All the Single Ladies Read Online Free PDF

hostesses. They have one thing in common; they throw themselves at him as if
he’s the last man in the northern hemisphere.
    I sit on the edge of a lilac velvet sofa and expect Jamie to head to the armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Instead, he sinks next to me, so close that the familiar smell of his
clean skin whispers into my lungs and makes me faint with longing.
    ‘I read your emails,’ he says.
    ‘Did what I said make sense?’ I ask anxiously.
    He nods. ‘It did.’ Although he’s agreeing with me – technically – I can’t read his expression. ‘You’re right . . . in so many ways.’
    I hold my breath, waiting for an explanation. It isn’t forthcoming. ‘Which ways?’
    He sighs. ‘About me waving goodbye to the best relationship I’ve ever had. About you being the only woman I’ve loved. About you being my best friend. About me . . .’ His
voice breaks up again. ‘About me still being in love with you.’
    As the last words fire through my head, I feel the stab of tears in my eyes. ‘Are you still in love with me?’
    With his elbows on his knees, he puts his head in his hands and lets out a quiet sob. Jamie’s never been afraid to show his emotional side. He’s regularly in floods at some of the
obscure foreign films he has on DVD (although he insisted he was just getting a cold when I put on Marley and Me ).
    But when he lifts up his head and looks at me directly, even I’m not prepared for how devastated he looks. Fat tears cascade down his cheeks as he reaches out and grips my fingers.
‘You know I am.’
    The sentence brings a swell of emotion in me too. But the tears soaking my cheeks don’t just represent my hollow sadness. They represent something else. Frustration.
    ‘You say that, Jamie, but how can you love me?’ I sniff. ‘How could you leave me if you loved me?’ I’m trying to keep my voice level but it’s impossible not
to betray my exasperation.
    He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I’m confused. I’ve been confused for such a long time. My feelings about you, Sam, are the only things that have remained clear. I love
you. But I’ve been living a lie for the last six years.’
    My eyes widen. The last time I heard something like that was on Jerry Springer and it was the prelude to a confession involving exotic mail-order underwear and a penis transplant.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I mean . . . that,’ he says, as his eyes dart in disgust to a stack of foolscap folders on the coffee table. ‘I mean . . . this,’ he adds, angrily pulling off his tie.
‘I mean being a salesman for a bloody mobile-phone company, Sam.’
    I bite my lip and sniff back my tears. ‘I thought you’d started enjoying work a bit more,’ I try, but I know this conversation is futile. I’m talking to a man who reads
Kafka in his spare time and who learned to catch fish with a spear in the Cook Islands. Despite any enjoyment he’s had with me, and despite all the fun during his stints as a guitarist in
various bands over the last few years, his job is a long way from his definition of mentally stimulating.
    Ironically, Jamie’s very good at his job. This is a situation with which he feels distinctly uncomfortable. They’ve repeatedly tried to promote him, but he’s refused, turning
his back on the increased responsibility and pay rise, presumably because it would involve admitting that this was his career. That’s a prospect about as appealing to him as genital
warts.
    ‘Then how about I put a proposition to you?’ I begin firmly, with a racing heart. I have an overwhelming sense of what I’ve got to do, and say, to secure my future happiness.
He looks up.
    ‘How about we both give up our jobs and I come with you?’
    For the past twenty-four hours I’ve thought over and over again about saying this sentence, yet I surprise even myself when I actually go through with it.
    The truth is that I thought I’d done all the backpacking I ever wanted. I