The Singalong Society for Singletons. Katey Lovell

say me and aeroplanes don’t mix.

      ‘I’m sorry, Justin. But if you go to Chicago, you’ll be going alone.’

      He’d looked guilty then. He was going to America with or without me.

      As we sat on the cold stone borders that flanked the segments of grass in the gardens, I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought this would be the most romantic night of my life. A bitter, biting wind whipped through the open space, an invisible slap in the face to accompany the sucker punch my gut had just taken.

      Worst of all, everyone around us had been full of festive spirit, carrying on as though nothing had changed, whilst for me everything was about to change irrevocably. I wanted to shout, to kick up a stink right there in the middle of town, but my body didn’t feel like my own. It was a terrible dream and I watched on helplessly as it played out around me.

      ‘I’d hoped you’d come with me. I thought it’d be an adventure for us both.’

      I shook my head. ‘I just can’t.’

      He’d looked crestfallen, the joy he’d had earlier evaporating out of him into the dark winter night. ‘It’s not the end for us though, is it? Loads of couples make long distance work. And the world’s a smaller place these days, that’s what they say…’ It was as though he was trying to convince himself.

      ‘I suppose there’s always Skype…’ I said half-heartedly.

      I couldn’t imagine not being able to physically feel him. We’d always been one of those touchy-feely couples, the kind that makes everyone feel a bit uncomfortable. Our constant public displays of affection were legendary, but you can’t touch someone through a computer screen. You can’t hold them or kiss them or make wild, passionate love to them. There’d be no substitute for having Justin here with me.

      ‘We can make this work,’ he’d said, his voice full of a false yet hopeful confidence. ‘If anyone can, we can.’

      But even then, I wasn’t sure.

      *

      He’d left, just as he’d planned to, on the day we’d started back at school after Christmas break. I’d been assisting the more able children, helping them write sentences about the gifts Santa had left under their tree while he was on a cross-country train over the Pennines to Manchester Airport, ready to start a whole new life on a whole other landmass.

      That was the weirdest part of it all. I was still in Sheffield, with the same job and the same friends and the same bedroom in the same house; but with an empty chest of drawers sitting hollow in the corner instead of filled with a selection of Lynx aftershaves he’d been bought for his birthday by some well-meaning aunt and every Sheffield United kit from the last ten years.

      I’m sure that outwardly I looked much the same as ever – a twenty-five-year-old woman of average height and naturally athletic build with a fluffy mass of unruly dark blonde curls – but inside I felt as empty as those drawers. I’d hoped that by forcing myself to raise a smile I’d fool people into believing I was fine. But I wasn’t fine, deep down. Deep down I was breaking.

      *

      I still have a photo of me and Justin together on my dressing table, in a heart-shaped wooden frame. It was taken at a charity ball the summer before he went away. In it I’m staring up at Justin, who’s stood almost a whole foot taller than me and my face looks like it might split right in two because I’m grinning that hard.

      I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that. As much as I try to show the world I’m the same positive, smiley Mon I’ve always been, it’s not my face splitting in two any more. It’s my heart.

       Chapter One

      Friday 9^th September

      *Frozen – My choice*

      ‘I’ve been waiting for this all day.’ Issy sighs with audible relief as the ruby-red Merlot sloshes into the glass. ‘Honestly, I can’t tell you how ready I am. In fact, I’m more than ready. I’m a woman in need,’ she adds dramatically.

      ‘Only all day?’ I reply with a laugh. ‘Then you’re a stronger woman than I am, Isadora Jackson. I’ve been waiting all week.’

      My blonde curls bounce wildly. People say they look like a halo, but although I’m a good girl, I’m certainly no angel.

      ‘Seriously,’ I continue, ‘the only thing that’s got me through the madness that is reception class during the first week in September is the thought of wine o’ clock. We’ve had so many children crying when their parents leave, the noise in that classroom is phenomenal. Phenomenal! Thank your lucky stars that the kids you teach are past that.’

      Issy gulps her wine, raising her eyebrows in a challenge of disagreement. I know that look. It’s the one that says whenever anyone plays the ‘I work in the most difficult age group’ card, Issy’s going to take that card and trump it.

      ‘Teaching Year 6 isn’t a bundle of laughs, you know. All those raging hormones and that snarky pre-teen attitude…’ She visibly shudders. ‘Can you believe I had Ellie Watts in tears this lunchtime because Noah Cornall dumped her? They’re only ten! And the bitching and backbiting that goes on – I’ve not seen anything like it. It’s the Big Brother house, but worse. How many weeks to go until half term?’

      ‘Another seven.’ I pull a face, unable to believe I’m already counting down to the holidays. The six-week summer break had worked its usual miracle of helping me forget how exhausting it is working in a primary school and although I’d not exactly been jumping out of bed with delight when the alarm went off at 6.15 on Monday morning, I’d felt a quiet positivity about the year ahead. There’s something special about getting to know a new set of kids, and there had even been rumours of new furniture for the reception classroom. Heaven knows, the tables need replacing. Years of felt-tip pens being carelessly smudged over their surface meant their glory days were well in the past. But just one week in – four days, actually, if you discount the staff training day – and I’m already totally drained of energy, as I always am during term time. People at work say I’m bubbly and bouncy and full of beans, but that’s because I raise my game. How anyone who works with children finds the time for a social life, I’ll never know. When Friday finally rolls around, all I want to do is climb into my onesie and sleep for a week.

      ‘My class need to be the small fishes again,’ Issy says with a sage nod. ‘It’s always the same with the oldest in the school. They get ahead of themselves. Too big for their ‘let’s-get-one-size-larger-so-you-can-grow-into-them Doc Martens.’ Issy looks so serious, which naturally makes me want to giggle. ‘They’ll be the ones in tears when they start at secondary school next year, just like your little angels in reception have been this time. It’ll knock them down a peg or two.’

      ‘It’ll get easier, it always does.’

      I know Issy thinks I’m being over-optimistic, but I can’t help it. What can I say? I’m one of those people who naturally looks on the bright side of life, except when it comes to Justin. But that’s no surprise, given that he’d gone from ‘we can make long distance work’ in December to ‘perhaps we should take a break – not split up, but accept long distance doesn’t work for us’ in January. I think I’ve every right to feel bitter. I’m living in this weird love-life limbo.

      ‘You’ll be fine when they get to trust you,’ I assure her. ‘You said exactly the same about your last lot. Remember Billy Rush? You were convinced he’d turn you grey, and look, your hair’s exactly the same murky shade it’s always been,’ I say with nothing but innocence.

      ‘Hey, watch it you! My hair’s not murky. It’s salted caramel,’ Issy replies, defensively stroking the thick, straight locks that tumble down past her shoulders. How she manages