Page 1 of Hook, Line and Single

1

The sound of the front door closing with a bang surprises me, and I glance automatically at the clock on the wall. Seven thirty. Given that it’s a Friday night, that’s way too early for my flatmate Sam to be coming home. In fact, I wasn’t expecting her home at all tonight.

‘Everything OK?’ I call.

‘No, of course it fucking isn’t,’ her voice replies in a snarl from the hallway. A moment or two later, she bursts through the sitting room door with a crash, startling Samson awake. I wince as he drives his claws into my thighs before leaping to the floor ready to make a quick escape.

As soon as I see her, it’s obvious that something is very wrong. Her eyes are bloodshot and there are tear stains on her cheeks, delicately framed by the last vestiges of the mascara she applied so painstakingly before she went out. She’s clutching a bottle of wine and has a manic expression on her face.

‘Jason?’ I ask.

‘Yup.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘You know, Ruby, I never thought I’d say this, because I don’t want to turn into an embittered old woman, but it’s true. All men are bastards.’

‘What happened?’

‘Usual bastard stuff. I need a glass of wine the size of a fish tank and then we can play bastard bingo if you like. Want one?’

‘Yeah, why not.’

I follow her into the kitchen. Samson, having realised that he’s not in immediate danger, also saunters through, evidently hoping for some kind of treat. When we don’t immediately pander to him, he begins winding himself round Sam’s ankles and purring loudly.

‘It won’t work,’ she tells him sadly as she reaches down to stroke him, increasing the volume of his purring to road drill levels. ‘You may be the handsomest cat in Margate and named after me, but you’re still a boy and therefore firmly in the bastard camp today. Sorry, Samson.’

He seems totally unfussed by her pronouncement and continues rubbing his cheek against her ankle as she fights to remove the foil from the bottle.

‘Here, let me,’ I offer. ‘If you carry on like that, you’ll slice off a finger, and that won’t improve your mood at all.’ I gently prise the bottle out of her grip, remove the foil carefully and open the drawer to find the corkscrew.

‘This is a bit posher than our normal screwtop stuff,’ I observe as I ease the cork out with a soft pop.

‘You need expensive wine for break-ups,’ she remarks simply. ‘The cheap stuff is fine if you’re in a good mood, but tastes like vinegar when you’re upset.’

‘Have you eaten?’ I ask after I’ve handed her the open bottle and a glass, watching her fill it to the brim before taking a large mouthful.

‘No. Fucker didn’t even have the decency to buy me dinner before shitting all over me. Bastard.’

I sense this is going to be a long evening, so I pour myself an equally generous glass, taking a sip rather than the glug that Sam took.

‘I’ve got a cottage pie in the oven. I expect we can stretch it between us if I add enough vegetables.’

She sighs. ‘I’m not really hungry.’

‘I know, but you need to eat something to soak up the wine, otherwise you’ll feel like shit in the morning.’

‘I’m going to feel like shit anyway. Might as well do it in style.’ She takes another large mouthful, half emptying the glass.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ I ask gently.

‘No. Bastard bingo will be more fun. You give me as many cliché break-up phrases as you can think of, and I’ll give you a point for each one he used.’

At least she hasn’t lost her sense of humour. I smile. ‘How many points do I need for bingo?’

She considers for a moment. ‘Four. No, five that I can remember. What’s your first guess?’

Now it’s my turn to think. ‘“It’s all moving too fast,”’ I say after a couple of seconds.

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