Crazy Little Thing Called Love: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy you won’t be able to put down. Charlotte Butterfield

her.

      That evening she checked her blog statistics, she’d got another two-hundred and fifty followers over the last week, which took her total number to just shy of fifteen-hundred. And some had even started commenting too. At first they were just one or two words, like ‘Yes!’, ‘Me too!’ ‘I feel the same’, but then women started writing longer posts about their own lives and loves. Leila created another page on the site for women to share their stories, and it was garnering more and more clicks every day. The beauty of the internet meant it wasn’t just local London women logging on; she’d had women from Scotland, Switzerland, all the way to Bermuda and California joining in the discussions. Leila couldn’t help feeling a little proud that she’d created this forum for a community of women to come together, united in their tales of embracing single life.

      It was the story of one woman, Namisha, that inspired Leila to set up a closed Facebook group in addition to the blog. Namisha had had an arranged marriage planned. She hadn’t been too happy with the idea beforehand, but her family had told her that she could be pro-active in finding the groom, so she relented. After months of chaperoned meetings with different prospective men, she finally found someone she clicked with. The wedding date was set, over eight-hundred invitations were sent out, she sat still for four hours having her hands painstakingly decorated with henna at her Mehndi party, and had a red silk sari specially made in India and flown over. On the morning of the ceremony, just as the ballroom of one of Manchester’s top hotels filled with guests, Namisha learned that the groom had run off with an American girl he’d been secretly dating for five years.

      Although she kept her story brief and free from an outpouring of emotion, unlike some of the other recently-scorned singletons, the subtlety of Namisha’s pain was imbedded in every word. Every one of Leila’s break-ups had been a private experience, one where she alone suffered the pain and humiliation. She couldn’t imagine what that poor woman went through in such a public way. Within a couple of hours, twenty different women had offered Namisha support, soothing words and a couple of women local to where Namisha lived even offered tea and cake to accompany their sympathy.

      This website was becoming more than just Leila typing a few lines as she had her dinner each night. This was a virtual club that was making a difference.

      That wasn’t part of The Plan either.

      ***

      There were only a certain number of ways you could organise twenty chairs in a small room, and Leila had tried all of them. Twice.

      Rows were too formal. A circle too Alcoholics Anonymous. Around the edge of the room too pre-teen disco. She’d finally settled on having clusters of five seats around four tables, after all, Tasha did say that part of the workshop was going to involve writing. She put the three kettles on to boil, again. Everyone would be arriving in about ten minutes, and it would be good to be able to offer them a drink straight away rather than make small talk over the ever-increasing sound of bubbling water. And then remembered a warning she’d read once that you shouldn’t reboil water or it could cause cancer. She wasn’t sure of the validity of this, but now was not the time to worry about it. She had toyed with the idea of serving wine too – it was 7pm – but thought for this first meeting it would be good to start off sober. God, she wished she wasn’t so sensible, she could murder a glass of pinot grigio.

      Iris from Ealing was the first to arrive, nervously peering around the door. She clutched her bag in front of her as though she was expecting Leila to mug her.

      ‘Hi,’ Leila walked towards her with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m Leila. You found us then? Thanks so much for coming, it’s really exciting doing this, we’ve got lots of great things planned, we’ve got two speakers at this workshop, and, oh, great one of them’s here now, why don’t you help yourself to tea or coffee Iris, there’s lots of different types – just all on that table over there, great.’

      ‘Where have you been?’ Leila hissed through her teeth at Tasha.

      Tasha looked about the empty room, until her eyes stopped pointedly at Iris deliberating over peppermint or jasmine tea and said, ‘You’re right, I’m sorry, leaving you to riot control on your own was very thoughtless of me.’ She leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek and whispered in her ear, ‘Calm down sweetheart, it’s all going to go brilliantly.’

      Thirty minutes later, when every chair was filled, and twenty heads were studiously bowed, writing down their thoughts in twenty different types of handwriting, Leila allowed herself to breathe. Tasha and her friend Eva had put together a two-hour introductory session on mindfulness for the first twenty London-based women who replied. And the crazy thing was, she could have filled a room three times the size with the amount of people that wanted to come. She couldn’t believe she’d been so disparaging in the past about Tasha’s passion without really knowing too much about it, and it was incredible all the stuff she was saying. The whole premise of living in this exact moment and not letting your past or your future shape or affect your present, was something every woman in that room needed to hear and learn, and Leila placed herself firmly in that camp too. She’d spent so many years hankering after an ex, or impatiently awaiting the arrival of Mr Perfect, that she’d squandered the last decade looking back or forward and never stopping for a minute to just be.

      ‘Another key thing,’ Tasha intoned, ‘is acceptance. Welcome in your thoughts, the negative ones and the positive ones, but don’t see one as right, or one as wrong, give them space to exist, and don’t judge yourself. Tune into everything you’re feeling – the way the shower spray hits your body, the way a certain fabric feels, the smell of your perfume, the taste of your food – think and reflect on every sensation as you think or feel it.’

      Leila was concerned beforehand that two hours sounded like an awfully long time to sit and contemplate your life, but the time just sped by, and it wasn’t until the office cleaners came in, that she realised that they’d even gone over time.

      ‘Ok everyone, we’re going to have to wrap it up now, but thank you so much Tasha and Eva for coming and imparting your wise words, and honestly, I am so humbled to be surrounded by so many inspiring women. Hopefully this is the first of many events and workshops that we do, and please, any ideas you have, or topics you’d like to focus on, just drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.’ It was perhaps testament to how soul-revealing the evening had been, but every woman had entered the room giving Leila a handshake, and left it giving her a hug. That was pretty awesome.

      ‘You’ve got an amazing thing going here,’ Eva said as she gathered up all the pencils left on the desks. ‘To get all these different women in one space is marketing gold.’ Eva had left the world of corporate life coaching a few months previously to set up her own business. ‘I gave my card to at least half the women here tonight. By all rights, I should have been paying you for the exposure, not the other way round!’ Each of the women had paid a tenner to attend, and as Leila’s boss had let her have the training room for free and even thrown in the refreshments, Leila just split the two hundred between Tasha and Eva.

      ‘Eva’s right Leila, you could have run this evening at a profit tonight, and everyone would have still gone away feeling happy and fulfilled.’

      Leila grimaced. ‘I know what you’re saying, but there’s something a bit distasteful at me making money from other people’s misfortunes. I mean everyone was here because they’d been unlucky in love, I don’t want to start monetising their healing.’

      ‘Think about it Leila,’ Tasha said, getting her car keys out of her bag. ‘You’re providing a service for these women – it’s like a member’s club – and if you started seeing it more like a business than a hobby, you could be making a pretty tidy side-line from it.’

      Her sister’s words were going around her head on a loop all the way home. It was so far removed from the reasons she started the blog in the first place. Just three months ago, it was an online diary, a place for her to vent and explore her feelings, and now here she was, an event planner, party host, mentor and head girl of a sorority that was growing larger every day.

      ***

      As she’d