Chapter 1

"At first I was afraid, I was petrified - kept thinking I could never live without you by my side..."

Gloria Gaynor was singing her heart out - the tiny portable speakers plugged into my laptop could barely handle the full force of her independent assertions. I could hardly believe it. Here I was, forty-three, going through a divorce, moving into a new flat on my own and embracing the most clichéd song imaginable as I sorted through box after box of newspaper-wrapped dishes and back-breakingly heavy cartons of books.

"But then I spent so many nights just thinkin' how you'd done me wrong, and I grew strong..."

The revelation of my husband's affair had come as a surprise to me, though I wasn't as heartbroken as a lot of my friends seemed to assume I was. It wasn't that I didn't resent the inconvenience of having to shift my entire life, or that I was altogether happy finding out things had ended between us after the discovery of lipstick on his collar (yet another cliché - I was rolling in them). But, if I was honest about it, I was mostly okay with separating and moving on. My new flat was shaping up nicely, my commute had been cut in half by the relocation, and maybe, just maybe, now I'd be able to find someone who really got me - ticked all my boxes, got all my jokes, was more than a one-trick pony in the bedroom. It might be a cliché, but I was already looking out for true love.

"And I... I will survive... I will survive."

It wasn't that there was anything wrong with Keith, per se - well, apart from the shagging my assistant (not even his own assistant - now that's above and beyond the call). We were almost intellectual equals, certainly, we worked in the same field, he was tall, dark and handsome, and we had a beautiful if presently teenaged (don't ask) son together.

But, well, he wasn't the love of my life. And the fact that I could think this objectively about it only weeks after it happened probably showed that. I knew better than to state this outright to any of our mutual friends or coworkers, but if he could move on, then so could I.

Not that it would be too hard to do so. I'm an intelligent, accomplished, attractive woman and I knew that men would be lining up to date me. Already were, in fact - I had a date that evening with a man I had met through an online dating service - DocStone59. Otherwise known as Dr Malcolm Stone, a self-described 'polymath and diphthong appreciator'. I was bracing myself for plenty of linguistics-based double entendre.

So thus far single life was treating me well. Still, it had only been a fortnight, so I was bracing myself for some harsh realities any minute now.

 

"So Noam was being his usual droll self, but this woman kept harrassing him - just kept on and on at him and eventually he turned to her and said, 'Well, I suppose that's just a feature we'll all have to live with.'"

"Oh, well... how very Chomsky-esque." I lifted my wine glass, draining a quarter of it in one long draw. Not that it was improving the quality of the conversation - or should I say monologue - but it was a very nice Chardonnay. "You seem to know just about everyone," I remarked then, dryly.

"Oh, you know, I get around," Malcolm said with a wave of his hand. "Besides, you're in the hip young world of biodiversity - you must meet all sorts of people."

Yes, though most of them are interested in accomplishing something, not just accruing interesting dinner party stories... "Mm, I guess so. At conferences and the like. Most of the time it's just stuck out in the middle of the jungle swatting mosquitoes and picking off leeches."

"How very exotic," Malcolm said with a significant waggle of his impressively thick, dark eyebrows. His eyebrows had definitely not looked that Cro Magnon in the pictures he had sent me.

"I suppose, if you consider malaria pills exotic." I was being sarcastic, but I really couldn't help it. There was definitely no connection here, and I tend to lose interest fast, especially in smarmy linguists with red wine stains on their teeth.

His grin faltered a little at this, and he fell silent, suddenly very absorbed in his meal. Safe to say I found his company much more pleasant from then on, but we didn't stay for dessert.

So that evening found me back at the flat alone - ah well. I was nowhere near desperate enough after only two weeks of singledom to invite Malcolm back to my place, and besides, it was a school night. Tomorrow I'd be meeting my new assistant and I supposed it was best to be relatively fresh and well-rested for that. Wouldn't want to make a bad impression, now, would I?

 

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