All the Single Ladies Read Free

ever met. I simply thought he was perfect for me – which is all that counts.
    Even after six years together, we had that indefinable something, the X factor that makes couples live with their differences, put up with the odd row and know that they’re simply meant to
be together. We had chemistry, at least as far as I was concerned.
    Six years. Quite a while by the standards of some relationships. Yet, now he’s gone, it feels as though that time has passed in a flash. I can still conjure up a replay of when we met, as
agonizing and gorgeous as it is to do so. We were in Koh Samui, Thailand, and it was January 2006 . . .
    I’d been an irrepressible tomboy when I was little and even now, when I should know better, there’s a part of me that fancies myself as an Action Girl type. I love
the idea of being sporty, adventurous – capable of everything from mountain climbing to white-water rafting.
    Sadly, the notable lack of mountains and fast-flowing rivers in south Liverpool, where I grew up and still live means this image has never been fully tested. Plus, as I constantly discover
whenever I give such things a whirl, they’re harder than they look. Still, I’m bloody good at Boxercise, if I do say so myself.
    During my gap-year trip round the world with Ellie and our friend Jen (which turned out to be a gap seven months round Asia thanks to our less-than-meticulous financial calculations), I leaped
at the chance to unleash the go-getter side of my personality.
    I’d have loved to scuba dive. But not being in possession of a PADI diving qualification, or the trust fund required to gain one, we went for second best: snorkelling. What was good enough
for Ursula Andress was good enough for us.
    ‘God only knows where this has been,’ said Jen, glaring at the end of her mouthpiece. It looked as though it had been chewed by a Rottweiler.
    While she grumbled, those in Jen’s presence, as ever, gazed upon her with expressions that fell into one of two camps: mild envy (in the case of the women) or unrestrained lust (in the
case of the men).
    That remained the case even though her hair – usually cheerleader-blonde to bring out her Coppertone-advert skin – wasn’t looking its best. The dreadlocks she’d had
installed on Chaweng beach a week earlier now resembled the rotting intestines of a dead squirrel – and were starting to smell similar too. Not that anyone was looking at her hair. When
Jen’s in a bikini, nobody looks at her hair.
    ‘You worry too much,’ I said, pulling on my flippers and plunging into the water. The manoeuvre was delivered with less aplomb than I’d hoped and I spent the next ten seconds
adjusting my bikini top so that the triangles were covering the correct appendages instead of my armpits.
    Ellie, in a polka dot bikini like the ones on old-fashioned postcards, tore off her oversized glasses and jumped in. ‘Come on, Jen! It’s lovely in here.’
    We’d arrived at the secluded beach on one of those traditional Thai fishing boats – the wooden ones featured in every brochure, resplendent with ribbons at the front. The scenery was
breathtaking: a crystal sea, verdant landscape and sand so fine and white it looked like something you’d sprinkle on a baby’s bum.
    Aside from our guide, the boat’s captain and the five other tourists, there wasn’t another soul. Not another person, not another boat. It was just us, a coastline full of coral and
total tranquillity.
    We dipped our faces underwater and began swimming above the coral, overwhelmed by what we saw. There were fish of every colour imaginable, coral in every shape and size, and as sunlight streamed
through the water, we were dazzled. The further we swam along the coast the brighter and more beautiful everything was.
    I was vaguely aware of the growing distance between us and the boat, but it would be impossible to lose our way: all we had to do was follow the coast back to where it had been anchored.
    That was the