A Year of Being Single: The bestselling laugh-out-loud romantic comedy that everyone’s talking about. Fiona Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ okay for him not to unpack his own case, because he believes I’m going to do it, and when I don’t do it, out of protest, is it okay to leave the thing there unpacked for three whole weeks?’

      ‘You do realise you’re shouting, love?’ said Imogen, ignoring the fact they’d all been yelling their heads off.

      ‘Of course I’m shouting! I’m furious! So, is it acceptable?’

      ‘Of course it’s not!’ Grace had been shouting and laughing along, although they all knew she’d done everything at home and wouldn’t let James help even if he’d tried to.

      ‘But you’re free of him now, honey,’ said Imogen. ‘All that nonsense is gone.’

      ‘Free, free, free,’ Frankie sung, in the manner of the Nelson Mandela song, then slumped back down on the sofa.

      ‘Are you missing it?’ said Grace in a quieter voice.

      ‘It? What?’

      ‘Sex.’

      ‘God, no!’ exclaimed Frankie. ‘I’m well over all that! It just takes so bloody loooong. I can now get some sleep.’ She stretched her bare feet out luxuriously in front of her and sighed contentedly as she admired her nails. ‘You, Grace?

      ‘Sometimes. I suppose he hasn’t been gone long, anyway. But it’s fine, I can manage without it.’

      ‘I’ve got a banana,’ offered Imogen, sitting up and pointing one out. She’d left her pale blue fruit bowl on the table in the pretence any of them would be remotely healthy tonight. The banana was nestled between a couple of apples and the whole ensemble looked like a fruity part of the male anatomy. They all giggled. Frankie did a guffaw and a snort and nearly fell off the sofa.

      Grace grinned. ‘Ha, no I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. Then her face dropped. ‘I hate him,’ she said, sadly. ‘I miss him. But he’s a bastard who doesn’t deserve me. I won’t have him in my life any more. I’m never letting him come back.’

      ‘Good!’ shouted Imogen. ‘Good! We don’t need them! If I never see a pair of men’s underpants again it’ll be too soon. I don’t care even if they’re David Bloody Beckham’s! Good riddance to the lot of them!’ She grabbed the banana from the bowl and attempted to use it as a gavel, on the table. The end broke. Frankie snorted again.

      Grace picked up the abused banana and took it to the kitchen. She’d been tidying up all evening; whenever they’d finished a wrapper of something, she’d get up and take it to the bin.

      ‘For God’s sake, leave it!’ Imogen had shouted good-naturedly, at one point. ‘The world’s not going to blow up if you leave an empty packet of Minstrels on the table! Sit down!’ Grace had laughed and taken it well. She’d sat back down and smoothed out the empty packet in the middle of the table, as though it was a centrepiece at a wedding.

      Grace would be okay, thought Imogen. She was a good girl. A bit too tidy and sensible, but highly fabulous. She reckoned she’d flourish without a man. Come into her own. They all would. They’d all be absolutely brilliant without men. It was almost a revelation. Why had it taken them all so long?

      ‘We should have a charter!’ she screeched, suddenly. She lurched up off the floor and started jumping up and down in front of her white marble fireplace.

      ‘A charter?’ said Grace and Frankie, in unison.

      ‘A charter! You know, a mission statement. What we believe in.’ She tapped out points with her finger on the palm of her hand. ‘No men, at all. No dating, no husbands, no nothing. We’re independent. We’re self-sufficient. We help each other. We look after each other. We fix our own stuff.’ Her voice rose to a near shout, a clarion call. ‘We don’t need ’em, we don’t want ’em!’ She felt impassioned, fired up, drunk. ‘We have sworn off men. We should form a club!’

      ‘Not the Secret Seven, again?’ groaned Frankie. ‘I don’t want to drink ginger beer and go snooping round the neighbourhood in my pyjamas!’

      ‘No,’ said Imogen. ‘Not a club, then. But we should make a declaration. That we’re going to be single. Let’s see if we can do it!’

      ‘For ever?’ asked Grace.

      ‘Maybe not for ever…but let’s see if we can do it for a year!’ enthused Imogen. ‘Yes! A year of being single. The three of us. A strong, powerful, kiss-ass trio. We’ll be like Charlie’s Angels but without the Charlie.’

      ‘Or the Bosley,’ added Frankie, helpfully.

      ‘I’m not sure,’ said Grace, doubtfully. ‘It all sounds very Sisters are Doing it for Themselves. Very Germaine Greer. Do we have to wear hemp sandals and not shave our legs?’ She picked up a couple of crumbs off the carpet with her fingernail and deposited them on a plate. ‘And I’m not sure I have sworn off men,’ she pouted. ‘Just James, and anyone else who wants to hurt me.’

      ‘That’s all of them, then!’ exclaimed Imogen. ‘We’re not going to put up with them any more! We’re going to have a year of being single. Are you in?’

      ‘I’m in!’ whooped Frankie.

      ‘Grace?’

      ‘Okay,’ said Grace reluctantly. ‘I guess so.’

      ‘And no,’ declared Imogen. ‘We don’t have to wear hemp sandals. I wouldn’t be seen dead in them.’

      For the next three hours, the three of them laughed, chatted, sang along to an old Whitney Houston album, managed to fend off Frankie who wanted them to all stand up and sing ‘I Will Survive’ into remote controls, demolished a whole loaf of toast and Marmite and finished off four bottles of cheap bubbly they ordered from their local Indian takeaway. They were slightly disgruntled they were charged £2.99 each for them, when they usually came free with a curry.

      At 2a.m. Imogen awoke to find herself sprawled face down on the carpet. Grace was next to her, curled in the foetal position. Some of her blonde curly hair was trailing onto Imogen’s left arm. And Frankie hadn’t moved from the sofa; she was now flat on her back with one leg dangling down to the floor and her mouth wide open. Imogen raised herself up, slowly; her head hurt.

      ‘Hey, sleepy heads! Drunkards!’ Frankie opened one eye. Grace opened both, with a start. ‘Do you want to stay over? I can just throw a couple of blankets over everyone.’

      Grace rose. Her Kim Basinger in 9 and a Half Weeks hair was sticking up everywhere and a stray piece of toast dangled from one frizzy ringlet. She had a smear of Marmite at the corner of her mouth.

      ‘No, thank you,’ she slurred, ‘I should get home. Daniel’s got football in the morning.’

      ‘Daniel’s with James, honey. Remember?’

      ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot.’ She looked devastated. ‘I want to go home, though,’ she said, like a small child.

      Frankie reared up like a lovelier Frankenstein’s monster. ‘Me, too. I’m going home to my lovely empty bed. Thank you, though, darling.’

      They hauled themselves СКАЧАТЬ