My Single Friend Read Online Free PDF Page A

it isn’t exactly clutter-free, and for that Henry is as much to blame as me. Every room boasts floor-to-ceiling shelves straining under the weight of his books; they’re piled high on side tables, the bureau in the hall and the piano in the living room – his piano, not mine, in case you’re wondering. And this isn’t even his complete collection: the majority is at his parents’ house.
    These are just his favourites. I don’t know why anyone needs four editions of Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle , or three of Genetic and Evolutionary Aspects of Malaria and Other Blood Parasites (they’re classics apparently). But then, Henry doesn’t see being a scientist as just a job; it defines him.
    Henry – or Dr Henry Fox, to give him his full title – works at the Tropical Medicine Research Centre with a team of boffins (a word I can’t resist using, despite knowing how much he hates it) studying malaria and ways of preventing its spread across Africa. It’s the noblest profession I can think of and makes me feel rather humble when constructing press releases about half-price bathroom sales.
    Anyway, Henry doesn’t just read books about science. He has more first editions of classic and contemporary fiction than Russell Brand has split ends. All of which means our flat has some way to go before it features on Grand Designs .
    ‘Have you opened the chocolate trifle yet?’ I ask casually, curling up on the sofa.
    Henry looks up from his paperback. ‘I don’t fancy it tonight.’
    Panic registers in my brain, but I allow him to return to his book.
    ‘Why not?’ I laugh lightly. ‘It looks lovely.’
    He scrutinizes my expression.
    ‘If I wasn’t on a diet, and didn’t have a date in three days’ time, I’d definitely want to eat it,’ I continue.
    ‘Who do you have a date with?’
    I can’t help smiling. ‘He’s called Jake. I met him at the opening night of the new play at the Circle. He’s gorgeous. Which is why I couldn’t possibly have any trifle. Though I’d scoff the lot under normal circumstances.’
    He shrugs. ‘I might have some later.’
    ‘At what time?’ I ask.
    ‘At what time?’ he repeats.
    ‘Yes, at what time do you think you’ll get round to opening it? I’m only after an estimate. You know, eight thirty-two . . . eight thirty-three . . .’
    ‘Given that it is eight thirty-one, I’m guessing you’d like to open it now?’
    ‘Well, if you were opening it now . . .’
    ‘Like I said,’ he continues, ‘I don’t fancy it at the moment – but you’re welcome to open it.’
    ‘ I’m obviously not going to open it,’ I tell him, exasperated. ‘Not when I’m on a diet.’
    ‘What difference does it make who opens it?’
    ‘Oh Henry,’ I sigh. ‘Will you go and open it so I can pinch some and not feel guilty?’
    He stops and smiles. ‘Of course.’
    He goes to the kitchen to get the trifle, returning with two dessert spoons, one for each of us. He sits next to me on the sofa and we dig in as I switch over the television.
    ‘What are we watching?’ he asks.
    ‘Reality TV at its best. It’s right up your street,’ I tell him ironically, because this isn’t Henry’s kind of show at all.
    He raises an eyebrow.
    ‘Live a little, Henry. You might like it.’
    ‘What’s it about?’ he asks.
    ‘Some poor person who’s never been lucky in love volunteers for a full makeover. By that, I don’t just mean a new wardrobe. They get lessons in how to flirt and how to behave on a date. They get a new hairdo, facials, teeth whitening—’
    ‘Is there anything left of them by the time they’re finished?’ Henry interrupts.
    ‘The good bits stay,’ I reply. ‘Though admittedly, good bits are sometimes in short supply.’
    As I tuck into the trifle looking not very like someone on day one of a diet, I’m gripped. This week’s subject is a thirty-eight-year-old virgin called Brian who works in IT and has teeth like a Cheltenham Gold Cup winner.
    ‘I thought I was