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

of red wine and sites selling promise rings written by the Christian far right and web pages for spurned women vehemently (and often violently) advocating a life of no-sex after vicious break ups. But they couldn’t find a site, or group, or club for women like Leila who wanted the happy ever after, but just wanted to dedicate a chapter of the fairy tale to themselves first.

      ‘So what now?’ Leila asked.

      ‘You make your own.’

      ‘Just like that?’

      ‘Just like that. It’s very easy. I made a blog recently for my Mindfulness group. It’s amazing how like-minded people find you if you put yourself out there.’

      Leila drained her glass, and rested her chin on her hand. ‘But I don’t know that I want to be a beacon for every single woman out there.’

      ‘It’s not about everyone else, it’s about your own journey and documenting it, and learning from it, and sharing it with other women who are in the same position. Do it. I think it would be really good for you.’

      ‘You’re so bossy.’

      ‘I know. Now do it.’

       Hello. My name is Leila, I am 32 years old and this is my first blog post.

      ‘You shouldn’t really give out personal information like your name and your age. And it’s obvious that it’s your first blog post as it’s the first post on the blog.’

      Leila slammed the laptop shut and glared at her sister. ‘See? I knew I’d be rubbish at this.’

      Tasha leaned across and prised open the screen again. ‘As you were.’

      ‘I used to think that it was you that was the saint, but now I realise it’s Alex.’

      ‘Leila,’ Tasha said gently, ‘Carry on.’

      Leila gingerly started typing. Somewhere around the fourth line Tasha started stroking her sister’s hair and by the time the last full stop was added, both sisters had tears pricking their eyes.

       In the last fifteen years I’ve dated two cheaters, one closet homosexual, a man that spat out watermelon pips across a restaurant, another that referred to his man parts as Peter Pecker. One that cried like a baby during love-making, another that had four tattoos of different women’s names on his arm (he wasn’t related to any of them), one that tried it on with my friends, one that tried it on with my sister, and one that used to follow me home from work ‘to keep me safe’. There was one that broke my toe (very bad dancer), another that broke my nose (very bad temper), and two that broke my heart. There was one that proposed to me every day for 87 days then married someone else two weeks after my final no, one that wanted me to wee on him, and in the process of chasing the last one across India I contracted amoebic dysentery and lost my luggage. I think it’s fair to say me and dating aren’t natural companions. Which is why I’m opting out for a year. Celibate. Chaste. Call it what you will, I’m staying single for 365 days to give my sanity a rest. I don’t know what this year of self-discovery is going to be like, but I know one thing - it’s going to be a whole lot more fulfilling and fun than being with, and getting over, all the men listed above. The journey begins here…

       Chapter 3

      ‘Jesus Layles, what have you done with your hair?’

      It was almost seven thirty at night, the shutters were down on the shops flanking her smart Notting Hill office and the after-work crowd that normally hung about at the pub opposite had already dispersed. If it hadn’t persistently drizzled all day perhaps the faded benches outside the pub would still have a few stragglers on them. Leila had stayed late to help a colleague on a community project they were working on, and the last thing she wanted was the now-cold latte that was being offered by Freddie’s outstretched hand.

      ‘Where have you been? Thought you clocked off at six, been waiting here ages for you.’

      Leila sighed, ‘Why are you here Freddie?’ It surprised her that the only emotion to course through her was irritation.

      ‘I came back.’

      ‘Evidently. But why?’ Leila shook her head again as Freddie motioned for her to take the paper cup, which he then balanced on a bus stop bench.

      ‘You can’t just leave it there, find a bin.’

      ‘It’s a gift for the next person to wait for a bus.’

      ‘It’s cold coffee Freddie, find a bin.’ Leila stopped walking. ‘Don’t be a prat.’

      ‘Is this about what happened in Jaipur?’

      ‘It’s about you littering up the streets of London for no reason other than not being bothered to find a bin.’

      ‘You’re still angry with me.’

      Leila reflected on this for a moment, ‘You know what, Freddie, I’m really not. I’m just grateful for finding out when I did that you are a monumental waste of my time and energy. Now, if you don’t mind I’ve had a really long day and I want to go home. Pick up the cup, put it in the bin and go away.’

      ‘I only came back from India to explain. You owe me that at least.’

      If Leila had been a violent sort of person she would have slapped him at that moment. She did toy with the idea of rescuing the cold coffee from the bus stop purely to fling it in his gormless grinning face, but she resisted. ‘Freddie. There is nothing to explain. You screwed up. I’ve moved on. Good night.’ She stuck out her hand and hailed a passing cab. She slammed the car door leaving Freddie standing open-mouthed in the street. It was a dramatic statement more than anything else – she wasn’t even sure she had any cash on her to pay for the cab. A quick rummage through her purse discovered that nope, she didn’t. ‘Um, sorry mate, can you just drop me here?’ The cab had just rounded the corner, less than 50 metres from where she’d got in. In the driver’s eyes, she must seem either deranged or extremely lazy. She looked in the rear view mirror and gave the cabbie a winning smile. ‘And will you accept a three quid Pret a Manger voucher for the fare?’

       My ex surprised me outside work today with a cold coffee and a bucketful of hard-done-by-ness. The old me may have relented a little. May have agreed to go for a drink. At the very least the old me may have listened to his attempts to explain why he felt the need to entertain a naked buxom blonde in my absence. But the new me didn’t. The new me felt no stirring of emotion at all, no flicker of remorse or wistfulness. The new me is currently toasting myself with a well-deserved glass of cheap wine. Go new me.

       ***

      There was never normally enough room in Alex’s car for Leila to get a lift with them down to Dartmouth for the monthly family roast. Despite it being a Range Rover, once you’d piled in two adults, three kids – two of them in bulky car seats – and bags full of the necessary detritus to keep three kids amused for a long car journey and a weekend with the grandparents, the car was full. Which Leila thanked the Lord for every time she stretched out on the train, ordered a cheese croissant and cappuccino from the buffet car and read half a book. But fifteen-year old Mia had special dispensation to stay at a friend’s this weekend, leaving a ten-inch gap between the two car seats that, according to her sister, had Leila’s name on it.

      ‘Remind me how Mia managed to get out of this, when I’ve been trying for the last fifteen years?’ Alex said, at the same time as craning his neck around trying to go across three lanes of traffic to his exit.

      ‘It’s Imogen’s birthday.’ Tasha replied, flicking through the Saturday supplements that were weighing on her knees. ‘And if we didn’t let Mia go to the sleepover she was going to die. And I didn’t want that on my conscience.’

      ‘Aunty LaLa?’

      ‘Yes