sat me down and told me I’d be spending most of my life covering bite marks on your arse, I might have found “model” more believable.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ She shuffled her boobs around while I fought the urge to scrawl ‘slag’ across her bum cheeks in Ruby Woo lipstick. ‘This new bloke’s a bit kinky. Think I’m just going to stick with one boyfriend from now on. I mean, it might be dull as shit, but I’m thinking go with the one who isn’t into all that weird stuff, you know? Thank god we didn’t have this shoot last week – you’d never have been able to cover up the rope burns on my wrists …’

Breathing out, I blocked Anastasia’s mid-Atlantic, Eastern-Europe-via-Essex drawl and focused on the job at hand. If there was one thing I was good at, it was focusing on the job at hand. Rachel ‘Blinkers’ Summers, make-up artist extraordinaire and queen of elective deafness. It was one of those jobs that sounded super fancy and terribly exciting but, in reality, being a make-up artist boiled down to getting up very early, standing around for hours, making someone else look beautiful and then going home very late. Glamorous.

But at least there was the all-inclusive workout. My kit currently weighed in at over thirty pounds, and lugging it backwards and forwards on the Tube had more or less replaced my weekly run. And there was a chance you might meet the odd celebrity, but all that really meant was that you too could experience the wonder of covering up evidence of sexual exploits so sordid that you could never watch Coronation Street ever again. There wasn’t a soap star alive that wasn’t into something weird. Happily, most days, I was just locked up in a studio in exotic Parsons Green, powdering body parts from dawn till dusk. It was hardly conducive to going home, whacking on the false eyelashes and glamming myself up for a night out with the celebs I’d been rubbing shoulders with all day. In fact, it was mostly conducive to going home, running a bath and passing out by myself while my boyfriend, Simon, watched TV.

I could never date a chef, I thought, sponging on one last layer of body foundation. He might be the best cook in the whole world, but he’s not going to want to whip me up a seven-course tasting menu when he walks through the door. You’d be lucky to get spaghetti hoops on toast for two. Not that I even had that in the house, I lamented. It was Friday, which meant tomorrow was Saturday, and Saturday was food shopping day. It really didn’t feel like a weekend unless I’d had my blood pressure tested by a run around Sainsbury’s. Unfortunately that usually meant Friday-night dinner was a dodgy low-cal ready meal left over from my last diet, or pizza. Which explained why, on occasion, I needed the ready meals.

‘Raquel, you’re always so quiet,’ Ana said loudly, arching her back to get a look at my handiwork. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing,’ I lied, stepping back to take a critical look at her now perfectly peachy arse. Not a trace of her sexploits to be seen; just as well seeing as this was a shoot for multipacks of high-street undies. I wasn’t sure my mum would want to buy a five-pack of knickers that enticed wannabe rock stars to gnaw on your rear end. Or maybe she would: she and dad had been divorced for twenty years, after all, so it had been a long time since anyone had rocked her kasbah. I hoped. Ew.

‘You’re done.’ I waved her off with one final flick of the bronzer brush. ‘Go on.’

Ana clapped her hands together and skipped over to her happy place. In front of a camera. Behind said camera, Photographer Dan called out words of encouragement, snapping away while Ana threw herself around the fake bedroom set with all the gusto that I guessed had resulted in her getting bitten on the backside in the first place. It was pretty impressive stuff. I tucked my long blonde hair behind my ears and tried not to be jealous. It was a while since I’d been thrown around a bedroom.

I shook my head at the cavorting occurring in front of me. What did ‘a break’ even mean? Both television and movies, my most trusted advisors in life, had shown us that breaks were never actually a good thing. Fingers crossed, Simon was staying away from copy girls. This was, after all, the relationship all of our friends were jealous of because we were so incredibly sorted. Five years in and we were all set with the mortgage, a proper car, irritating pet names used in public, everything. I was certain he was going to propose. I actually had the odd wedding magazine stashed in my work kit, hidden away like girl porn. What’s more, we still Did It relatively often, which as far as I could tell, was a pretty big achievement after five years. OK, so it wasn’t like a Dita von Teese show every night (you try rocking stockings and suspenders when you’ve been up since six trying to make the latest ‘celeb’ kicked off Strictly look as though they haven’t been on a forty-eight-hour bender), but it was good. We were still good. Or at least, I thought we were. It was possible my standards had lowered without me realizing.

‘Make-up?’ Photographer Dan shouted across the set.

Nodding obediently, I trotted over, wielding my powder brush, ignoring his elaborate tuts and sighs. Dan was one of my more regular partners in knicker-shooting crime and I was used to his ‘artistic’ temperament, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a massive pain in the arse. However, spending six hours together in the middle of a desert, waiting for a fading supermodel to vomit everything she’s eaten since 1996 so you can get one photo, really helps you bond with your work buddies. So I let it go.

‘Take your time, Raquel.’ Dan held his massive camera up in the air with one hand and gave me the filthiest look he could muster. ‘It’s not like anyone has anything else to do today, is it?’

I returned the politest smile I could muster while mentally flashing him a great big wanker sign. He knew I hated it when Ana called me Raquel. It was so bloody affected. She knew my name, she wasn’t Eurotrash, she was from Basildon and her name was Anne Smith. I never bothered to point out that she’d gone to school with my cousin. Until she dropped out before her exams. Ten years on and she was lying about more than just her name. Twenty-two, Ana? I think not. Sadly, she and Dan were a frustrating combo, and killing them with kindness was the only way to get through the day. A row was usually exactly what Dan was looking for – he loved getting my back up, but I was nothing if not professional. Blowing the excess powder off my brush, I flicked it lightly across Ana’s glowing (but not even slightly 22-year-old) skin, while she and Dan giggled at each other. Behold, make-up-artist-slash-invisible woman.

‘Done?’ Dan asked, checking I’d powered her boobs sufficiently. I didn’t know for sure but I was pretty certain that, off set, Dan and Ana weren’t being quite so professional as me. In fact, I was pretty certain he was one of the men who had been nibbling on her jacksy. I recognized the bite marks from the last time he’d eaten half my sandwich without asking. Well, maybe he wasn’t the bottom-biter but he was definitely up to something with Ana. He was probably the dull one. Crazy sex romps with someone who was only interested in checking out his own biceps couldn’t be much fun for a supermodel.

‘Just a minute,’ I confirmed, looking my model over from every angle. I might think Ana was a vacuous slapper, but I did care about my job.

But no, I thought to myself, stepping out of the bright lights and back into the shadows, if someone had told me I’d be doing this in ten years, I really wouldn’t have believed them.

‘Goodbye, Raquel,’ Ana breezed by in a flurry of air kisses, swathed in at least three pashminas. In August. ‘And, Dan, it was so lovely to work with you again. I hope I will see you soon.’

The air kisses in his direction weren’t nearly so breezy, and the subtlety of her charade was somewhat undermined by the fact that the stylist, Dan’s assistant, Collin, and I all heard her ‘whisper’ that she’d be waiting for him in the car. Ah-ha. Suspicions confirmed. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed about it. I chose to take the high road and carried on packing away my kit. There was no way I was getting involved with this. In the six years we’d worked together, he must have shagged enough models to open his own branch of Victoria’s Secret, but Ana was actually a name. Good for Dan, finally made it into the Premiership after years in the lower leagues. He was dedicated to his cause, if nothing else.

‘Night, Rach,’ he shouted across the studio, sheepishly heading out after his latest conquest. I gave him a quick wave before settling down in the make-up chair and pulling out my notebook. Cue satisfied sigh. Whizzing through page after page of my own handwriting, I finally found today’s date, written in blue at the top of the page. My to-do list. Taking a black pen out of my handbag, I crossed off the tasks achieved with one straight, black line: drop off dry cleaning, buy toilet roll and knicker shoot. Still to go, buy wine, bikini wax, wash hair (it was almost down to my arse; honestly, it really was a task that warranted its own bullet point) and call my brother.

OK, so maybe my attachment to the lists was slightly unhealthy, and possibly the buzz I got when I crossed something off shouldn’t be quite so satisfying (another indication that my sex life wasn’t all that it should be?), but I had a system. Write in blue, cross it off in black, new list every day, don’t go to sleep until they’re all done or rolled over. I couldn’t help it; apparently I had some sort of genetic defect that prevented me from achieving anything unless it was written down. I blamed my GCSE science teacher, who told me making lists would help with my revision. I might have failed double modular science but I passed obsessive-compulsive order development with flying colours. To be honest, I knew which had come in more useful over the last twelve years and it wasn’t anything to do with a working knowledge of photosynthesis. Well, hopefully biology would come into play tonight because tonight I had bigger fish to fry.

Tonight, I was going to lure Simon back into the big bedroom.

CHAPTER TWO

Because no plan can succeed without the assistance of reliable wingmen, I had drafted in my best friends, Emelie and Matthew. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at The Phoenix, Emelie was wasted. The queen of pre-partying had put away almost an entire bottle of red at my flat and was now trying to convince us to join her in a round of shots. And, for whatever reason, only known to himself, Matthew was encouraging her. Generally speaking, I didn’t drink. Hangovers really didn’t sit well with my job: there weren’t many models or celebs that wanted a make-up artist stinking of gin, breathing on them for an hour at a time, and applying liquid eye liner half cut is not something I’d recommend. That said, I was a pretty good drunk, more happy than emotional and, nine times out of ten, I managed to keep my kebab down. Emelie, however, was not blessed with that talent. Despite knowing that she was incapable of drinking so much as a shandy without vomming all over the night bus, she never gave up. Amazing tenacity, that girl.

‘Come on, Ray, it’s Friday,’ she said, brandishing a shot glass, brimming with thick, sticky-looking liquor. ‘And, you know, liquid courage.’

‘One shot,’ I warned, more an order for her than a promise to myself, then knocked it back in one. My throat scorched with sambuca afterburn and, by the time I’d prised my eyes open, she was ordering a second round. Too bad tonight would not be a night spent holding back her hair while she brought up half of Burger King.

‘If you leave me with her, I will destroy you,’ Matthew said, reading my mind. I shrugged, trying not to smile. He loved her really. Matthew (never Matt) and I had been friends ever since he walked out of a queer theory lecture at uni, declaring it ‘a great big bag of wank’.

As his brand-new flatmate, I felt obliged to chase after him, and we spent the afternoon, evening and much of the early morning in the union, drinking pints and making up our own queer theories. Mine hung on the idea that men were just greedy, Matthew’s on his belief that ‘touching a vagina would make him vomit’. There was evidence to back both schools of thought. After that, we were bonded for life. It was a win-win for me – I never had to worry about him trying to get in my pants and he had a stand-in girlfriend to keep his grandmother happy. His mother had known he was gay from birth, by his account, but his grandparents weren’t quite so accepting. Which was possibly why he wore a skintight, neon-pink T-shirt to his grandfather’s funeral.

The poor lamb hadn’t had an easy time of it as a kid. His dad had skidaddled before he was even born and only shown up again a year earlier, shortly before shuffling off his mortal coil and leaving Matthew an absolute ton of money, leading him to quit his air steward job and spend the last twelve months generally fannying around London with absolutely no aim in life. Even when he wasn’t rich, he was pretty much a catch, however you looked at it. The boy was huge, well over six feet tall, and broad with it. Handfuls of thick blond hair dropped into his dark blue eyes and his skin was always tanned, despite my constant sun-bed warnings. Looks-wise, he was somewhere between Hitler’s Aryan dream and Louis Walsh’s wet dream. Personality-wise, definitely erred more on the side of fascist dictator than Gary Barlow. Which was pretty much why I loved him. That and because he came over and killed my spiders when Simon wasn’t around.

It was still early, only just after ten thirty, but the club was already busy. Over in a dark corner of the small, sweaty basement, my brother and his friends were cooing over some guest DJ’s vinyl collection and debating which records to play. I raised a hand when he looked up. They ran this night every month, mostly so they could hang around the DJ booth and look cool to girls. The things boys did to get laid. Said the girl still trying to find a way to get comfortable after her speculative Brazilian.

‘Have you said hello to Paul yet?’ Em asked, distributing the second round and looking at my brother with puppy-dog eyes. ‘We really should.’

I threw back the shot and shuddered. ‘We really shouldn’t,’ I disagreed. ‘Actually, you really shouldn’t. Seriously, Em. No.’

‘I’m just saying we should say hello,’ Em said, absently licking a drop of sambuca from her little finger, completely oblivious to the fact that every man in the bar was waiting to offer to do that for her. ‘As if I fancy your brother.’

Emelie Stevens and I knew everything about each other. We were each other’s secret-keepers. She knew I hadn’t lost my virginity until I was 22. She knew I couldn’t get to sleep at night unless I knew where my childhood teddy bear was. She knew I accidentally ran over Matthew’s cat when I was supposed to be looking after it. I knew she had spent several years of her childhood starring on a Canadian children’s TV show. I knew she had got a pregnancy test in the first year of uni after she let John Donovan touch her up behind halls after the Halloween party. And I knew she’d had a crush on my brother since he came to collect me for Christmas break in the second year.

It was ridiculous, really – Emelie was beautiful. As in, I worked with supermodels day in and day out and I still thought she was beautiful. Medium height, medium build, slightly more than medium boobs, from the back maybe you might think she was a regular girl, but then she would turn around and you would literally stop in your tracks. She had the longest, thickest auburn hair and offensively green eyes that were lined with the thickest, flutteriest eyelashes this side of Bambi. Her outfits were always faultless and she could make a bin-bag look sexy if she wanted to. If that wasn’t enough, Em had grown up in Montreal and, even after ten years in London, had an adorable lilting French-Canadian accent that slipped out when she was stressed, or angry. Or on the pull. As a package, she was unbelievable. Unfortunately for mankind, she was ridiculously unattainable.

While I hadn’t been single since I was 16, Em hadn’t been in a serious relationship in, well, ever. It wasn’t for the want of offers, she went through men like I went through pickled onion Monster Munch, but they never lasted more than a couple of weeks. Either they liked her too much, they didn’t like her enough, they were too rich and showy, they were too poor and boring. No one stood a chance. She constantly rattled on about how she was looking for ‘the one’, how she’d know him as soon as she saw him and that there was no point wasting time on losers, but Matthew had another theory: that she was so hopelessly in love with my slag of a brother, no one else stood a chance. As pop psychology went, it wasn’t a bad call. Unfortunately, my brother wouldn’t dare mess about with her. Paul’s feckless womanizing was a badge he wore proudly and, while he’d made his intentions towards Emelie quite clear over the years, I had intervened at every opportunity. My best friend was not another notch on his bedpost. Not that there could be a lot of bedpost left by now. Oh universe, why would you surround me with so many manwhores?

‘Did you get the email from uni?’ I changed the subject while trying to convince my hair to stay behind my ears. There was just So Much Of It. ‘About the ten-year reunion?’

‘Got it, read it, deleted it,’ Matthew nodded, pulling my hair loose again. ‘They just want money.’

‘I just can’t believe it’s been ten years since we started.’ Emelie was trying to catch the bartender’s eye for some proper drinks. Luckily, the bartender was a woman so it was taking longer than her usual three seconds. Almost a whole thirty before a bottle of white wine was in front of us. ‘It doesn’t feel like ten minutes ago.’

‘And look at you two now,’ Matthew replied, wrapping an arm around Em to physically remove her from the bar. ‘Top make-up artist and super-successful … what exactly is it that we call you?’

She made a face and wriggled out of his bear hug. ‘I’m a graphic artist.’

‘You’re a what?’

‘She drew a picture that someone put on loads of stuff and then lots of little girls bought it,’ I clarified for Matthew. ‘A picture of a cat.’

‘Got it,’ he clicked and pointed, ignoring Em’s ‘I’m not amused’ face. As always. ‘You’re the one that weasels kids out of their pocket money.’

‘You can both fuck off, I’m a graphic artist,’ she started defensively. ‘And Kitty Kitty isn’t a picture of a cat, it’s a brand. And it’s one of the most successful tween brands in the UK.’

‘Tween,’ Matthew smirked. ‘Stop making up words.’

‘Em, we know.’ I pulled out my Kitty Kitty wallet and waved it in her face to prove my point before she went for Matthew. ‘He’s jealous because he’s unemployed.’

‘Taking a sabbatical,’ he corrected, spying an empty sofa and crossing the dance floor in three strides to bag it before a group of girls could hurl their handbags onto the table. ‘You’re only unemployed if you’re broke.’

‘Run that one past me again?’ Em asked with faux innocence.

Matthew closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His ‘I’m calm, really’ pose. ‘I’m taking time out until I work out what I want to do.’

‘For the last year,’ Em said, not quite quietly enough.

‘For the last year,’ he repeated pointedly, in her face. ‘Maybe I should just draw a crappy cat and stick it on lunchboxes instead of doing something worthwhile.’

‘Because serving people chicken or pasta at fifty thousand feet was worthwhile?’ Em snapped back.

‘No, you knob, that’s why I’m taking a sabbatical!’

‘For the last year—’

‘Children,’ I said loudly. ‘Inside voices?’

Matthew narrowed his eyes while Em stuck out her tongue before they both turned to look at me, argument forgotten. Really, I spent far too much time feeling like a primary school teacher on a field trip than was healthy. Which was one of the reasons I needed Simon back so badly. Perfect, adult, sensible Simon. The one thing in my world that reminded me I was a grown-up. Well, Simon and my tax return, but I really didn’t like to put the two of them in the same category if I could help it.

‘So tonight’s the night?’ Em asked, inching down the hemline of her tiny black Topshop dress. ‘With Simon?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed, forcing my hair back behind my ears again. ‘Tonight is the night.’

‘Is there a plan?’ Matthew asked, flicking my hair loose again. ‘Don’t put it behind your ears, you look like a sad mouse. And no one wants to shag a sad mouse.’

‘Thanks,’ I glared at the floor rather than at my friend and took a deep breath. ‘And no, no plan. I’m just going to go over with a drink and say hi to his friends because you know, his friends love me.’

Em and Matthew nodded encouragement. His friends did love me. I was the cool girlfriend. The one that thought it was hilarious that they went to Spearmint Rhino after their Christmas party. The one who made bacon sandwiches the morning after when they passed out on our sofa. The one who understood the offside rule. Or, at least, I was the one who tolerated the strip clubs, made the bacon sandwiches to sober them up and pretended to understand the offside rule. And elaboration on those facts was completely unnecessary.

‘And then you’re going to pull him to one side and tell him he’s the love of your life and this break stuff has only made you realize how badly you need him and that you want to have his babies?’ It would be an understatement to say that Emelie had something of a romantic nature.

‘Or pull him to one side and tell him that tonight’s the night he gets to go where no one has ever gone before?’ Matthew’s sensibilities were not quite so romantic.

‘Firstly, Matthew? Ew. And Emelie, your relationship advice is not required.’ I started to brush my hair behind my ears but stopped myself just in time, much to Matthew’s delight. ‘I’m just going to tell him that I think that the break has been really valuable, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I want and that now I think we’re ready to move on to the next level.’

‘Babies?’

‘Anal?’

‘Oh my god.’ I pressed my hand to my eyes, hoping they’d have disappeared when I opened them again. But no. Still there. ‘No. To both. But especially Matthew. God.’

Matthew shrugged and took a deep swig of his drink. ‘I’m just saying, if you really want to get his attention …’

‘I don’t think we need to pull out the big guns just yet,’ I said, checking my watch for the millionth time that night. It was almost eleven. Why wasn’t he here yet? He always came to The Phoenix on Paul’s nights. ‘I’m just going to suggest we talk. We’ve been together for five years, we finish each other’s sentences, we’re supposed to be together.’

‘Yeah, because blokes love talking on a Friday night,’ Matthew said to Em, who nodded in agreement.

‘He’s right,’ she agreed. ‘I mean, not about the back-door proposition; although, actually, he’s probably right about that too. Men are weird.’

‘This just makes more sense,’ I replied. ‘Simon isn’t good at planned one-on-one situations. He thinks I’m trying to give him an appraisal. I don’t want him to feel like I’m bullying him into a deep and meaningful, it’s just going to be a “hey, how’s everything?” casual chat during which he will remember how fabulous I am and how much he misses me, then it’s back home for mind-blowing sex and we’re done.’

‘And then he’ll forget all about whatever underlying reasons there are for this break bollocks and you’ll live happily ever after?’ Matthew stared at me and shook his head. ‘Piece of piss, Rach.’

‘I appreciate your input, really,’ I stood up and calculated my route to the bar. A drink would shut them up. It wouldn’t be my problem when Emelie had to pay a fifty-quid taxi-cleaning bill again. ‘Despite one of you being incredibly homosexual and the other not having had a boyfriend for more than two weeks since you broke up with Adam Rothman in Pizza Express three years ago because he finished your fudge sundae while you were in the lav. More wine?’

‘Touchy,’ Matthew drained his glass. ‘And yes.’

‘Well, you look good,’ Em said. ‘I mean, you know, like you’ve tried.’

I tried not to punch her in the face. ‘I have tried.’

‘And you can tell.’ She gave me an encouraging smile, as though she really did think she’d just paid me a compliment.

‘I think what our dear friend is trying to say, is that you look even more amazing than usual,’ Matthew corrected. ‘Seriously, you look great.’

After turning my entire wardrobe out onto my bedroom floor, I’d settled on skinny jeans and a low-cut black vest that were both just tight enough to pass as sexy-tight and not too-many-pies-tight. I hoped.

‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but are you sure about tonight?’ he asked. ‘About getting back with Simon and everything?’

Brilliant. We were going to have The Talk. Again. Matthew had been ready to punch Simon in the face ever since the break was agreed upon. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate his loyalty, but I really didn’t want it to be weird when we got back together. It’s never fun to be the person that bitched the ex out to high heavens and then the couple gets back together. I should know; I’d been that person on several occasions.

‘We’re not getting back together because we’re not broken up,’ I reminded him. ‘But yes, I am sure about tonight.’

‘We’re just worried about you,’ Emelie said, wearing her best concerned face. ‘You’ve just been so miserable lately.’

I had?

‘And should you really have to be trying so hard?’ Matthew stared before I could interrupt. ‘He should be begging you to take him back after this “on a break” rubbish. Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off maybe making the break a bit more permanent?’

‘I’m sure,’ I said quickly. ‘He’s my boyfriend. We own a flat. We’re going to get married. We’re going to have babies. How many times do we have to go over this?’

‘I just don’t think your soul mate should spend a month in the spare room while he “works things out”.’ Matthew loved his air quotes. ‘I’m not saying you weren’t happy before, but you’re not happy now. Things change, you know, that’s not always bad.’

‘Please don’t start on about soul mates.’ This was my least favourite part of the conversation and we’d had it enough times. Between them, Matthew and Emelie were keeping Clinton’s Cards in business – hopeless romantics the pair of them. ‘And it hasn’t been a month yet, so don’t exaggerate. I don’t have a problem with it so you shouldn’t. He just needed a little bit of time to … you know … just to work stuff out. Isn’t he better than the others?’

‘Yes but honestly, love, the others weren’t up to much,’ Matthew examined his fingernails to avoid looking at me. ‘You don’t have the best taste in men, you know. But I don’t want you to throw yourself after this just because it’s familiar.’

‘Seconded,’ Emelie piped up, clutching an empty wine glass. Going to the bar was definitely going to be the easiest way out of this. ‘Too many people stay with blokes that are past their sell-by date out of habit.’

‘It’s not that at all.’ I stood up and looked around again. No sign. ‘He’s got a good job, he’ll be a great father, he’s not a wanker and I love him. Now who wants what to drink?’

Emelie raised her hand.

Matthew folded his arms. ‘Glad you got to the most important part first. Clearly he’s the one.’

‘If you’d had my parents, you wouldn’t believe in “the one” either,’ I replied. ‘Now, disgusting house white all round?’

I turned on my heel to head for the bar, trying not to lose my temper. There was a reason Matthew was being so unnecessarily emo so I had to let this go. Aside from the fact he was just looking out for me, his ‘soul mate’, Stephen, had left him six months ago for a 24-year-old underwear model and he still wasn’t anywhere near over it. I’d never seen such a messy break-up in my life and pretty much avoided mentioning Steven, models and underwear at all times. Which sort of limited our conversation this evening. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about him, it was just that whenever he did, he went sort of catatonic for a few hours and then I got a phone call three days later to say he’d woken up in Mexico and needed me to feed his cat. Well, that was when he’d had a cat. The joys of being a former trolley dolly who was currently burning through a pretty hefty inheritance. Most people I knew broke up with someone, went out, got drunk and woke up on a night bus in Peckham. Matthew got drunk, went to Heathrow, got on a plane and woke up in Rio. With someone called José. We still didn’t know very much about José but they were Facebook friends, so that was nice.

I twisted and turned through the growing number of bodies on the dance floor and weaselled into position at the bar. I placed my order and turned to look back at my best friends, now gesturing wildly at each other and cackling like witches, harsh words forgotten. They left me exhausted. And I wasn’t quite sure what I’d do without them.

‘All right, sis?’ Paul sidled up beside me, winked at the girl behind the bar and started sipping his pint before I’d even opened my mouth. ‘Emelie’s looking fit tonight.’

‘Don’t bother.’ I ordered the wine and gave him the sternest look I could muster. ‘Aren’t there any other lucky candidates ready to catch whatever you’re passing round this evening?’

‘Oh god, yeah, loads.’ He turned around and leaned against the bar. ‘But none of those would piss you off quite so much, would they?’

‘You’re so funny.’ I grabbed the bottle and headed back to the table. With Paul hot on my heels. Well, flats.

‘Matthew,’ he nodded, before slipping onto the seat closest to Emelie. ‘Em.’

I pretended not to see her blushing for the sake of my own sanity.

‘So, what are you doing sitting down?’ Paul asked. ‘This DJ’s amazing.’

‘We were just counselling your sister.’ Matthew took the wine from me and topped up everyone’s glasses. Ahh, the great British Friday-night tradition of binge-drinking. ‘That’s a serious job, you know.’

‘She won’t listen,’ he replied. ‘Don’t waste your breath.’

‘Rach.’ Emelie tore her eyes away from my little brother just long enough to spy Simon arriving. I looked up to see him roll through the door and straight up to the bar with a group of people I didn’t recognize.

Simon. My Simon.

I couldn’t believe it was four weeks since I’d laid eyes on him. Half of me felt as though he’d kissed me on the head on his way out this morning, and the other, like I was looking at a complete stranger. He was still in his smart jeans-and-shirt ensemble that he wore to work on casual Fridays. If he’d been stuck in the office late, he’d be wanting a drink. Probably a whisky and Coke, even though I knew what he really wanted was Malibu and lemonade. Given his sloped shoulders and slight stagger, it seemed as if he’d had a couple of drinks already. He looked tired. It made my heart hurt not to be able to go over to him and kiss him hello. But that wasn’t part of the plan.

Sitting at a table, moping into a glass of wine wasn’t going to win him back. I forced my face to put on a smile for the first time in what seemed like forever and took hold of Emelie’s arm. ‘Come on, I want Simon to think we’re having fun.’

‘Any chance we could actually just have fun?’ she asked. ‘Because that’s probably more believable than pretending.’

‘Just dance with me,’ I slid my black leather clutch under my arm and pulled her towards the floor. Matthew and Paul followed, Matthew never one to miss an opportunity to get his dance on and Paul presumably sensing an opportunity to touch Emelie up a little bit. As Smokey Robinson blared out of the speakers, conversation was no longer an option, so I closed my eyes and started to move, hoping that Simon was watching. After a decade of dancing together, I could feel Matthew and Emelie without needing to open my eyes. Em was leaning against my back, partly to try to look sexy and partly because she was already too drunk to dance without support. Matthew would have his hands thrown in the air at the side of me, singing along, his fast footwork lost in the throb of bodies. I felt Em drift away and a pair of man hands gripped me around my waist. I put my head down, smiled to myself, not wanting anyone to see and leaned back into Simon’s chest.

‘Hi.’

Of course it wasn’t Simon. It was a complete stranger. And not one you would want touching you. I stopped suddenly, giving him just enough opportunity to spin me around and dip me low on the dance floor. Emelie and Matthew were too busy busting their own moves to notice, and my brother had adopted the official ‘I can’t see this so it isn’t happening’ tactic, as was the way when someone was having a crack at your sister.

‘Oh my god, get off.’ I tried to wriggle free but my suitor must have been almost a foot taller than me. And five stone heavier. He simply picked me up and held me in the air. I placed my hands on his shoulders to steady myself as my shoes slipped off my feet. Which didn’t stop me landing what could have been a very, very painful kick if it had hit two inches to the left.

‘I don’t think so.’ I pulled my hand back and cracked him right across the face. Fair, given that I’d missed the kick to the balls. Another good reason why I had no interest in breaking up with Simon.

Bending down to grab my shoes, I ignored the ‘oohs’ that echoed around me and pushed my way towards the bar just in time to see Simon heading up the stairs, towards the street.

‘Simon!’ I shouted, trying to get my shoes on before I got outside. ‘Wait, Simon!’

‘Rachel?’

I whirled around to see Simon accepting a cigarette from a man I didn’t recognize in the smokers’ corner on the side of the street. He looked surprised to see me. And also a little bit like his form tutor had just caught him out behind the bike sheds. Not the impact I was hoping for.

‘Simon,’ I said, staring at him trying to hide his cigarette behind his back. ‘You’re smoking.’

‘Uh, no, I just, well, one.’ He waved the Marlboro Light around as though it was a magic wand. ‘I had a really shit day. Were you inside?’

‘You, you didn’t see?’ I asked, wrapping my arms around myself. It was a little too cold to be outside without a coat. ‘You didn’t see us dancing?’

‘Dancing?’ Simon looked confused. ‘With who?’

‘No one, not with anyone,’ I said, taking a step towards him. ‘Matthew and Emelie. And Paul.’

He took a step backwards. ‘Right. I didn’t know you’d be here.’

I stood and looked at him for a moment. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This wasn’t why I’d worn my best underwear. This wasn’t why I’d been through the agony of a bikini wax.

‘Simon, can we talk for a minute?’ I asked, taking another step towards him.

‘Can we do it tomorrow?’ he countered. ‘I know we need to talk about stuff, I’ve just had a really shit day and I’ve been so busy and-—’

‘I haven’t seen you in four weeks.’ I lowered my voice as subtly as possible. ‘Can you give me five minutes?’

‘It’s just because, I think we’re leaving, Mark’s friends are at this other place and we’re probably going to go there …’ He trailed off, looking back towards someone named Mark who still wasn’t looking at me. Whoever Mark was.

‘I just need a minute,’ I said, trying to remember my speech. ‘I wanted to talk about the break thing. I’ve had enough.’

‘Oh.’ He dropped the cigarette and stamped it out. ‘’Oh, OK. Let’s just get it over with then.’

Get it over with?

Before I could start on the next part, he walked over, put his arm over my shoulder and led me over to the railings across the street.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around.’ He left his hand on my shoulder for a moment before looking at it and pulling it away, jamming it deep into his pocket. ‘I did want to talk but things have been mental. Work’s mad, I’m training up this new assistant and he’s shit and then there was the stag do and, sorry, I’ll shut up. Shoot.’

‘You wanted to talk?’ I asked, wishing I’d put on lip balm before I came outside. From the corner of my eye, I saw Matthew stick his head out of the door, then slide back in once he’d clocked me. ‘I’ve wanted to talk about it too.’

‘Yeah?’ Simon didn’t look happy. ‘I thought having time away would make this easier. Doesn’t though, does it?’

‘Doesn’t what?’ I rubbed my arms briskly. It really was cold and my bra was not adequately padded enough for such temperatures. ‘Look, Si, like I was saying, I’ve wanted to talk since you left. I think the whole break time thing was totally OK and it’s been good to have some space but I’m done with it. The whole break thing.’

‘OK. Good. OK.’ He fumbled around in a pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Is there someone else?’

‘Is there what?’ I pushed my hair back again and tried to ignore Matthew standing across the street, motioning for me to pull it forward. ‘Why would there be …? Look, Simon, I’m over this whole break thing. I just want things back to normal.’

Simon lit another cigarette and looked at the floor. ‘Sorry Rach, I’ve had a couple of drinks, I’m not following. What are you saying?’

‘I don’t want to be on a break.’ I reached over and took the packet of cigarettes out of his hand. ‘Will you look at me, please?’

He inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of grey smoke, shaking his head. I stepped closer until we were toe to toe and placed my empty hand on his arm, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth.

‘Simon, you don’t smoke.’

‘I smoked before we started going out,’ he said quietly.

‘We’ve been going out for five years,’ I replied in a voice just as hushed but, regardless of volume control, I could see a small audience with ears pricked across the street.

Suddenly our private conversation felt very public.

‘Five years is a long time.’ Simon pulled his arm away from me, stepped back and took another drag. ‘And I don’t want to be on a break either. So we’re agreed that the break isn’t working.’

‘Simon, I’m really not following,’ I was totally lost. This was really, really not how this was supposed to go. We were supposed to be halfway to doing something indecent in the back of a taxi by now, not rambling in the middle of the street while Matthew pretended not to be watching from the doorway of the club. And, oh brilliant, Em was there as well. At least Paul had stayed downstairs – oh, wait a minute, nope, there he was. Just what I needed.

‘I know I haven’t dealt with the whole break-up very well, but I don’t want to make it any harder than it is already.’ Simon shrugged. ‘It’s not been easy for me either, you know.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I grabbed his arm tight and got as close to his face as was humanly possible given his cigarette breath. This was supposed to be seductive, not confusing and gross. ‘Can we please just go home?’

‘I’m not coming home.’ He shook off my arm and stepped backwards. ‘This isn’t a break, Rachel.’

Simon looked pale and awkward and it didn’t really matter how cold it was any more.

‘I don’t want to be on a break because I want to be with you,’ I said softly, staring steadily at his shoes. ‘It’s just a break. We’re not, you know, we’re not. Not on a break.’

For a few moments, he didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Across the street, I could hear people talking, laughing, even some shouting a couple of doors down, but it seemed as if it was miles away. I coughed, just to check I could still make noise.

‘Simon, I love you.’

Nothing.

‘Simon?’

Still nothing.

I pressed my lips together to try and stop the tears that were tickling the corners of my eyes, blurring the bright red postbox into a red slash to the side of me.

‘Simon, please.’ I tried to keep my voice even but I was having enough trouble getting the words out at all. ‘You’re my boyfriend.’

Simon took one last drag, dropped the cigarette butt and ground it into the pavement with a brown leather shoe I didn’t recognize. Looking up at the sky, he blew out his breath loudly.

‘You’re not the one.’

I folded my arms tightly, pressing my fingernails into my bare arms.

‘I’m sorry, Rachel,’ he said, looking quickly back down at the street. Anywhere but at me. ‘I’m wasting your time. You’re not the one.’

‘I’m not …’ I cleared my throat and started again. ‘I’m not the one?’

‘No,’ Simon replied.

‘Is someone else the one?’ I asked, afraid to hear the answer. ‘Are you … is there …?’

‘No,’ he said, finally looking somewhere just to the right of my nose. Still not quite at my eyes. ‘Honest. It’s just, I thought about it and I care about you, I do, you’re just not the one. We’re not going to work out in the end.’

‘Any reason in particular?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘What did I do?’

‘You didn’t do anything,’ he shrugged. ‘I just woke up one day and I knew. I thought the break would help but …’

‘You thought the break would be easier than out-and-out breaking up with me,’ I revised for him. ‘And that I would get the hint or something?’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t done this very well.’ He went back to his pocket for the cigarettes but they were still in my hand. Impetuously, I threw them into the road and under a car. ‘Rachel, I just don’t, I’m not, god this is shit. I’ll always love you, I’m just not, you know.’

‘I don’t know actually.’ I shook my head and felt my hair fall around my shoulders. ‘Because I love you.’

‘Jesus, Rach.’ Simon reached an arm out towards my bare shoulder and laid his hand against my skin. It should have felt warm and reassuring but instead it stung. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled his hand away and shoved it back into his empty pocket.

I took a step backwards, blinking until the tears slipped over my eyelids and ran down my cheeks. At least I wasn’t wearing any mascara. Nothing like panda eyes to make a girl look utterly pathetic. I looked at him. His short dark-blond hair was darker in the streetlight and his eyes were red and tired. The strangest thing was looking at his lips. And letting the fact that I wouldn’t be kissing them ever again settle in my mind. They were off-limits. He was off-limits. No longer mine. Another step back and I took him in completely. All five feet nine of ex-boyfriend. Ex. What a horrible sound. This wasn’t my Simon; this was a stranger. I stepped back again, stumbling off the kerb and into the road.

‘Rachel!’ Someone shouted sharply and I turned around just in time to see a black cab whirr past me, beeping his horn, the driver shouting something like ‘stupid cow’ out of the window. Even though I was still standing in the road, I couldn’t seem to move. Instead, I sat down. Which seemed like a sensible idea.

‘Rachel,’ another voice said, softer this time but closer. I felt several arms wrap around me and pull me to my feet before hearing raised voices and scuffling behind me.

‘Get her in a cab,’ Matthew’s voice commanded someone. ‘I’ll sort these two out.’

I was more interested in my shoes. I loved these shoes. How long had Simon had those brown shoes? How come I hadn’t seen them before? He’d probably bought them earlier – only a boy would go out dancing on a Friday night in new shoes without knowing whether or not they’d rub. Which of course they would; all of his shoes rubbed.

‘Rachel, are you OK?’ Em’s voiced asked.

I nodded.

‘Me and Matthew are coming home with you.’ Her voice was coming from somewhere above me but I couldn’t quite focus on it.

I shook my head.

‘Yes, we are.’

‘No,’ I said steadily. ‘I just want to go home and sleep. Really. Just come over in the morning. I’ll need you in the morning.’

‘I really think we should come home with you, just me or just Matthew, whoever you want. This is not open for discussion.’

I shook my head again and stretched my arm out to an approaching black cab. ‘I’m fine.’

Before she could do anything, I shook Emelie off and opened the cab door, slamming it shut behind me, hitting my leg in the process. I didn’t feel it.

‘Amwell Street, Islington?’ I leaned forward until I saw the driver nod and then slouched back while he did a U-turn. Out of the window, I saw Emelie throwing her hands up at Matthew who was holding his own hands over his face. Behind them, Paul was holding his nose but I couldn’t see Simon. Until we stopped at a traffic light. Then I spotted him. On the floor at Paul’s feet with Mark the Stranger at the side of him.

Well, would you look at that?

CHAPTER THREE

By the time the cab dropped me off at home, I’d replayed our conversation over in my head so many times, it felt like something that had happened to someone else, or that I’d seen on TV. The exact words used were hazy, each gesture exaggerated or traded in for something that didn’t happen, but the end result was always the same, no matter how many times I ran through it. I’m not the one. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want me.

It took me far too long to get my keys in the door, and when I finally managed to force my way in, I flipped on the lights only to illuminate five years of happy memories lining our hallway. Holiday snaps, concert tickets, napkins from restaurants, postcards from holidays, everything we’d collected over the duration of our relationship, mounted, framed, hung, down to the receipt for the drinks on our first date. He’d kept that and given it to me the day we’d moved in together. There was no way this was actually happening.

Exhausted, I turned the light out and turned into the bedroom, kicking off my shoes and scrambling out of my vest and jeans as I went. I’d made the bed before I left, hoping to be falling into it with Simon and not tearstains and a scraped knee. Despite the fact that I’d been sleeping on my own for a few weeks, this was the first night since ‘the break’ that I’d felt lonely. This was the first time I was alone. I swapped my uncomfortable underwear for an old T-shirt of Simon’s that I kept hidden inside my pillowcase along with a dodgy old pair of boxer shorts that had no elastic left. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, Simon’s words buzzing through my brain as if I’d left the TV on. Sleep wasn’t coming but the most ridiculous things kept popping into my mind. My credit card payment was due. I still had two episodes of Glee to watch on Sky Plus and it was running out of memory. Tonight would be the first night I hadn’t washed my face in over four years. This was why I had to write lists. Regardless of my relationship status, no one wanted to work with a spotty make-up artist. I slid off the bed, hitching up the baggy boxers as I went.

In the hallway, I reached out to touch my favourite photo of us, taken at Emelie’s birthday the year before. Simon was laughing at something Matthew had said and I had my arms linked around his neck, my face leaning into his shoulder. He looked handsome, I didn’t look fat and we were happy. The perfect picture. I could feel the sobs building in my chest when I heard scuffling at the front door. Turning on the lights, I peered through the glass. It was Simon. I waited a couple of seconds, my mind completely empty, before I flipped the lock and swung the door open.

His left eye was already turning purple and, although someone had tried to clean him up, his nose was bloody and his lip was bust. Between his messed-up face and my seductive ensemble, this was so far removed from the perfect picture, I could have smiled. Could have.

‘The lock needs some WD-40 or something,’ I muttered, one hand holding up my shorts.

‘I’m sorry,’ Simon was still hovering outside the door.

‘Not your fault,’ I shrugged. ‘It’s been sticky for ages.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said again.

I moved away from the door to let him in, my back pressed against the wall of photos. He paused right in front of me and opened his mouth to say something before changing his mind.

‘Simon?’

He stopped, turned around and looked me up and down.

‘Is that my T-shirt?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ I pulled at the frayed hem. ‘It’s comfy to sleep in.’

‘I thought you’d thrown it out,’ he replied.

Feeling my bottom lip start to tremble, I shook my head. I squeezed my toes and feigned a yawn so I could push back the tears.

‘Right,’ he said, his hands deep in his pockets.

I nodded. He just stood there, battered, bruised, miserable and staring at the shoes I’d never seen before. I knew I had to say something and say it now. By the morning, it would be over. Relationships like ours always died quietly in the night; we weren’t ones for violent, bloody deaths played out in public. Far too English for that. But my tongue was tied up with too many questions and my heart was already playing dead. Swallowing hard, I opened my mouth, no idea what was going to come out.

‘New shoes?’

For a moment, I really didn’t know what was happening, I was still staring at Simon’s shoes as they came over and then his arms were around me, his hot, damp face on mine. It wasn’t until I felt a picture frame digging into my shoulder blade that I realized we were kissing, that his hands were running up and down my back and then tangling themselves in my hair and back down again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said into my hair. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Instinctively, my arms went up around his neck and my lips took his kisses on autopilot, but the sharp corner of the photo was still cutting into my back. It was only when he moved the kisses from my mouth down to my throat that I realized my eyes were open and my mind was completely quiet. What was wrong? This was the plan. Simon paused and looked up at me with a new expression on his face, half confused and half desperate to get his end away. I’d seen them both independently of each other enough times over the last five years but this was a new combo.

‘Rach?’ he panted. His concern was reasonable: firstly, kissing my neck was the surefire way to get into my pants, as he well knew; and secondly, I’d wanted this so badly for so long, I ought to be responding at least. Something was just off. ‘Rach, honest, I’m sorry.’

‘Stop. You can stop saying that,’ said a voice that sounded like mine. If he apologized, that meant he had something to apologize for and I couldn’t deal with that right now.

‘OK.’ He reached around my neck and scooped my hair over one shoulder, a gesture so familiar my stomach dropped through the floor. ‘OK.’

I nodded and closed my eyes when he leaned in to kiss me again. I kissed him back, trying not to hurt his split lip. But he didn’t care about his split lip. For the first time in a month, he wanted me, so I let him turn me towards the bedroom door, push me onto the bed and I felt the comfortable weight of his body on top of me. I didn’t need to think, I didn’t need to act, his hands started on their regular route around my body, lips making their way across my collarbone, my left leg curling up around his waist. I’d missed this so much. I’d missed him so much. My body should be screaming for him, not just reacting. It was just weird because it had been so long, that was all. And so I ignored the little voice in my head, intent on chanting ‘not the one, not the one, not the one’ over and over and over. Instead I closed my eyes and began playing my part. I had him back. And that was what I wanted. He was what I wanted. And he was mine again.

The next morning came like any other, the sun streaming in through the too-sheer curtains on the bedroom window that I never bought blackout curtains for, because Simon liked to wake up to natural light. And, as though he’d never been away, there he was beside me, that natural light illuminating his dark blond hair until it was almost golden. I lay on my side, a few inches away from him, just watching him sleep. Last night had been strange, I hadn’t been able to quite shake off the feeling that we should have talked before Simon jumped back into my bed, but this morning everything felt right. We were back on track. Whatever madness he’d been suffering, he was over it.

I turned onto my back, trying not to wake him and smiled to myself while I thought about my daily chores. Perhaps I could let myself off the list today: the post could wait at the post office until Monday and I’d get Matthew’s birthday card tomorrow. But I did need to go to the supermarket – we were out of everything. I slid off the bed, not budging the mattress, and grabbed last night’s jeans and tank top that were still lying in a sad puddle on the floor. I got dressed in the hallway, grabbing my phone, cash card, keys and a cardigan on my way out through the door, pausing just for a second to straighten the frame we’d dislodged the night before. Nothing was really aligned, but to see it there, cockeyed and nudging the next photo, made me come over all OCD. I put it back where it had been before but it still didn’t look right. Instead of fannying around and making too much noise, I took it down and propped it against the wall, making a mental note in my temporary to-do list to put it back up later on. After breakfast. After whatever Simon wanted to do today. I’d rewrite the list for tomorrow. OCD assuaged.

It was super-early for a Saturday and London was mostly still asleep, but buses bustled by and weekend workers walked on, heads down, earphones in. I dabbed on lip balm, tenderly touched my chafed chin and wrapped my hair around itself into a relatively controlled knot on the back of my head as I wandered down the street. I really had to get it cut; I really had far too much hair for just one person. But Simon liked it long. And I was used to it. Even if Dan did call me Cousin It whenever I wore it down on set.

I couldn’t believe Paul had punched Simon. It was the nicest thing he’d ever done for me. Totally made up for the time he’d cut the hair of every single one of my My Little Ponies. Well, maybe not all of them. I should call him and let him know we’d worked things out, otherwise it was going to be incredibly awkward at my dad’s wedding in a couple of weeks. Right now, I needed to think about getting pastries, coffee and cream. And probably some stain remover to try and get the blood out of Simon’s shirt. And they say romance is dead.

The supermarket seemed strangely busy, full of people on their way to work, buying tuna sandwiches for their lunch break, early risers doing their shopping, and more than one creased-looking gentleman with a terribly self-satisfied expression on his face.

‘All right?’ Something reeking of YSL Kouros nodded at me over the croissants. ‘Heavy night?’

‘Something like that,’ I said, without eye contact. Didn’t he realize he was in London? We didn’t talk to strangers. We didn’t even talk to our neighbours for the first five years unless it was to complain about the noise or errant pet shitting in our garden.

‘Yeah, trick is to get out before the ‘wake-up,’ he said, filling up a plastic bag with cinnamon Danishes. ‘But I always leave a note. You’ve got to leave a note. Just out of order not to.’

‘Right,’ I gave him a tight smile and backed away slowly towards the queue for the till.

And he followed.

‘Always felt bad for girls,’ he went on. ‘You know, you see a bloke on the walk of shame and everyone thinks, “Get in there, son!” but you see a girl walking down the street at six a.m. on a Saturday in last night’s clothes and everyone just thinks “slag”.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, flicking through the items in my basket for a moment before I realized what he’d said. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Not me though,’ Kouros Man flung out his hands, spilling his already opened can of Red Bull. ‘I do not judge. And it’s not like you’ve got your skirt up your arse and tits hanging out like some of them, is it? Good outfit.’

Brilliant. Not only was this charmer still drunk, he thought we were one-night-stand kindred spirits.

‘You should probably give me your number, you know, in case you ever need company.’ The stale stench of whatever he’d been drinking/spilling down himself last night combined with the overabundance of intense aftershave came closer, making me gag.

‘I have a boyfriend,’ I said quickly, holding the basket between us. ‘So no.’

‘Right, course you do,’ he replied, fingering a packet of Durex for a moment before adding it to his booty. Double gag. I turned my back, hoping he would just go away, but I could still smell him. I had a feeling it would be a lingering odour. Thank god Simon had come to his senses. That was the first man in five years to ask for my number and I really didn’t feel like he was a keeper.

I paid for my breakfast bounty and vamoosed back out onto the street, so enthralled by my iPhone that I couldn’t even hear Kouros Man muttering loudly after me. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘bitch’. No, he didn’t judge.

August never guaranteed good weather in London, but that morning was beautiful. Bright, cool sunshine and a clear blue sky. I bounced back along Upper Street, scanning text messages from Matthew and Em. They wouldn’t appreciate a blow-by-blow phone call pre-seven a.m., so I tapped out an ‘everything’s fine’ text, deleted the torrent of abuse aimed at Simon, and kept the effusive messages of love. Never hurt to have them around.

I locked my phone and slipped it into my back pocket. I wasn’t particularly good at expressing emotion and I had never been particularly free and easy with the ‘L’ word. I loved my parents, I loved my brother, I loved Matthew, Emelie, Simon, Galaxy chocolate, Alexander Skarsgard and Topshop Baxter Jeans. And I really, really loved my flat. I’d lived in a wild assortment of shitty bedsits and tolerable house-shares since university but this, our beautiful two-bedroom first-floor flat, snagged for a song in the middle of the recession, was my home. The last eighteen months had been spent feathering our nest. Mostly with piles of clothes I never got around to ironing, but still. Home. I climbed the five steps up to the royal blue door and paused for a moment. I was nervous. What if Simon was awake? Maybe I should have attempted to make myself look half decent before I left. What was I going to say to him? Maybe we could just pretend last night never happened.

‘At least he won’t be wearing Kouros,’ I said to myself, and sort of to a passing dog walker, as I stuck my keys in the lock.

The flat was still quiet when I passed through the door and I slipped off my shoes so as not to wake Simon. OK, I would brush my teeth, make coffee and then whatever would happen, would happen. Setting breakfast down on the kitchen countertop, I made a beeline for the bathroom. Whatever would happen would happen. And so what? I thought as I splashed my face with cold water. One awkward conversation and then back on the road to marriage, babies and bliss. Everyone had bumps in the road; everyone had their little moments of madness. What relationship was perfect? I grabbed my toothbrush and reminded myself that the happily-ever-after myth was just that. A myth. Hmm, no toothpaste. Automatically, I reached into the cabinet beside the sink for a new tube. Real relationships were difficult and required work. They needed understanding and compromise. You couldn’t just run away when things got tough, you had to …

The toothpaste.

There wasn’t a new tube of toothpaste in the cabinet beside the sink because I’d started a new tube of toothpaste the day before. But it wasn’t in its holder. And neither was Simon’s toothbrush. And his razor was gone. Still clutching my toothbrush, I padded back through to the hallway and stopped outside the bedroom door. Even though I already knew what I was going to find, I just couldn’t open it. I felt sick. And angry. And stupid. I pushed the door open with my big toe and peered inside. At the empty bed. I stepped backwards and felt something hard and cold under my foot, followed by something sharp, stinging and hot. The photo from Emelie’s birthday. Simon must have knocked it over on his way out. In his rush.

Toothbrush in one hand, phone in the other, I slid down the wall, knocking every other photo onto the floor on my way down, and watching my blood trickle out onto the laminate flooring Simon had so lovingly laid, the day after last year’s FA Cup final. Simon always said there was no DIY during football season.

I slid the lock off my phone and pressed the last call button.

‘Matthew?’ I said quietly, trying not to flex my toes. ‘He took my toothpaste.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘I’m going to kill him,’

I nodded.

‘I mean, I’m going to destroy him. Hold him down, punch him in the face and then rip off each limb before beating his face in with the soggy ends.’

‘’K,’ I agreed.

‘And then I’m going to—’

‘Emelie,’ Matthew interrupted, reaching down to scoop me up from the floor. ‘You’re not helping.’

I leaned into my friend and squeezed my toothbrush in one hand, my phone in the other.

‘Want to give me that now?’ he asked, holding out his hand. I gave him my phone.

‘And the toothbrush?’

I reluctantly passed it over.

Matthew and Emelie had crossed London in record time and made it to my door before I’d even moved. I had called Matthew, he had called Emelie and she had called Domino’s but they weren’t delivering yet. But the thought was there. I’d given them the abridged version of what had happened since I’d got in the cab, punctuated by sniffling, sobbing and general self-pity and, in turn, they’d filled me in on what had happened at their end which basically consisted of Paul knocking Simon on his arse, Matthew watching with admiration and Emelie landing a kick to the crotch while calling him something terrible in French that didn’t really translate. When the police were called, my three musketeers had scarpered to the nearest McDonald’s and Simon had crawled into a cab. Which was where my story took over.

‘It never occurred to me that he would come here,’ Matthew said, stroking my hair as I sat on the sofa. ‘We were going to come over but you didn’t answer the phone so I assumed you were asleep. You always reply if you’re not asleep.’

‘I did sleep,’ I said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘I know you will,’ he said. ‘Of course you will be. You’re well rid of that arsehole.’

Was I rid of him? Surely he was the one who had got rid of me? And I wasn’t an arsehole. I didn’t think.

‘You’re so going to be all right.’ Em was brewing enough tea to quench the thirst of Bristol. ‘How about a bath? A bath might feel good.’

‘I don’t know.’ How did someone not know whether or not they wanted a bath? Oh good, I’d gone mad.

‘Well, whatever you want to do, just tell us.’ Matthew kissed the top of my head and looked at me expectantly. ‘Or, you know, sit there in silence and we’ll just talk at you. Either way.’

The clock on the DVD player said it was 10.00 a.m. The Mad Men DVD has gone from the top of the DVD player. How could it only be 10.00 a.m.? Your life wasn’t allowed to go down the shitter before noon on a Saturday, surely. Simon must have taken the Mad Men DVD. I should get changed. I actually should have a bath. But a bath would make my foot hurt. I cut my foot. And what was I going to get changed into? Pyjamas would be too pathetic; clothes seemed too optimistic. Maybe I could go back to sleep. It was still early. If this was a normal Saturday and I hadn’t just been completely screwed over by the person I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with, I’d probably still be in bed.

‘Rachel, are you thinking things and not saying them out loud?’ Matthew asked.

Oh, I was.

‘He’s taken the Mad Men DVDs,’ I said eventually. My voice sounded thick and tragic.

‘Had you finished watching them?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘Fils de pute,’ Emelie breathed. ‘It’s one thing to take a girl’s toothpaste, it’s another to take her Don Draper—’

‘Right, bath first,’ he said, giving Emelie the nod. She immediately stopped refilling the kettle and hotfooted it into the bathroom. Taps turning, water running, Emelie swearing when she scalded herself on our hot tap just as she always did. ‘OK?’

I really couldn’t do much more than nod. It was like I was asleep with my eyes open. Somewhere between two and twenty minutes passed before Emelie called that the bath was ready. Matthew helped me up and gave me a gentle push towards the bathroom.

‘You’ll feel better, really.’ He shut the door before I could start stripping off. Amazing best friend though he was, Matthew was wildly uncomfortable around female nudity. He had been very clear from the outset that he had no interest in seeing so much as a boob from either of us. Emelie had, of course, flashed him within three weeks of living together, but I’d managed to retain my modesty. ‘Amazing what a bath can do.’

‘It’s ready.’ Em manoeuvred her way behind me in my tiny bathroom and pulled as much as my hair as she could into a ponytail on the top of my head. ‘Do you need anything?’

‘I’m good.’ I peeled off my vest and dropped it on the bathroom floor. Five more minutes and it probably would have crawled off my back itself. The skinny jeans were more committed to sticking with me. It took me a good couple of attempts to wrestle my way out of them before Em stepped in with one good hard tug and yanked them down over my knees. Hanging onto the sink, I watched her scoop them up, flash me a grin and then shut the bathroom door behind her. Standing in front of the mirror in my bra and pants, hair piled in a giant pineapple on top of my head, crying, with a bottom lip so low you could hang coat hangers off it, didn’t make me feel pathetic at all. Have a bath, Rachel. You’ll feel better, Rachel.

Tearing my eyes away from the sex bomb in the mirror, the actual bath itself looked amazing. It was full and overloaded with bubbles, and the steam scented the room with a relaxing, clean smell – lavender and something. All I had to do was get in. One foot, then the other and, soon, I’d smell clean and fresh too. My skin would be pink and soft, the bubbles would tickle the back of my neck and, whether I liked it or not, my muscles would relax and I probably would feel a bit better. Only, I didn’t want to feel better. I wanted to wallow and mope and run the events of the last twelve hours over and over in my mind. I didn’t want tea; I didn’t want baths; I didn’t want sympathetic friends. I wanted my boyfriend back. But if I didn’t get in the bath, a) Matthew and Emelie would know and b) I would smell. Couldn’t hurt to show willing. That was, of course, unless the bath was scorching red hot and took the skin off my foot.

Outside the bathroom, I could hear my friends’ emergency summit. The joys of cheap Nineties renovations: the walls in this place were paper thin.

‘Right, I’ll strip the bed and you take the photos of him down,’ I heard Matthew directing. ‘I’ll bloody boil-wash the bedding. I want every trace of that shit out of this flat before she gets out the bath.’

‘Done and done,’ Em replied. ‘I can’t believe he’s done this.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I really thought this one was going all the way.’

Me and you both, I thought. Me and you both.

‘Then thank god he’s done it now. Imagine if they’d actually got married.’

‘I know, I mean, how do you pretend you’re happy for someone marrying a knob-head?’

I sank back into the bath. My friends thought Simon was a knob-head? But we’d been together for five years and they’d never said anything. I knew I was never at risk of either of them trying it on with him – aside from the fact he had a penis, he really wasn’t either of their types, but still. They hated him so much they were pleased we’d broken up?

I held a bright pink foot out of the water and checked my toenail polish. It needed changing. Theme of the day. Turning on the cold tap with my toes, I tried to come up with reasons as to why Em and Matthew would dislike Simon so much. Admittedly, they didn’t have that much in common. Simon was pretty much a full-time bloke. He watched football, played video games, enjoyed the work of Will Ferrell, the body of Megan Fox and the music of Coldplay. That didn’t make him a bad person, just a straight 29-year-old man. Maybe he hadn’t always been completely comfortable around Matthew in the early days, but that was just because he didn’t have that many gay friends. And maybe he’d been a little too comfortable around Emelie on occasion, but she could hardly pretend she wasn’t flattered by his clumsy flirting. And he was a good boyfriend. He cooked, mostly because I couldn’t. He did all the man jobs, brought me flowers when he’d worked late, always remembered my birthday, never cancelled on plans, came to every last wedding, birthday and christening I dragged him to without complaint. He wasn’t selfish or greedy, he didn’t cheat or lie; he was a good man. We were happy. We had a routine. And apparently I wasn’t alone in thinking this was going to end in a ring and a white dress and a rousing rendition of ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ on the floor of a nice hotel somewhere in Surrey.

But no. No ring. No white dress. No group dance number. No explanation. Maybe if I spoke to him. Maybe if I got a real explanation, we could still talk this through. I could still get him back.

After what I hoped was a decent amount of time, I heaved myself out of the still-hot water and towelled down. Matthew wouldn’t appreciate the show of skin but, as my dressing gown was in the bedroom, this was the best I could do. I just wanted to put on some clothes, pick up the phone and get this sorted. Matthew and Emelie were standing in the living room, my bedding dumped on the floor between them.

‘What now?’ I asked, feeling all my newly acquired get-up-and-go get up and go. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ Emelie looked up, panicked. ‘Wow, you look better. Why don’t you go and get dressed?’

‘I look like shit,’ I said, tightening my towel around me. ‘What’s going on? Did something happen? Did Simon call?’

‘No,’ she said. Matthew slipped something into his back pocket and stepped behind Em. ‘Get dressed then we’ll go and get something to eat. You must be starving.’

They were the worst liars ever.

‘What did you just put in your pocket?’ I asked Matthew.

‘Nothing.’ His voice was higher than mine.

‘OK, give it here.’ I held out my hand. ‘Whatever it is, give it.’

Matthew and Emelie looked at each other. Giving him her best Care Bear stare, Em shook her head but he just nodded and pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and bit his lip.

‘Matthew,’ Em put her hand on my shoulder, holding me back, ‘don’t.’

‘Why don’t you get dressed first …’ he started, but I was too fast. Pushing Emelie onto the sofa, I narrowed my eyes, tightened my ponytail and checked the towel. Before jumping onto the sofa and leaping onto Matthew’s back. With one arm around his neck, I grabbed at the piece of paper in his hand while he ran around in circles, squealing like a woman.

‘Get her off!’ he shrieked, lapping the room like a headless chicken.

Emelie rolled back on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her, hands pressed against her face. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying and I really didn’t care. All I knew was that I was getting that bloody piece of paper. Matthew was on his fourth lap of the living room when I finally managed to snatch it out of his hand. At the exact same time as I lost my towel. Ignoring the fact that at least three of my neighbours were watching me take a naked piggyback ride around my living room on a six foot four gay man, I slid to the floor and quickly scanned the note.

Matthew came to a standstill, panting far too heavily for a man who worked out as often as he did. ‘Jesus H Christ,’ he wheezed, eyes wide and a look of complete horror on his face. Em composed herself quickly and wrapped my towel around me. But I wasn’t too worried about being naked at that moment. I was far more concerned with the contents of the note.

It was pale and blue and lined with raw, torn edges down one side where it had been ripped from a notebook. My notebook. Someone had been in my bag, ripped a page out of my notebook and left me a very brief message.

Rachel,

I’m sorry. It’s not going to work. I’m away with work this week and then I’m moving out.

Sorry.

Simon

I read it three more times before looking up at my friends. Matthew’s expression was somewhere between traumatized and apologetic. Emelie just looked so incredibly sad. I opened my mouth to say something, anything to break the tension, but all I could manage was a sharp intake of breath. This was it? This was all I got? The note scrunched up too easily, until it was just a few sharp corners in my palm, and when I opened up my fist, it sat there like a tiny ball of nothing. When I opened my eyes, it was still there. A tiny, innocuous piece of paper that had just completely broken my heart.

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘Half eleven?’ Matthew guessed.

‘Is the pub open?’

‘It’s London,’ Em picked up her handbag. ‘There’s always a pub open somewhere.’

I nodded and clutched my towel closed around me. ‘I’ll get dressed then.’

Happily, we didn’t have to search for long. Within the hour we were safely stashed away in a dark corner of a dark pub up the road from my flat. With a bottle of white wine on the table and three orders of posh fish fingers on their way, we were set up for the afternoon.

‘So your options are, we can get drunk, slag him off and stagger home with a kebab.’ Matthew ticked off the options on his fingers. ‘Or we can get drunk, you can cry and embarrass yourself horribly, then we stagger home with a kebab.’

‘Tell me there’s an option three.’ I tried to stop myself from poking my finger through the hole in my leggings. I’d blame my shoddy ensemble on the speed with which I’d got dressed, but really, most of my clothes were either entirely too much or just a bit shit. No one cared what the make-up artist was wearing on set and I’d developed something of a black leggings, white T-shirt uniform over the last couple of years. Didn’t take too much thinking about when you were rummaging in the drawers at five a.m.

‘Option three, we get drunk and plan your fabulous new life and then stagger home with a kebab,’ Matthew finished.

‘Do I get a vote?’ Emelie waved her hand in the air. ‘I want option three. And I’d also like to suggest pizza instead of kebabs.’

‘No, it’s got to be kebabs,’ Matthew declared. ‘This is the only time I can eat one without hating myself afterwards. All calories consumed within forty-eight hours of a break-up are null and void.’

‘Any more rules I should know about?’ I asked.

‘Oh god, loads,’ Em chimed in. ‘You’re allowed two sickies from work, three late-night phone calls to me and himself without any complaining, as much ice cream as you can humanly consume. You get to go on a credit-card-trashing spending spree as long as you only buy completely ridiculous things you’ll never wear in six months’ time. What else?’

‘You’re allowed to shag someone completely inappropriate as long as they’re really fit,’ Matthew added. ‘And you never have to call them again.’

‘Probably give that one a miss for now,’ I said, checking out my split ends. ‘I’ve had a bikini wax, maybe I could just get vajazzled for you?’

‘I don’t even want to know.’ Matthew plucked his iPhone from the selection on the table as it began to vibrate. He took a quick look, swiped at the screen and stared for a moment.

‘Are we keeping you from something important?’ Em asked so I didn’t have to.

‘You’re always keeping me from something import ant,’ he replied. ‘But I still love you. But back to Ms Summers. Have you got a busy week?’

‘Working on Monday, the shoot will probably run over to Tuesday,’ I shrugged. ‘More knicker work. More Ana. More Dan.’

‘Then we haven’t got long to get you started on the road to recovery.’ Em took a tentative sip of her wine. It was a little bit early, even for her, but god bless her for giving it her all. ‘And over your hangover.’

‘I can’t believe he’s just gone.’ I rested my elbows on the table. ‘Is that what usually happens? They just leave?’

‘Never had one stick around long enough to answer that question with credibility,’ Em admitted. ‘I lean towards just not answering calls and texts until they stop trying.’

‘And you know, I personally favour the screaming row complete with plate smashing, potential violence and optional public scene at three in the morning,’ Matthew said. ‘Leaving a note seems terribly middle class and straight to me.’

‘What do I do though?’ I knocked back half the glass of wine. Start as I meant to go on and all that. ‘I mean, after the wine and the kebab. How am I supposed to be single?’

‘This isn’t your first break-up. You know you’re going to get through it.’

‘Not my first break-up, but it is the first time I’ve been dumped.’

The table fell silent. There was a chance I’d lost the sympathy of the room.

‘Oh my god, it really is, isn’t it?’ Matthew breathed. ‘You’ve never been dumped before.’

‘And actually,’ Em set down her glass and brushed her wild red hair behind her ears, ‘what’s the longest amount of time you’ve been single?’

‘It’s not like I haven’t had my fair share of shits,’ I defended myself quickly. ‘I just always managed to get in there first with the whole “ending it” thing.’

‘But you’ve never really been single, have you?’ Matthew was pulling his ‘I’m thinking’ face. ‘You’ve been with Simon, what, five years?’

‘Yep.’ I tried to swallow as much wine as I could before we opened the ex files.

‘And if I recall correctly, you broke up with Jeremy on the morning of Fat Theresa from Media Studies’ wedding and met Simon at the reception.’

Poor fat Theresa from Media Studies – we’d graduated how many years ago and she still couldn’t shake the nickname? Actually no, scratch that, she was fat and she was married, why should I feel sorry for her? I wished I was fat and married.

‘And before Jeremy it was, who, Will?’

‘Will the wanker?’ Em clapped her hands. ‘Oh, he was funny.’

‘No he wasn’t, he was a wanker,’ I corrected. ‘He was cheating on me with about twenty-five different people.’

‘And yet you insisted on giving him a chance.’ Matthew narrowed his eyes. ‘And then another chance. And then another one. I really never understood that one. He wasn’t even that hot.’

‘I think it was because he wasn’t Martin,’ I theorized.

‘Martin. Lovely, lovely Martin,’ Matthew smiled. ‘I miss university boyfriends. They were so simple.’

‘Yeah, except lovely Martin was shagging his English lecturer,’ I reminded them, refilling my wine glass. The booze was definitely necessary.

‘And me,’ he added. ‘But not until afterwards, obvs.’

‘I just never thought about it before,’ Em waved to the waiter who was aimlessly wandering around the pub with our fish fingers. ‘How is it possible that you’ve never ever been single?’

‘Because I’m awesome?’ I ventured.

‘Aside from the obvious,’ she replied. ‘Everyone’s single at some point.’

I chopped a fish finger in half and dipped it in far too much tomato sauce. Few things made me happier than ironic menus in trendy London pubs because really, nothing made me happier than fish fingers. Why hadn’t I ever been single?

‘It isn’t like I line blokes up,’ I said. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here now, would we?’

‘Suppose not,’ Matthew was only half paying attention as he built a shaky fish finger sandwich. ‘So this is all going to be new to you. Wow.’

‘I just can’t believe it,’ Fish fingers and Sauvignon Blanc went together surprisingly well. ‘I thought I was going to be engaged by the end of the year, now I’m just going to be one of those crazy women on the bus wearing too much blusher, carrying a cat in a bag.’

‘No you’re not,’ Em tugged my messy ponytail. ‘You’re going to be fine. Better than fine. Single and amazing.’

She didn’t sound terribly convincing. ‘But I just want my life back to normal.’

‘No such thing,’ Matthew pointed out. ‘This is normal now.’

Dropping my fish finger back on the plate, I felt my entire face fall. ‘That is so depressing.’

‘No it isn’t, being single is awesome,’ Em said. ‘You just have to get through the shitty break-up stuff and then it’s going to be great.’

‘She’s right,’ Matthew confirmed. ‘When you have a serious boyfriend you just plod on because that’s what you do. But it doesn’t mean you’re happy. Now you’ve got a chance to find out what makes you happy, not what makes him happy or what you like “as a couple”. This is going to be good for you.’

‘I just wish there was a guidebook,’ I sulked. ‘I’m not good with change.’

‘There are loads of guidebooks,’ he pointed out. ‘Millions. It’s just, they’re all shit. And anyway, you don’t need one. You’ve got us and we’re two of the most fabulous single people in London. We’re like … mentors. We could totally get funding from David Cameron: he loves a mentor.’

In the interests of getting a couple of minutes of peace and quiet to eat my lunch, I bit my tongue and bit into a chip. I did feel better for getting out of the house, just as I’d felt better for my bath. And I felt better for the wine and for sitting here with two fabulous friends. But I still didn’t want to feel better, I just wanted Simon back. Feeling the tears trying to make a comeback, I tried to concentrate on something else. Anything else. It was Saturday: what needed doing?

Since Simon had raped and pillaged my to-do list for his heartfelt ‘fuck you’ note, I had to start a new one. Pushing aside my lunch, I started to scribble down everything that needed to be done before I went back to work on Tuesday. I still had to go to the post office, still had to get Matthew’s birthday card and present. I needed to call someone to look at that damp spot – what, a plasterer? And I should probably call my dad, tell him Simon wasn’t going to be coming to the wedding.

‘Uh, Rachel?’ Matthew piped up.

I looked up, end of the pen in between my teeth. ‘Yuh?’

‘What exactly are you doing?’

I looked from Matthew to Emelie and back again. Both had forks full of food paused mid-air and both were staring at me like I might be slightly mentally unstable.

‘Writing my to-do list?’

‘To do what?’

‘Stuff?’

‘Right.’

I looked at my friends once more then went back to my list. ‘It makes me feel better, OK?’

‘As long as it includes “get wasted” and “do a rebound guy”, I’m fine with it,’ Em said after a moment. ‘And put “give Emelie all of Simon’s Peep Show DVDs” on there as well.’

‘You can have the DVDs,’ I promised. ‘But these are actually things that need doing, not a fantasy break-up list.’

‘You’re already pretty far along the break-up list,’ Matthew commented through a mouthful of chips. ‘The actual deed is done, someone’s punched your ex in the face and you’ve even had the break-up sex. I usually take ages to embarrass myself with that one.’

‘Me too,’ Em nodded. ‘Break-up sex is the thing that usually drags this out. You’re doing very well. Everything ticked off already.’

‘Just need to crack on with the being single to-do list then.’ I scratched at the label on the wine bottle, trying not to pout. ‘Stop shaving your legs, get hammered, die alone with cats.’

‘Oh, Rachel,’ Em’s eyes glittered. ‘That’s it. We’ll write you a to-do list. A single girl’s to-do list.’

I tore off a big long strip of label.

‘What?’

Em’s face was lit up like Blackpool. ‘We’ll write you a list. Everything you need to do as a single girl. Everything you should have done by now but haven’t because you’ve been hanging around with that twat.’

‘It’s not a bad idea actually,’ Matthew said. ‘I’m assuming I’m allowed to contribute despite not actually being a single girl?’

‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘If I thought you were going to say sniff a bunch of poppers, go out dancing all night and then make out with a hot stranger in a public bathroom, I’d let you have more of a say in this, but you won’t because you’re a rubbish gay.’

‘We don’t make out, dear, we’re in England.’ Matthew topped up her wine while giving her the glaring of a lifetime. ‘And just because I’m not falling out of a sauna in Vauxhall at six a.m. every morning having blown three closeted Tory MPs doesn’t mean I don’t have valuable insight into how to be successfully single.’

‘If it’ll stop you two from squabbling like children, I’m in,’ I relented. ‘Come on, then, what’s going on this list? Besides cry myself to sleep on Valentine’s Day and shag a stranger in the toilets at Inferno’s?’

‘Oh, I think we can do a lot better than that,’ Em promised. ‘Much, much better.’

CHAPTER FIVE

After six bags of crisps, three bottles of wine and two hours of heated debate, we were both incredibly drunk and also getting somewhere with The List. And there wasn’t a trip to the post office to be seen.

‘’K, ’K, ’K, let’s go through it one last time.’ Matthew held up the last napkin on the table that wasn’t already covered in discarded drafts of my to-do list. The definitive top ten things I needed to achieve before I could fully declare myself single. I was still unclear as to why Emelie thought learning to juggle would make me a more successful singleton, but still, they were trying. Matthew cleared his throat and – with some ceremony – began. ‘Number one, makeover.’

‘Not a makeover,’ Emelie interrupted. ‘It’s like, a complete transformation. We’re changing your hair, your clothes, your make-up; we’re redecorating your flat. Everything.’

‘I do need a haircut,’ I admitted. And, more importantly, the living room totally needed painting. If I just kept my mouth shut, there was a good chance I was getting two free painter’s mates out of this list. Result. ‘What’s next?’

‘Exercise regime,’ declared Em to a chorus of groans, taking the pen from Matthew and writing it down. I’d been trying to get this one off the table since two bottles of wine ago. ‘No arguing. It’s important; you’re skinny and shit now but you do not get off your ass unless someone makes you and one day you’re going to wake up fat. Trust me, you’ll feel amazing.’

‘Sitting on the sofa after a long day at work or dragging my arse down to a horrible sweaty box filled with horrible sweaty people who judge me for not being able to do the treadmill for more than ten minutes without falling over and then charge me sixty quid a month for the pleasure?’ It was an excuse I’d used on myself for many years. Unfortunately, it looked as though I was much easier to convince than Emelie.

‘Then no gym but, dude, this is staying on the list.’ She threw her hands out in front of her. ‘No arguing. That’s the rule. You can’t argue with the list.’

‘Can’t argue with the list,’ Matthew concurred. ‘Which brings us to point number three. Do something extreme.’

‘I think I’d just be happier …’ Pause to hiccup. ‘… if all the points of the list were more specific. That one’s open to a lot of interpretation. And what I consider too extreme might be totally normal to him.’ I pointed at Matthew with my glass. Why did my arm seem so heavy all of a sudden?

‘Let’s not go there,’ he shook his head. ‘Let’s be honest, I have done some truly terrible things with some truly terrible people.’

‘It means bungee jump or skydive or something.’ Em tried to pull the subject back. ‘Not move to Australia or shave your head.’

Bungee jumping. Really? I was beginning to doubt the legitimacy of the list.

‘I’m supposed to get over a lifelong fear of heights and do a bungee jump within two weeks?’ I dropped my head onto the table. Ew. Sticky. ‘This is hard.’

‘It’s not meant to be easy.’ Matthew pulled my head up by my ponytail. ‘It’s meant to teach you what you’re capable of.’

‘I thought it was meant to be fun?’

‘It will be fun,’ they chorused.

Me plus heights did not equal fun. It equalled the need for adult nappies and therapy. I couldn’t even go on the rides at Alton Towers without being drunk first. Which, incidentally, it turns out they frown upon. Nothing like throwing up on Oblivion to find out you’re not allowed to bring alcohol into an amusement park.

‘And you’ll be a billion times stronger for it afterwards,’ Em said. ‘Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted to get it all done by your dad’s wedding, not us.’

My dad’s fourth wedding was coming up in two weeks and I needed a date. There was no way I was going on my own so that my evil Aunt Beverley could ask me where my boyfriend was then go on to tell me all about my cousin’s three fabulous children. I was certain she was the one who had told my grandmother on her deathbed that I was a lesbian. But I’d applied that timeframe on the second draft of the list when it still included ‘wear high heels every day for a month’ and ‘learn to cook’, not when it involved me risking my life for my friends’ amusement. Maybe it would be easier just to rent a male prostitute for the wedding. Maybe we’d fall in love. Maybe it would be a wonderful story to tell our children. Maybe I’d catch something dreadful from him and I’d never be able to actually have children. Hmm. Might just stick with the list.

‘Whatever, number four?’

‘That’s a perfect one actually,’ Emelie said. ‘Find a date for your dad’s wedding. Let’s get you right back out there.’

I had sort of been planning on asking Photographer Dan to do the deed but I let her add it to the list. It had taken an entire packet of Kettle Chips to bargain her down from anonymous sex with a stranger to a date with no required physical contact, so I was just going to shut up. It would still count if it was Dan, wouldn’t it? It would still technically be a date to the wedding.

‘Number five. Do something he wouldn’t approve of,’ Em declared. ‘And you can’t double up on activities so the bungee jump can’t count as something he wouldn’t approve of. It has to be something totally different.’

‘I’m doubling the bungee jump up with number five, scare myself to death.’ I pouted for a moment. Simon wasn’t a big rules and restrictions kind of a boyfriend. If anything, he was too lazy to try to stop me doing anything, and there wasn’t anything I’d ever wanted to do so badly that I’d have tested that. Except …

‘I want to get a tattoo,’ I took the napkin and added it to the list. ‘Simon hated tattoos. I worked with this model once and she had this gorgeous cherry blossom thing up her back and ever since then I’d always wanted one but I never got one in case he didn’t like it.’

‘See? This is such a good idea.’ Matthew raised his glass with more success than Emelie before writing ‘tattoo’ on the napkin. ‘Congratulations, you’re getting a tattoo.

‘Six,’ he shouted. We were so embarrassingly drunk for the middle of the afternoon. Sod it: I’d had a very bad day. ‘Buy yourself something obscenely expensive and selfish.’

‘Like a Vespa scooter you drive once?’ I asked as innocently as possible. My hair felt heavy. I needed to stop drinking.

‘Exactly like a Vespa scooter you drive once. I don’t feel guilty. Think about all the money you’re saving in birthday and Christmas presents. And trips to see his shitty family. Wedding presents for his shitty friends. You’re completely entitled to buy something that benefits no one but you in the aftermath of a break-up.’

‘Can I buy myself something too?’ Em asked.

‘No,’ Matthew replied. ‘You’re already utterly selfish.’

‘Moving on,’ I said quickly. ‘What else?’

‘I still think you need to write the letter.’ Em was too drunk to care about Matthew’s insults at this point. Thank god. ‘I know we took it off the last draft but I think it’s a good idea. It’s closure.’

‘Fine,’ I waved my hands in defeat. ‘I’ll write the bloody letter.’ I really didn’t want to do this one. Why spend a perfectly good evening stirring up exactly what the rest of the list was trying to suppress? I was supposed to be getting over Simon, not sobbing into a piece of Basildon Bond over how he didn’t love me any more. But if it was on the list, it was happening. ‘But I get to pick the next one. I want to travel.’

‘You can have that.’ Em stood up suddenly and not at all steadily. ‘I need a wee.’

‘That’s nice,’ Matthew took back the pen as she climbed out from her spot at the back of the table with all the grace of a drunken giraffe and wandered off across to the bar. ‘You can have travel but you have to go somewhere you’ve never been before. Where do you want to go?’

‘Can we have this as one of the slightly vague ones?’ Names upon names of places tumbled through my mind. There were so many places. ‘I only have two weeks after all. And I’m guessing Milton Keynes won’t count.’

‘You’ve got to use your passport,’ he replied. ‘That’s the only stipulation. Got to get the stamp in your passport.’

Throwing myself out of a plane to my inevitable squishy death was one thing but travelling somewhere that required a passport inside two weeks? That was ridiculous. And sort of exciting …’ How am I supposed to manage that?’ I challenged, hoping he had a viable suggestion that didn’t involve us waking up drunk on a ferry to Norway.

‘I don’t know, can’t you get a job abroad or something?’ he shrugged. ‘Travelling isn’t hard.’

The truth was, I’d been passing up international jobs for so long that my long-suffering and foul-mouthed agent, Veronica, had stopped putting me forward for them. It wasn’t as if there was a lack of work or lack of demand for my talents (no point being modest, I was drunk), but I hated to be away from home when Simon was alone. Which seemed really quite stupid now. Maybe I could put in a call. Couldn’t hurt.

‘I thought of one while I was in the lav,’ Em yelled with delight, and threw herself across Matthew to get to her seat. ‘You need to buy a vibrator.’

Despite how red my cheeks already were from All The Booze, I felt myself colour up from head to toe. How did she know I didn’t have one already?

‘How do you know she doesn’t have one already?’ Matthew asked. Part of me was delighted that he’d read my mind, but part of me was just sort of shocked he hadn’t passed out with shame. He must be more drunk than I could tell.

‘Trust me,’ Em shook her head. ‘She doesn’t. You don’t, right?’

‘It’s not going on the list,’ I said. ‘It’s not. Going. On. The list.’

‘Then you pick one,’ she slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m out of ideas. Or drunk. Or drunk and out of ideas.’

I knew she was still sulking about not getting rebound shag on there, but there was no way I was writing that down. I wanted to show willing but I didn’t want to have to drop my knickers for some random. In fact, I was fairly certain that there was going to be no knicker-dropping for some time. God, this was getting depressing. Maybe I should reassess my need for a vibrator.

‘How about contact my first crush?’ I suggested. ‘That might be a fun one. There was this boy I was totally in love with when I was fifteen and then he moved away. That would be a learning experience, wouldn’t it?’

Em was still pouting but Matthew looked interested. ‘I like it,’ he declared after a couple of sips of wine. ‘Sort of like coming full circle. Show that there was life before knob-face and that there will be life after.’

‘I think it’s lame,’ Emelie said, but it was too late. It was on the list.

‘So,’ Matthew was counting on his fingers. ‘We have makeover, exercise, bungee jump – or similar, tattoo, date for the wedding, buy something obscene that isn’t a vibrator, write a letter to knob-face—’

‘Do we have to keep calling him that?’

‘Yes,’ they said simultaneously.

‘Buy something, travel somewhere you’ve never been before, hunt down your first crush—’

‘And give him one.’

I spat a mouthful of wine across the table.

‘Emelie, you’re not helping.’ Matthew looked appalled. ‘And that’s nine.’

‘It has to be ten,’ I said. ‘Can’t have nine.’

‘You are a mental OCD cow,’ he replied. ‘Fine. One more.’

We sat staring at each other around the table while my mind ticked over. Learn to play the guitar. Appear on a reality show. Swim with dolphins. Run the marathon. Date someone from each of the armed forces. Shag a boy in a band. Get a pet. Volunteer for a charity. Wow, I really was getting desperate. Before either Matthew or I could venture a suggestion, Emelie broke the silence.

‘Break the law,’ her eyes glittered. ‘You have to break the law.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I didn’t even look up from my lovely, lovely wine. ‘I’m not going to break the bloody law.’

‘Actually …’ Matthew said quietly.

‘Oh shut up,’ I gave him the look. ‘I’m not breaking the law. I have never broken the law. I don’t even go over the speed limit. You know this.’

‘Which is exactly why you’re going to do it,’ he said, adding it to the bottom of the napkin. ‘Amazing.’

‘I can’t believe you’re going along with this.’ I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. And to try and make them focus more clearly. ‘Seriously? Matthew?’

‘We’re on the verge of an all-new Rachel Summers,’ he replied, dramatically shaking the list to dry the not-even-slightly-wet ink. ‘Devil-may-care law breaker and international playgirl, Rachel Summers.’

‘Don’t forget the tattoos,’ I reminded him. ‘If I’m going to be crossing over to a life of crime, I’m going to need the prison tats.’

‘This is going to be so much fun.’ Emelie poked at the last surviving bag of crisps. ‘So. Much. Fun.’

I took the napkin from Matthew and studied it carefully before slipping it inside my bag. What was I signing up for?

‘For me or you?’

He looked at Em, who, with a little difficulty focusing, looked back.

‘Definitely us,’ he said, both of them nodding. ‘Definitely us.’

Once Emelie had finished drinking the last drops of wine directly out of the bottle, we agreed that was a sign it was time to leave. Helping each other out of our seats, I tried to stand as steadily as possible, walking in something akin to a straight line out of the pub, blinking into the late afternoon sunshine. I looked up at the sky, not quite understanding why it wasn’t dark. I’d been up for ages. It had been some time since I’d been this drunk in the day, but I had a horrible feeling that this was the beginning of something, rather than a one-off. I also had a horrible feeling that I was going to puke.

Against all odds, the three of us managed to stagger home in one piece and collapsed on the sofa. Within five minutes, Em and Matthew had passed out. I sat back in the middle of the sofa – Emelie snoring her head off on my shoulder, Matthew curled up against the arm, his feet in my lap – and stared into the mirror in front of me. Nothing had changed. The sofa was still red, my grandmother’s mirror still hung over the fireplace and the patch of damp in the corner of the room still needed taking care of. Nothing had changed but everything was different.

Easing myself out of the drunken BFF sandwich, I tiptoed into the kitchen to get some water. Glasses still in the cupboard, cold tap still not really cold enough. I drank one glass straight down, filled another and leaned against the kitchen counter. Everything had seemed OK in the pub. We had my list to think about, fish fingers to eat and, most importantly, wine to drink. But now I was home … now it was real. For some reason, I’d half expected Simon just to be lying on the sofa watching Final Score and eating Doritos like it was any other Saturday. But he wasn’t. The flat was empty. Just like it would be from now on. Almost as soon as the thought settled in my mind and the water had hit my stomach, I felt it coming right back up.

Thank god the flat was small enough for me to make it into the bathroom in time. There were very few things in life I disliked as much as throwing up, which was one of the reasons I really didn’t drink that much. Bracing myself against the sink, I washed my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to convince myself that the hot tears streaming down my face could be easily explained by the fact I’d just puked.

‘That’s it,’ I told myself quietly. I might be drunk at four on a Saturday afternoon but I didn’t really want anyone to hear me talking to myself. ‘No more tears.’

Granted, that was a statement that carried a lot more credibility on a bottle of Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Shampoo, but I had to make myself believe it. I was not going to waste any more tears on someone who had left me a note. I was not going to make myself sick over someone that thought five years could be written off in fewer than four sentences. I was not going to break my heart over someone who could break my heart and still think it was OK to take my toothpaste at the same time. I was done. Heading back into the living room, I curled up on the armchair and shook my head at Drunk and Drunker. It had been a hard day for the both, clearly. Trying not to wake them, I pulled the to-do list out of my bag and read it over again. I would never do any of these things. Never in twenty-nine years would I have considered any of them. I wasn’t the kind of girl who would do any of these things but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of girl would.

And I couldn’t help but be a little bit excited to find out.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Morning.’

I rolled over to feel something soft on the other side of my bed.

‘I thought you said no same-sex experience on the list?’ Emelie mumbled.

‘If I went gay, it wouldn’t be with you,’ I replied.

Why was Emelie in my bed? Where was Simon? Why did my brain feel as if it had been taken out, tumble dried without so much as a sheet of Bounce and shoved back up my nose?

Oh.

Right.

‘It’s too early,’ I rolled back over and mumbled into my pillowcase. Maybe if I lay face down long enough, I’d smother myself into a coma. That would be a nice long nap, wouldn’t it? A lovely, lovely coma. Alternatively, I realized, opening my eyes, I should get up and be with other human beings as there was every chance I wasn’t terribly mentally stable. Wishing yourself into a coma isn’t usually A Good Thing. ‘I want a lie-in.’

‘It’s almost ten, that is a lie-in,’ Em said, bouncing up and off the bed like an Andrex puppy. ‘Today is the first day of your single life. That’s exciting. Get. Up.’

I felt the sunshine on my face and made a mental note to pick up some blackout curtains as soon as humanly possible. Silver lining number one.

‘I feel like shit.’ I pushed my legs over the side of the bed, hoping they would somehow catapult the rest of my body over there. ‘Is this part of being single?’

Em stretched and nodded. ‘We need to work on your alcohol tolerance. I’ll put the kettle on, see if he’s up.’

After passing out on the sofa, the rest of last night was a bit of a blur. I remembered waking up around seven, throwing up again, drinking tea, ordering a pizza and playing ‘guess who’s going to die?’ when Matthew turned on Casualty. Afternoon hangovers were the worst. Once it had been established that I wasn’t going to cry myself to sleep, Matthew and Em had allowed me to slope off to bed. Still, it made a change from my regular Saturday rituals of doing the washing, watching DVDs and going down to Pizza Express early enough to be home for Match of the Day.

Yawning, I combed my hair out of my face and tethered it behind my head. Was it weird that yesterday had probably been more fun than any other Saturday in years? Maybe fun wasn’t the right word. It was definitely the most interesting.

The hardwood floor in my bedroom was never warm, not even when the sun was streaming in, like it was this morning, but only one foot was cold as I forced myself to stand up. Glancing down, I saw that was because one foot was standing on something white. Something soft. I dropped back onto the bed, releasing the fabric. It was Simon’s T-shirt. It must have got thrown under the bed during our Friday night sexcapades. Closing my eyes, I held onto the worn cotton tightly and tried to breathe slowly. The main reason I hadn’t cried myself to sleep the night before was that I was just exhausted. My body’s first line of self-defence was to shut down and go to sleep, but that wasn’t an option today. I was going to have to do something.

‘Do you want shower or tea first?’ Em stuck her head round the door. ‘Matthew’s in there now but you can go next if you want?’

I shoved the T-shirt into my pillowcase and stood a bit too quickly. The afternoon hangover had definitely become a morning hangover, bleurgh.

‘Shower.’ I was desperate to get out of the room, to put some distance between me and that T-shirt. ‘Definitely shower.’

Sitting down and drinking tea would inevitably lead to conversation. Conversation would inevitably lead to talking about Simon. Talking about Simon would inevitably lead to my brain exploding. I needed a distraction. A six foot four gay man in a towel wasn’t quite what I was thinking about, but that was what I found in the living room. And I supposed it was technically a distraction. Just not as good a distraction as the other thing I found in the living room. My single girl’s to-do list.

‘Jesus, how much did we drink last night?’ Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his wet hair back against the sofa. ‘Or, actually, all day? I haven’t felt this shit in ages.’

‘Apparently we need to build up our alcohol tolerance,’ I said, trying not to catch sight of myself in the mirror. The glimpse of the scarecrow-cum-crypt-keeper I’d got before I could avert my eyes was bad enough. ‘I don’t know how she does this.’

I picked up the knackered napkin and took a pit stop on the sofa beside Matthew. His skin was still hot from the shower and he smelled clean. I smelled like evil.

‘Planning your bungee jump?’ he asked, eyeing the list.

‘Maybe not today,’ I replied, considering each point. Hmm.

‘We really do have some bright ideas when we’ve had a drink, don’t we?’

Makeover. Exercise. Bungee jump. Tattoo. Date for the wedding.

‘Still, kept you from slitting your wrists – and, you know, avoiding that in the first twenty-four hours is pretty important.’

Buy something. Write a letter to your ex. Travel. Find your first crush. Break the law.

‘Are you safe in the shower this morning or do you need a buddy?’ Matthew was still talking. ‘I can see from here your legs need shaving and I don’t know if you’re safe with a blade.’

‘I’m safe,’ I promised, placing the list on the coffee table and heading purposefully into the shower. ‘Trust me.’

The mirror was still misty from Matthew’s shower – that boy was always in there for a lifetime, but one quick swipe with my hand revealed just how bad my situation was. Straw-like ponytail, dull skin, yesterday’s T-shirt. As a make-up artist, I was used to scrutinizing faces, looking at every different angle, settling for nothing less than perfection, but I never turned that same gaze on myself.

If I was being entirely objective, what did I see? My skin was grey and dull, my eyes red and swollen and the angles of my face were lost in the shadows of my hair. My hair … I would never let a model go on set looking this way. It was horrible. Awful. And Simon loved it. Suddenly I couldn’t bear the weight of it dragging me down for another second. Without one more look at the girl with the long blonde hair, I opened the bathroom cabinet, grabbed the scissors out of the first-aid kit and hacked away at the ponytail, right underneath the hair tie. When I looked back in the mirror, I had a pair of scissors in one hand and a two-foot-long ponytail in the other.

‘MATTHEW.’

‘What?’ He peeked through the door cautiously. ‘Are you naked? Is there a spider? Are you naked?’

I held up both hands as the ponytail holder slipped out of my newly bobbed hair and hit the floor. My new do fluttered defiantly above my shoulders. And not in a good way.

‘Oh sweet baby Jesus.’ Matthew slapped his hand over his mouth, eyes a mirror of mine. Wide, confused and slightly insane. ‘What have you done? EMELIE.’

I could feel my bottom lip starting to tremble but I couldn’t let go of the scissors or the hair. And now I’d turned away from the mirror, I didn’t dare look back.

‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘Have I gone mad?’

‘It’s a bit Girl, Interrupted but it’s fine,’ he said, reaching out for the scissors. ‘Why don’t you give those to me, Angelina?’

‘Does it look awful?’ I already knew the answer to that.

‘Rachel,’ Emelie appeared behind Matthew. ‘Your hair.’

‘Looks great,’ Putting the scissors on the shelf, high out of my reach, Matthew took the poor ponytail out of my hand. ‘I’ll just, um, I’ll take this.’

‘I can’t go outside,’ I said in a tiny voice. I was too afraid to touch it, in case it fell out. ‘I look like a boy. Oh god, I look like Justin Bieber.’

‘He looks like a girl anyway,’ Em said, putting her arm around my shoulders in a gesture that was both supportive and, ingeniously, kept me away from the mirror. ‘It’s cute. Really. And you needed a change.’

‘I did need a change,’ I repeated. My head felt so light, as though it might float up off my shoulders and fly away. ‘It was on the list anyway.’

‘List?’ Em ran her fingers through the ends of my hair. ‘You did this because of the list?’

I nodded.

‘Riiiight,’ she tugged manically on Matthew’s sleeve.

‘Before you start bungee jumping off the roof, just shower, wash your hair and get dressed,’ Matthew commanded, patting Emelie’s arm. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

‘Yes, it’s going to be OK,’ Emelie agreed, poking the ends of my hair. ‘Actually, this will save us a lot of time on blow drying.’

Silver lining number two.

Once I’d showered, shampooed and stopped staring at myself in the mirror, I slipped into my fluffy towelling dressing gown and prepared myself for whatever intervention would be waiting for me in the living room. Matthew and Emelie were sitting silently on opposite ends of the sofa, the napkin from the night before in between them.

‘So,’ Matthew pointed towards the empty armchair. I sat obediently. ‘You’re taking this list thing seriously, then?’

‘Yes?’ I shrugged. ‘I didn’t realize it wasn’t serious.’

‘You’re really going to do a bungee jump? Even though you’re so scared of heights I have to come over and change your light bulbs when Simon’s out?’ Em asked. ‘And you’re actually going to break the law?’

‘Bungee jump or similar,’ I reminded them. ‘And I suppose so, yes. Somehow. I mean, I’m not going to plan an armed robbery but there must be something faintly criminal that I can get away with. If it’s on the list, I’m going to do it. And since you’re responsible for most of these, you’re going to help me.’

‘Rachel, I have to tell you something.’ Emelie leaned forward and took my hand in hers. ‘I have never in my entire life been so incredibly proud to know you.’

Matthew held his head in his hands. ‘As much as I of course second Ms Stevens’ support, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, it’s not like I don’t know how hard break-ups can be, but throwing yourself into something dramatic might be a bit much.’

‘I think I need to throw myself into something a bit dramatic,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t thrown myself into anything even slightly dramatic in a very long time.’

‘As long as you don’t take such a drastic approach to breaking the law.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘I don’t want to see the two of you on the news after a failed bank heist.’

‘We could totally pull off a bank heist,’ Em pouted.

I switched from chair to sofa and wrapped my arms around my best friends. ‘Which is why I need your help with this,’ I explained. ‘I want to do this. You’re both right, I’ve never been single, I don’t know how to be single. I don’t want to walk into my dad’s wedding looking like some feeble tramp who spent a fortnight listening to Power Ballads ’89 and watching Bridget Jones’s Diary over and over, crying “that will never happen for me” and eating ice cream until I lapse into a diabetic coma.’

‘That would be quite dramatic given that you’re not even diabetic,’ Matthew replied. ‘You could just not go to your dad’s wedding. It’s not like there won’t be another one.’

‘It’s just too tragic that it’s his fourth and I’m not even engaged.’ I ran my fingers through my short, wet hair. ‘I’m twenty-eight. Everyone’s going to ask if I turned up alone. And you know my brother is going to appear with some random slag he’s picked up the night before and everyone’s going to think it’s charming.’

‘Um,’ Em coughed awkwardly. ‘About your brother.’

‘Not now, Stevens,’ Matthew gave me a sturdy side hug. ‘Right. In that case, we’ve got a lot of work to do, haven’t we?’

‘We really have.’ I heaved myself off the sofa, catching sight of my hair in the mirror. ‘We really, really have.’

One of the benefits of being a make-up artist was a wealth of helpful connections in the beauty world, connections I’d never really taken advantage of before. But with just a few texts, I’d called in enough favours to get an appointment at a great salon with a great stylist inside the hour. Given that Matthew had less than no interest in hair, make-up, clothes or anything else that happened on or to girls, he’d been left in charge of clearing Simon’s influence out of the flat: getting the locks changed, clearing out his stuff and preparing for redecoration. I was on a mission. By the end of the day, I wanted to feel like a new woman. If he didn’t want me in his life, I didn’t want him in mine. There was some debate over whether or not changing the locks was overkill, but the idea of Simon just being able to let himself in whenever he wanted actually made me feel sick to my stomach.

Which was more or less the reaction Tina Morgan, hair stylist to the stars (if you counted the cast of Hollyoaks as stars) had to my hair.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Summers,’ she barked with cigarette-scented laughter as I dropped down in the styling chair. ‘Who did this?’

‘I did,’ I replied, trying not to regret my decision. I’d known Tina since college and she was amazing with hair. Her make-up work erred more towards drunk Pussycat Doll, but when it came to hair? First class.

‘Right, you never did do well in the hair modules, did you?’ She pulled the strands through her fingers, measuring out the lengths. ‘I’ve been dying to get my hands on your hair for years. Well, you’ve fucked this up good and proper, haven’t you?’

It was a shame that her talent was matched with an almost complete absence of social skills, which I supposed was why she was still curling WAGs’ extensions in a salon off Regent Street on Sundays, instead of tending to the A-list in LA. Happily, that was working in my favour today. White-blonde hair, hot pink lipstick, skintight blue jeans and a mouth the size of Guernsey. And I was putting myself in her hands.

‘Yes I have, but here’s your chance.’ I took a deep breath and forced the words out of my mouth. ‘I want a complete change. Do whatever you want.’

Tina stepped back from the mirror. ‘Anything?’

‘Anything,’ I said, closing my eyes. ‘Just – I want to look good.’

‘One guess,’ she stepped up to the plate. ‘Break-up?’

I bit my lip. ‘Not to be a dick, but I don’t really want to talk. I just want to look amazing.’

‘As if I’d let you leave here looking any other way.’ She slapped me round the back of the head. ‘So colour, cut, long, short?’

‘I want to look completely different,’ I said, catching Emelie’s eye in the mirror behind me. She was totally chatting up one of the other stylists. She gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up and carried on. Shameless. ‘Just make me look different.’

‘Oh, this is going to be fun.’ Tina could hardly control the joy in her voice.

One last look at what was left of my long, blonde hair and I closed my eyes. ‘Yeah. Everyone keeps telling me that.’

It was another three hours and forty-five minutes of sheer torture before Tina managed to say something that made me smile.

‘And you’re done.’

Never one to miss an opportunity for drama, she’d had the mirror at my station covered until she’d decided she was finished. Given how much hair I’d lost already that day, I had been a little alarmed to see chunks falling all around me, but not nearly as concerned as I’d been by the variety of colour processes that had been burning my scalp. My hair had never been exposed to anything more aggressive than Sun-In before today. I’d always been a blonde. Not a sexy Brigitte Bardot blonde or anything but definitely blonde. I wasn’t mysterious enough to carry off brunette and highlights needed too much attention. What had she done?

‘Can I see?’ I asked, not sure I actually wanted to. If she pulled the towel off the mirror and my hair was purple, I was going to have to go the full Britney. Shaved head, trashing her car with an umbrella, barefoot eating Cheetos in the loo, everything.

‘Ta-da,’ she pulled away the towel with a flourish.

Woah.

My almost waist-length blonde hair had been replaced by a short, red bob that bounced around my chin. I hadn’t had a fringe since I was a little girl but now there were long, sweeping strands framing a pair of bright blue eyes. Were my eyes always this colour? My hair was red. Really, really red. I looked like someone else. And she looked amazing.

‘No way!’ Em leapt out of the seat she’d been occupying for the last hour or so while every straight stylist in the place pawed at her in between appointments. ‘You’re a redhead! Like me!’

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