A Year of Being Single: The bestselling laugh-out-loud romantic comedy that everyone’s talking about. Fiona Collins
A Year of Being Single: The bestselling laugh-out-loud romantic comedy that everyone’s talking about
off. She stopped browsing LinkedIn for eligible bachelors who worked in the city. And she became aloof and full of disdain towards the builders on the street outside her office.
She usually loved the attention; she was forty, she lapped up wolf whistles where she could get them. Now she crossed the street and kept her head down. They could all sod off. She’d had enough of all of them. She was done with men; down with men, the works.
‘Heels?’ Frankie was at the door, looking bemused. She was wearing skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a longish floaty, cream top under her coat that Imogen recognised as All Saints. Frankie had had it for years, though it hadn’t had an outing for several. ‘We’re not going out anywhere, are we?’
‘Nope,’ said Imogen. ‘I just wanted to wear them. You know I get depressed if I’m not in heels.’
‘I know.’ Frankie smiled. ‘Well, can I come in? I’ve got the password.’ She held up a bottle of White Zinfandel.
They’d loved the Secret Seven as kids. They particularly loved the whole secret password thing. They’d always had them, especially for getting in the tent. Silly ones like ‘bottoms’ and ‘Andrew Grant’, an annoying boy at school, were hilariously employed as one of them ‘knocked’ and the other had control of the zip. Now, the passwords were in the form of wine or chocolate.
‘Of course! Seeing as it’s you. Come on, Grace!’ yelled Imogen, suddenly. Grace was coming out of the modern house opposite and walking down her drive. Imogen had seen her there earlier, saying goodbye to Daniel when James had come to collect him for the weekend. She had looked inconsolable.
‘I’ve got gin,’ said Grace, brandishing a bottle as she approached. Imogen knew she was trying her best to sound cheery.
‘Good girl!’ said Imogen. ‘I’ve got the ice and a slice.’
Grace joined Frankie on the doorstep. Style-wise, she looked great. Perfect. Pretty. White skinny jeans, a fluffy, faux-fur jacket, and jewelled ballet flats. Her face told a different story. Her eyes were dull and hollow-looking and her expression was haunted.
In contrast, Frankie’s face looked open; her eyes bright, her complexion clear. Rob had all four children tonight and for the first time ever he had them for the whole weekend, Frankie had told Imogen with excited delight, when she’d invited her over. She had laughed merrily and trilled, ‘I’m free! Free as a bloody bird!’
Imogen was glad. Frankie had been so damn angry recently, but now the frown line ‘11’ at the top of her nose had gone. Imogen hugged both her friends fiercely.
‘Okay, my love?’ she said to Frankie, after releasing herself from Frankie’s enthusiastic embrace. ‘Missing the children?’
‘Not yet!’ Frankie replied, breezily. ‘Let’s get this party started!’ she sang, in an American accent, and she headed into Imogen’s hall, holding the wine aloft like a bayonet.
‘And are you okay?’ Imogen asked Grace, who was still hovering uncertainly on the doorstep.
‘I’m getting there, sweetie,’ said Grace, with a brave smile. Imogen linked her arm through hers.
‘Nothing a shedload of booze and a stack of snacks won’t cure,’ she said, and she led her friend inside and closed the door, before sighing with contentment. The gang was all here. A man-free girl zone. Alcohol. Crisps and nuts. Mini poppadums and dips. Chocolate eclairs. Posh chocolate chip cookies. Heaven.
‘New sofas?’ said Frankie, disappearing into the living room. ‘Very trendy.’
Imogen’s house was a three-bedroom brand new house with a drive and a small square of garden at the front, a bigger square garden at the back and a brown fence separating her from next door. Exactly the same as Grace’s. The inside, she’d tried to jazz up a bit. She missed her trendy London flat in Putney, where she used to live, and if she couldn’t replace its character she could at least try to give her new house some of its style. She’d put up huge black and white canvases and framed cinema posters everywhere. She’d had real solid oak floors installed and the walls painted white throughout. On a good day, it looked like a hip art gallery.
‘Yeah,’ Imogen replied. ‘I got them from the King’s Road. Cool, aren’t they?’
Once they were all settled on the two new white leather sofas flanking Imogen’s designer glass coffee table – laden with everything they needed and plenty they didn’t, but would scoff anyway – Imogen raised her glass of rosé.
‘To us! Oh, Grace, honey, don’t cry.’
‘I’m not going to cry!’ protested Grace, but her bottom lip was wobbling, her eyes were filling and her voice had gone all weird. ‘I will not cry over that man!’
Frankie reached across the table and squeezed Grace’s hand; Imogen put down her glass and grabbed the other one; and Grace clung on to both hands and managed a weak smile.
‘It looks like we’re doing a bloody séance,’ observed Frankie. ‘With crisps.’ Grace’s face broke into a grin.
‘That’s more like it!’ said Imogen, as they let their entwined hands drop. ‘Princess Gracie, we’ll get you through this. You’re so much better off without that bastard. We all are. Chin up and bottoms up! Let’s have a big old drink and put the world to rights.’
Two hours later they were all very, very drunk. Imogen’s boots were off and under the coffee table. She lounged on the cream rug with her head propped up on one hand and the other lovingly stroking the soft pile. She adored her gorgeous, very expensive, Pure New Wool rug; it was the first thing she’d bought when she’d moved into this house, and it was perfect.
Frankie was slumped – but still managing to hold her glass upright – over the end of one white sofa, her head wedged on one arm and her legs curled up under her. Her boots were off too, as well as her socks, and her toenails were painted a very surprising and dazzling bright red.
Petite Grace was sitting crossed-legged on the floor, her customary shell-pink toes grazing the rug. The nibbles had all but gone, the rosé bottle was empty and they’d moved onto Grace’s gin, which was disappearing at an alarming rate.
For the past half an hour, Grace had been telling them about her awful discovery of James’s terrible affair and Frankie and Imogen had been shaking their heads and providing the verbal equivalent to soothing foot rubs. They had exclaimed and consoled and agreed and reassured and gasped in all the right places. She’d just come to the end of the story – she had kicked James out; she was a single mother.
Grace unfurled her legs and turned to Frankie.
‘Do you think you’re being a bit harsh, Franks?’ she said. ‘With Rob, I mean. He didn’t cheat or anything, did he? Yet you’ve chucked him out.’ Grace’s wide blue eyes had gone bloodshot. Her pretty doll mouth looked a bit dry. She grabbed her ever-present tin of vanilla lip balm from her pretty embroidered bag and quickly applied some to her lips.
‘No, he didn’t,’ slurred Frankie. ‘And yes, I am. Probably. But I need to be harsh for my own bloody sanity.’
Imogen could sort of see where Grace was coming from, asking that. Grace had kicked James out for being an utter cheating bastard. Rob had just been Rob. His intrinsic Robness was his only crime. But, the man was a lazy, inconsiderate slob and Frankie’s situation was nightmarishly chaotic – all those kids, all that mess. Something had to give, and she could hardly kick one of the kids out, could she? Not yet, anyway. Didn’t they have to be at least sixteen?
‘He’s not a bastard, though, is he?’ continued Grace. Her head was beginning to loll. ‘Not like James. I’m glad we’re all in the same boat now – without men. But I feel a bit sorry for him.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Imogen, raising her head. ‘He’s a nice guy, is Rob – he used to run the tuck shop at school, for God’s sake, and sometimes sneak me a free packet