Someone Like You. Cathy Kelly

      Flora, with her clipboard and mobile phone, was ignored as the men stared at Leonie appreciatively, treating her like a movie star.

      ‘Pretend you’re Madonna,’ suggested Hannah, her mood improving. It was ridiculous to get uptight because the bus had broken down. She really must learn to snap out of these moods.

      Emma started singing ‘Like a Virgin’ as the three of them were escorted to their table, a large one in a spacious corner with much softer, more opulent-looking cushions than the rest and an elaborate candelabra.

      Leonie, who couldn’t sing to save her life, joined in tunelessly, her voice wavering on the long drawn-out notes. She stopped long enough for the oldest waiter to usher her to the best seat, bowing formally as he did so. She bestowed a gracious smile on him and gave him a blast of sapphire eyes. He bowed even lower and hurried off, to return with three fragile painted glasses for them.

      ‘More Ribena,’ said Hannah, picking up her tiny glass and breathing in the scent of the non-alcoholic fruit drink they’d got used to on the boat.

      ‘I don’t need to tell you ladies to enjoy yourselves,’ Flora said, arriving at their table when everyone else was settled. ‘Just don’t forget you have to buy any alcoholic drink yourselves and the bus will be here at around eight.’

      ‘Leave?’ said Leonie in mock horror. ‘Flora, I may never leave this place.’

      Although most local restaurants didn’t serve alcohol, when Leonie saw one of the waiters emerge from the back with a bottle of red wine, she said they must order one.

      ‘Now, let’s have a real girlie chat,’ she said happily when the first course of mezes had arrived and they each had a glass of Cru des Ptolemees.

      By the main course – kofta lamb for Emma and Hannah, vegetarian hummus and kebabs for Leonie – they’d gone through men in general and were on to Hannah’s story of Harry. It had been quite a relief to tell someone about how devastated she’d been the day he’d announced that he was travelling round South America and that it was all over.

      ‘You think you know someone and then they drop a bombshell like that.’ Even a year later, talking about it hurt. She’d felt so betrayed, so abandoned. All the love and time and hope she’d invested in their relationship, and to have it all thrown back at her because he felt stifled and needed a break. He was like all men: feckless and uncaring. But she’d loved him so much. All the aerobics classes in the world couldn’t dim the pain of that. At least her new plan to steer clear of men – apart from the odd bit of fun with guys like Jeff – would protect her from having her heart broken again. It just wasn’t worth it.

      ‘What is he doing in South America?’ asked Leonie.

      ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Hannah said fiercely. ‘I haven’t heard from him since he left. Not a dicky-bird. He took all his stuff from the flat when I wasn’t there and left a note asking for letters to be forwarded to his sister. Huh! He had two chances of me doing that. I threw his new chequebook in the bin when it arrived, and all his tax forms.’ She grinned at the memory. ‘Then I kept getting phone calls from his boss at the paper because he was supposed to be writing this book for them on political scandals and he’d just left the country without telling them. That was Harry all over: run away instead of face the music,’ she said bitterly.

      Both Leonie and Emma had been gratifyingly eager to castrate Harry if they ever slapped eyes on him, and Hannah found herself thinking how nice it was to have female friends to confide in again. She’d been too hurt by Harry to seek out all the female friends she’d let go by the wayside when she fell for him first. It was comforting now to have a bit of sisterly outrage and support.

      ‘I doubt I’ll ever trust a man ever again,’ she admitted slowly. ‘I shouldn’t have trusted Harry in the first place. I should have known.’

      ‘How could you?’ Emma asked. ‘You’re not a mind-reader.’

      ‘It’s nothing to do with mind-reading. It’s to do with men. They can’t be trusted, full stop,’ Hannah insisted. ‘Well, I can’t trust the men I meet, anyway. Your Pete sounds lovely, but I think some of us just aren’t cut out for relationships. They mess you up. Some women are better off on their own and that’s the sort of woman I am. I can take care of myself and I don’t need anyone else. That’s my plan.’

      ‘You don’t mean that,’ Leonie argued. ‘You’re beautiful, Hannah, you could have any man you want. You simply ended up with a guy who was weak and left you. That’s no reason to give up on men in general. You have to dust yourself off when it all goes wrong and start again.’

      By dessert – fruit for all of them – they’d moved on to their personal theories on how to get over a man. Emma hadn’t had many boyfriends before Pete, so she pointed out that she wasn’t much of an expert. ‘I met Pete when I was twenty-five and I’d only been out with three men before that. Dad ran the last one off the premises when he arrived smoking a roll-up cigarette. Said he didn’t want me corrupted with drugs.’

      They all laughed at that.

      Leonie admitted that Ray had been her first real boy friend and that their split had been mutual, more or less, so she hadn’t needed to dust herself off. What Leonie couldn’t understand was how Hannah had decided to simply give up falling in love until she felt strong enough to cope with men on her own terms. They’d heard about the fabulous Jeff and how Hannah had decided that a post-Harry bonk would be good therapy.

      ‘How can you do that?’ asked Leonie, fascinated.

      ‘Do what?’ Hannah bit into a piece of watermelon, little squelches of juice slithering down her chin.

      ‘Decide that you won’t get involved with any guy but just treat him like a friend who happens to be a lover. I mean, what if you met someone gorgeous and you couldn’t help yourself and fell hopelessly in love?’

      Leonie wanted to believe that someone gorgeous was always waiting around the corner, that it was a matter of kismet, destiny and the right Daily Mail horoscope when it happened. You’d fall in love, it was inevitable. Hannah wasn’t convinced.

      ‘Feeling terrible for months after Harry left, that’s how I can do it,’ she said. ‘After the pain I went through, I’m not about to go through it again. If I turn into a heartless cow who uses men, I don’t care. That happy, coupley love thing is not for me. I spent years doing that and where did it get me?’ she demanded. ‘Bloody nowhere. Harry upped and left when it suited him and all I had for ten years of love and affection was a huge spare tyre and a dead-end career. Men are a waste of space, apart from for rumpy-pumpy in the bedroom department.’

      Emma broke out laughing at the pair of them. They were a howl. She loved sitting with her feet curled up on the cushioned bench, giggling and talking about men and sex.

      She shifted to get more comfortable and felt a familiar ache ripple through her. An ache that turned swiftly from a distant pain into a hard one, gnawing at her insides. Her period. God, no, she shrieked silently. It couldn’t be. She was pregnant, she was sure of it.

      Emma stared at the others in dread, hoping they’d developed a similar pain, something to do with the lamb or a dodgy shrimp or anything…It rippled through her again. An unmistakable pain, the sort teenage girls who’d just had their first period could never adequately explain to their non-menstruating friends. Once felt, it was never forgotten.

      Her period. There was no baby, Emma realized. There never had been. Probably never would be. Grief hit her in a wave.

      She pushed herself away from the table clumsily, dropping her napkin and spilling what was left of her single glass of wine. ‘Must go to the loo,’ she said shakily.

      In the dusty toilet with no lock on the door, Emma’s fears were confirmed. She was numb as she looked at the tell-tale droplets of red in the toilet bowl. Using a wad of loo roll as a make-shift sanitary towel, she walked slowly back to the table, feeling lifeless and drained.

      One