All the Single Ladies Read Online Free PDF Page A

message on his answer machine – both at home and on his mobile.
    The response amounts to nothing except three torturous hours, during which my stomach churns as if it’s attempting to make butter out of the five cups of coffee I’ve thrown down my
neck.
    Meanwhile, my to-do list experiences a growth spurt of explosive proportions. There are phone calls, messages and a million people to chase up. But I’m incapable of doing anything
productive.
    Each time I try to respond to an email or pick up the phone, my mind is yanked violently back to a replay of yesterday evening. To things I should have said or done. I turn to my laptop and open
the email in my sent box, cringing as I reread sentences that could be misinterpreted, words that aren’t quite right. Bits I wanted to say but have somehow missed out.
    I whip myself into a fireball of nervous energy. I’m convinced that the email I’d thought was brilliant only hours ago is nothing less than a disaster.
    There’s only one thing for it: to email him again. I start composing another tome – not quite as long; in fact, it’s relatively succinct at 3,876 words.
    Throughout all this, all I can hear is the buzz of Natalie and Deana’s conversation about how the former’s sister-in-law’s second cousin is about to feature on Jeremy
Kyle , and how the latter once got caught in a thunderstorm after a spray tan – resulting in her attendance at a wedding looking like she had scabies.
    Once I’ve sent the third email, I stand up to go to the toilet and am five steps from my desk when my phone beeps with a text message. The movement I employ to reach it starts off with a
spectacular Jackie Chan-style flip, progresses to a Matrix -style dive and ends with a near impaling on a jar of blunt pencils. I juggle the phone with trembling hands, scanning the message
as fast as my eyes allow.
    Hey – been mad busy in the shop today. Just got your emails. I think we need to talk.
    Jamie’s staying with Luke, who’s been his friend since primary school, despite the fact that they appear to have as much in common as Meatloaf and Jane Asher.
    Consumed by nerves, I walk up the path of Luke’s terrace cottage in Rose Brae, passing an array of lovingly tended hanging baskets, which are spilling over with begonias and ivy. The
cul-de-sac is quaint and quiet, within spitting distance of Allerton Road with its trendy bars and their attractive clientele – a factor which, I have no doubt, swung Luke’s decision to
buy the house.
    I ring the bell with a thrashing heart, and when Jamie answers I experience a weird and fleeting sensation in which I’ve forgotten that we’re no longer together. I gaze into those
pale blue eyes and it feels exactly as it has done for six years. Until last night.
    ‘Hi,’ he says softly, looking unhappier than I’ve ever seen him.
    ‘Hi,’ I reply in a strangled voice.
    We stand a foot apart yet it feels like a mile. All I want to do is reach out and touch him – except I know I can’t. I shift awkwardly, hyper-aware of my shallow breaths.
    He coughs, breaking the silence. ‘Come in.’
    The first thing that strikes me every time I enter Luke’s house is that it must be the most fabulous abode ever to be inhabited by a straight man. It’s all gorgeous wallpapers, Jo
Malone candles and exquisitely coordinated soft furnishings.
    All, however, is not what it seems. I’ve known Luke long enough to know that his cupboards boast a porn stash that could single-handedly fund one of Hugh Hefner’s yachts; plus, he
recently turned his spare room into a gym, where he spends hours inflating the muscles he tells women he was simply born with.
    And women there are – because Luke is not just straight, he’s unstoppable. On Facebook, he has 876 friends (and counting), 710 of whom have two X chromosomes. He is a project manager
for a construction company but goes out with women from all walks of life: barristers, hairdressers, doctors, air