Free All the Single Ladies by Jane Costello Page A

decide things for himself. And we definitely don’t want you crying. So keep things . . . light.’
    ‘Light. I can do that,’ I say earnestly.
    ‘Don’t look so worried, Sam. Remember, you’re not there to analyze. You’re there to seduce.’
    My eyes widen. ‘You never mentioned that before.’
    ‘I don’t mean sex,’ she says dismissively. ‘At least not tonight. But, absolutely you’re seducing him. You’re making him want you. The more desperately the
better.’
    I nod.
    ‘Also—’
    I groan and she smirks. ‘I was simply going to say . . . look amazing. Not that I’ve any doubt you will. You’ve lost weight, Sam. Don’t lose any more, will
you?’
    ‘It’s my Belly Dance Abs Blast ,’ I tell her.
    ‘What?’ she frowns.
    ‘It’s the only DVD I’ve got left. I’ve only been doing it for a couple of days and it’s phenomenal.’
    ‘Never heard of it.’
    ‘It’s presented by an instructor called Princess Karioca. The thick Glaswegian accent is hard to follow at times, but she’s my new best friend . . . despite the fact that my
stomach muscles feel as though they’ve been attacked with a meat tenderizer.’
    ‘But you hate dancing,’ she points out.
    I can’t argue with that. Dance floors are, to me, dens of evil inhabited by those whose coordination needs only to match that of a penguin in the throes of a psychedelic trip to show me
up. But it seems there’s an exception. ‘Not belly dancing,’ I shrug.
    She raises an eyebrow, dipping her bread in some olive oil. ‘Is that a spray tan?’
    I gasp. ‘Can you tell?’
    Knowing I was seeing Jamie today, I slipped this into my schedule yesterday after work, requesting that the coating applied was in the most subtle shade possible. Unfortunately, given that my
‘tanning technician’ was herself the colour of a teak sideboard, it’s little wonder she ignored me, instead spraying so enthusiastically that she should really be moved on to the
production line of a Xsara Picasso.
    ‘I can tell – but he won’t be able to. Men have hardly got a trained eye for these things. So what are you wearing?’
    ‘Combats, Superdry shirt – the first thing I threw on,’ I wink.
    ‘Ha! All brand new?’
    ‘Obviously,’ I grin. ‘Plus, a little help in the bra department.’
    ‘Chicken fillets?’
    ‘Even better. A little something I saw reviewed in one of the Sunday papers.’ A waiter appears at our side with our pasta dishes, so I never get the chance to tell her.
    ‘Another large glass of wine, please,’ she instructs him. ‘Oh come on, have one with me. I hate drinking alone.’
    ‘That’s never stopped you,’ I point out. ‘And no, thanks. Honestly, I’ve got too much on.’
    ‘Fine,’ she pouts. ‘But I’m having another.’ As the waiter disappears, she raises her glass, and the drop that’s left in it, to ping it against my water.
    ‘Here’s to winning him back, sister,’ she grins. ‘You can do it. And if you can’t . . . then he’s not worth having.’
    When I get home, I set to work on my appearance. I spend twenty-five minutes blow-drying my hair in a style that has the appearance of having taken twenty-five seconds. I apply
a mountain of make-up designed to look as if I’m wearing none. And I smear on a volumizing lip gloss bought this afternoon on the basis that, although I’ve never really thought my lips
needed volumizing, it can’t do any harm.
    But what I’m most excited about is the ‘little something’ I never got to tell Ellie about properly: my Miracle Cleavage Air Pump Bra.
    This state-of-the-art boob-enhancing contraption makes my Wonderbra look terribly last century. It works on the same principle as an inflatable camp bed, but on a smaller scale and without any
need for a foot pump.
    To look at, it’s simply an attractive, lacy, black bra; but it has an important twist. I put it on and follow the instructions.
    ‘With your thumb and forefinger, simply inflate your Miracle