Free My Single Friend by Jane Costello Page B

fantastic biceps now.’
    Henry pulls a face like he’s just been served eyeball soup.
    ‘Now, you need to think of an opening line to engage her in conversation.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘But make sure it’s not corny.’
    ‘“Do you come here often” is out then?’ he asks.
    ‘Try to be yourself,’ says Erin. ‘You don’t need to come up with something that feels alien. Say something that comes naturally to you.’
    ‘That’s good advice,’ adds Dom.
    ‘Ummm.’ Henry chews the side of his mouth. ‘Ummm.’
    ‘You need to say it soon, though – before she gets up and disappears,’ adds Dominique.
    ‘Right, yes. Um . . .’
    ‘Come on, Henry.’
    ‘Um . . .’
    ‘Anything!’
    ‘Right!’ He turns to me decisively. ‘Do you know much about biochemical parasitology?’
    I burst out laughing.
    ‘Come on, I was only joking,’ Henry grins at Dominique as she looks close to fainting.
    ‘Nevertheless, I’m changing Flirting Rule Number One: no matter how tempted you are, never attempt a chat-up line about infectious diseases.’
    By two-thirty in the morning, Erin is slurring her words, I’m almost asleep and Henry has performed more than a GCSE drama student. Dominique meanwhile has decided she’s bored of teaching flirting and wants to move on to the fine art of cunnilingus .
    ‘Woah! Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves here?’ Henry asks. ‘It’s only three hours since we covered open-ended questions. Oral sex feels a bit ambitious.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ replies Dominique. ‘Henry, look like you do tonight and act as I’ve told you, and it’ll be no time before you’ve got a good woman between the sheets.’
    Henry flashes me a sceptical look.
    ‘I mean it,’ she insists. ‘You don’t want to get her there with your scintillating conversation and inviting smile only for her to discover you don’t know what to do.’
    ‘Who wants another drink?’ I say, hoping they’ll go home.
    ‘Oh, I’m going to order a cab.’ Erin attempts to stand up, but falls back into the chair.
    ‘You’re welcome to stay,’ offers Henry. ‘We can make up the sofa-bed for you.’
    Erin looks up with a drunken smile. ‘You’ll make someone a great boyfriend some day.’
    ‘I hope so, Erin,’ he whispers. ‘I really do.’

Chapter 14
     
    I’ve never considered myself an expert on fashion, beauty and hair care, but relative to Henry I’m Stella McCartney, Max Factor and Vidal Sassoon all rolled into one. I certainly know enough to help improve his appearance. And, seeing as I can’t count the number of times he’s helped me with things he’s good at, Project Henry is his payback.
    I’m not saying I’d have flunked school without him. I was a bright enough child and, more importantly, determined to grow up and get a good job.
    When I was five, I announced that I was going to be a physiotherapist. I didn’t know what a physiotherapist did, except that there was a glam one in a repeat I’d seen of The Young Doctors . Over the years, I aspired to be a television news producer, an architect, a barrister, a property developer and a cardiac-surgeon – though the latter was a fleeting ambition, given that I’ve never been able to look at a piece of offal without feeling queasy.
    The problem was, the only people I’d encountered with jobs like these were on the television. Dad ran three market stalls selling a variety of ‘genuine Italian leather goods’ – imported from a back street in Taiwan – and Mum was a cleaner. While I have nothing but respect for my parents, I never wanted to follow in their footsteps – and I didn’t exactly have a steady stream of people giving me practical advice on exams. With one notable exception.
    Whenever I think about how Henry’s changed my life for the better, I think about GCSE maths. I should explain that I haven’t got what you’d call a mathematical mind. I am to the Pythagorean Theorem what a hippopotamus is to ice dancing: not a