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feckin’ arsehole to you?’ Maybe it was the shock of hearing a nana curse, or the common-sense truth of her question, but Clare took it to heart. She quit her addiction cold turkey.
    Oddly, once the prospect of nudity was taken off the table, and the tears dried, she and the addiction became friends. He was really quite likeable, commitment issues aside. Not that we didn’t worry when they started sleeping together again, but Clare had finally discovered the uncomplicated joy of having great sex with a man she didn’t want to date. She likened him to slippers – super-comfortable but never seen on her in public. So far there’d been no regrets, not a single incontinent conversation (when ‘we’ slipped out).
    ‘That’s right, Clare,’ said Faith, brightening. ‘Your man in the wings disqualifies you. What’s that look for?’
    Clare squirmed. ‘Now’s probably not the time to say that I’m stopping by his place after this, right?’
    ‘I rest my case. And you, B., you can’t complain until at least a year of horror dating has passed. Four months does not qualify you to moan. You’re still driving on a provisional licence.’
    ‘She’s right, buttercup. Come talk to us after you’ve been vomited on.’ This was Clare’s best worst dating story. They were having sex at the time. Missionary.
    ‘Or been taken out for a romantic dinner and told your date has an alter ego named Paula.’
    Nobody thought Faith’s judgment was harsh that time. My friends constantly toiled at the coalface. Smug in my cohabitating life, I’d secretly assumed there was something wrong with them. It never occurred to me that I’d be there alongside them futilely wielding a pickaxe at the meagre lode, and coming away with fool’s gold.
    They were right. My paltry few months of singledom didn’t give me a leg to stand on. No wonder they mocked my whinging. I’d do exactly the same thing if a fresh-faced newbie complained about how hard the music industry was. After decades, I knew how hard the music industry was. My last gig was not exactly a career-defining high. I was a little tired, I guess. And I hadn’t wanted to do it. I was depping for another singer, filling in while she had her bunions shaved or something. The room was stuffy and the equipment wouldn’t cooperate. Every time I hit high C the feedback threatened to deafen the patrons. And I was flat. Even on my best songs. The audience clapped politely. That was worse than being booed off stage.
    My phone bzzzzd with a text. Faith glanced at the table before I could snatch it away. ‘B., what’s going on?’
    ‘Nothing, why?’
    ‘Oh really? Then why did Mattias just ask you out in a text, and say Friday encore ?’
    ‘You shouldn’t read my texts.’
    ‘Please. I’ve held your hair out of the toilet bowl so you could be sick. Of course I’m going to read your texts. What’s this all about?’
    ‘It’s nothing. I’m not going to say yes. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Remember? I’m going out with The Musician on Friday.’
    ‘Yes, we know that, don’t we Clare?’ Clare nodded. It had been fodder for discussion at work since he called. ‘Don’t change the subject. The mystery remains,’ she continued, as I knew she would. ‘What did Mattias mean by Friday encore ?’
    ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
    ‘Pssh,’ Clare snorted. ‘You don’t really think we’re going to drop it, do you?’
    Of course not. My friends had the Gestapo’s tenacity. I ordered us another bottle of wine and told them about Friday. By the end of the story I’d just about convinced them that it was nothing. I was nearly as persuasive with myself.
     

Chapter 6
     
    The date arrived on Friday as scheduled but my confidence was taking its own sweet time. I hadn’t had to flirt seriously since Oasis were at the top of the charts. What if I had to relearn all my skills? What if… What if I didn’t have the touch any more?
    There. I said it. I was afraid that