Free Do You Want to Know a Secret? by Claudia Carroll

‘out-there’ for me. Put it like this, he wanted to rip out all the period features and turn my pretty little doll’s cottage into a boy-toy heaven, all black granite walls, windows in the ceiling and a giant plasma screen TV built into the living-room wall.
    Grand, if you happen to be a Formula One racing driver, but not for me.
    ‘And, remind me again: why did you break up?’
    ‘Barbara, you know perfectly well . . .’
    ‘Say it aloud, dearest,’ says Laura, doing her chairwoman thing. ‘I think she’s trying to establish a pattern here.’
    ‘If you’re asking me who dumped who, I can’t give you a straight answer because I don’t know. It was one of those weird awkward ones, where he went from calling me all the time to big fat nothing. Zero. Like turning off a tap. And of course, all my calls and very concerned texts went ignored. Absolute killer, cos if you both only knew the amount of time and energy that I wasted wondering whether it was something I said or did . . .’
    ‘Now, I may not have been out there at the dating coalface for a very long time,’ Laura interrupts, ‘but is that the twenty-first century way of breaking up? A guy just stops calling, and somehow you’re psychically expected to deduce that you’ve been dumped? No conversation, not even of the tired old “it’s not you, it’s me” variety?’
    ‘Pretty much, yup.’
    ‘How cowardly.’
    ‘Cowardice is the least of my worries, the stupid bastard’s office keep sending me bills for consultation fees.’
    ‘The point I was actually trying to make,’ says Barbara, mouth stuffed full with crisps, ‘is that, at the time , you referred to him as, and I quote, “Mr Ah Sure He’ll Do”.’
    ‘Well, in my defence, I’ve dated a lot worse.’
    ‘Vicky, just listen to yourself. What I’m trying to get across to you is, if you set the bar low enough, only a louse can crawl underneath.’
    ‘You’re the one who just had a fling with a guy whose name you couldn’t even remember.’
    Told you, I have a very defensive streak. Particularly when I think the other person could actually be on to something.
    ‘Yeah, but, unlike you, I’m not trying to get married. I don’t particularly care if I never marry. Completely different set of life priorities going on here, babe. I just wanna be a star. Which is where you come in.’
    ‘Oh yeah, now I had this great idea . . .’
    ‘Stop changing the subject. We’re not finished with you. So your homework is, do out your dating cheat sheet and then we need to discuss the way you act around men.’
    ‘My behaviour around men? What, are you telling me now that I come over like some desperado cheap tart that’s anyone’s for a tin of beans?’
    ‘Shhh, easy there,’ says Laura. ‘Remember we’re here to nurture, not to torture.’
    ‘Very well put, thank you,’ says Barbara, wiping a dribbly bit of blue-cheese dip off her face.
    ‘You’re most welcome. I’ll say this for you, dearest, when it comes to dating: you are something of a gold standard.’
    They’re 100 per cent right, of course they are. I should just shut up and listen and be grateful to have friends who are prepared to put themselves out and help me to this extent. And Barbara’s not criticizing, I remind myself: all tonight’s about is window-shopping each other’s lives, then gratefully receiving the benefit from everyone else’s particular field of expertise. And, to be fair to the girls, my love life could probably do with an industrial-strength, super duper power-hosing down, let’s be honest.
    ‘Sorry,’ I say meekly, although I’m quite sure my face has gone the colour of gazpacho.
    ‘Go on about the dating-behaviour bit.’
    ‘OK, it’s like this,’ says Barbara. ‘You know how sometimes you see stand-up comics, and it’s almost like they have the begging bowl out, looking for laughs, and they’re never, ever funny?’
    ‘Ehh, yeah, I think so.’
    ‘Same with fellas. If you try too