A Girl Like You (12 page)

‘Why didn’t you tell me that you had to carry me home last night?’ he asks. His voice is perfectly neutral, and his green eyes have gone very opaque. I look into them uneasily. What is he so upset about?

‘I didn’t want to worry you. You were in a miserable state over Louisa . . .’

Robert throws a hand up as if to stop me, like he can’t even bear to hear her name. ‘You should have fucking told me, Abigail. Christ!’

‘But I thought it would upset you! Let’s eat cake and talk about it.’

‘I don’t want fucking cake.’ Shit, he’s furious. He won’t even look at me.

‘I was going to tell you later. I didn’t want to make your hangover even worse,’ I say. ‘I had no idea it would upset you this much. You’re totally overreacting. I was trying to be a good friend.’

‘No,’ he says furiously. ‘I’m going home. Just leave me alone. You’re my fucking
flatmate
, Abigail.’

Is it me, or is the unspoken end to that sentence ‘and not my friend’? I can’t believe that he’d throw a tantrum like a huge fucking baby, and I’m about to say something to that effect when he starts walking away. I stand in the street for a few seconds, watching Robert hail a cab, get in and slam the door, feeling like I’ve been slapped. You stupid prick, I think. The ‘you’re my fucking flatmate’ call was designed to hurt me, and it does.

I take a moment to centre myself. I didn’t do anything wrong. He blew it completely out of proportion. He’ll realise that.

But I can’t go home now. I don’t want to see him. That’s why Plum never socialises with her flatmates. So home is still private and a place to escape to.

I sigh, and take my phone out of my bag to call Henry, the only person who might be free. He takes a long time to answer.

‘You have won dinner with Abigail Wood, one of London’s hottest bachelorettes!’ I exclaim. ‘You lucky boy. The Windsor Castle, Notting Hill, in one hour.’

‘Abigay!’ says Henry. ‘I can’t. I’m busy.’

‘With whom? Someone with chesticles?’ I say coquettishly.

‘Well, actually, yeah,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I say contritely. Robert’s advice is obviously working. ‘Well, um, have fun.’

The day is now devoid of all cosiness. It’s grey and empty and Sundayish. I don’t want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. Lonely Single Girl Syndrome has never seemed such a likelihood.

I start walking, because standing still is making me cold. Wanker, I think with every step. Silly, silly wanker. I know he only reacted that way because he’s a control freak, but he tried to hurt my feelings and it worked.

I walk back down through Regent’s Park, which is far less delightful now that I’m alone. Everyone else is walking with friends and partners and babies. Even a dog would be good company right now, I think fretfully. I am just not enjoying myself. The happy peace I felt earlier is gone.

Fuck it, I suddenly think. It’s my home too. I pay rent. Robert can just deal with me being there. Stupid man, losing his temper because he’s embarrassed about the way he acted over Louisa. I know that’s all it is, but he’d better fucking apologise.

When I get back, Robert is in his usual position on the couch, legs on coffee table, reading the papers. I decide not to say hello (screw him!) and stride up to my room. I sit on the bed and sigh. It was such a perfect day up till we started fighting. Now I have cold, hard Sunday blues.

Then there’s a knock on my door.

‘Yes?’ I say, as though it could be anyone else but Robert.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Yes,’ I say, turning to face him. He’s a picture of hungover, stubbled contrition.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I was a dick. I’m sorry.’

‘A total dick.’

‘A total dick,’ he repeats. ‘Will you forgive me?’

‘Say that I’m your friend as well as your flatmate,’ I say petulantly.

‘You are a brilliant friend
and
flatmate,’ he says, coming in and sitting next to me on the bed. ‘I’m sorry that I was so drunk last night and you had to see me like that. I was embarrassed when Luke told me, that’s all.’

‘There’s more to it than that,’ I say.

He sighs. ‘I was angry that I let myself get like that. And I took it out on you.’

‘Yeah, you lashed,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘You were lashy.’

‘I promise not to lash out again,’ he says ruefully. ‘I promise to tell you next time you turn up shitfaced to a party that you’re not invited to,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it would upset you so much.’

‘Thanks for looking after me,’ he says. ‘Last night and today. I’ve had a really good weekend apart from that.’

‘Anytime,’ I say. ‘And I’ve had a really good weekend too. Even though whatsisname dumped me.’

We pause.

‘Do you want a hug, or something?’ I say. ‘Because that’s probably asking too much.’

‘Let’s go to the pub. Steak, chips and red wine. Yes?’

Chapter Fifteen

Six weeks is a long time when you’re single.

It’s been just six weeks since Adam the Tick Boxer, the little fucknuckle, dumped me, but I could walk into any busy bar in London right this second, certain that I’m likely to meet a guy. Certain that if I make eye contact he’ll probably come and talk to me, probably ask for my number and probably text within 48 hours. Plus – and this is key – certain that if he doesn’t, I’ll have a good time anyway.

Sound arrogant? I think of it more as a victorious circle of self-assurance, where if you’re breezily confident that you’ll be asked out, then you’ll be asked out because you’re so breezily confident. It’s so easy to be this bulletproof. All you have to do is fake it and – boom! You’re there.

I’m in control. I don’t respond immediately to texts, don’t analyse everything, and most importantly, I don’t worry about any of it.

In other words, I’m dating like a man.

I went out with Rich, Henry’s brother, twice before he left for Hong Kong. He’s nice, but almost
too
nice. Know what I mean? And I went out with Toby twice before I decided he was probably too much of a high-flying social bunny for me (he spent most of our dates talking to other people).

Anyway, neither of them made my heart beat wildly with excitement. So why bother seeing them again?

‘Because you want to get to know them better?’ suggested Plum when I said this.

‘But that’s just it. I don’t,’ I replied.

Once you get the hang of dating, it’s kind of hard to stop. What did I do with my Wednesday and Thursday nights before I dated? I don’t remember. (Fridays and Saturdays are still for friends. Obviously.)

One of my dates, Mark, wore a T-shirt saying ‘I’m not a gynaecologist but I’ll take a look’ which rendered me helpless with laughter at such an error of judgement.

Another date, Patrick, was ridiculously good-looking. I met him at a terrible nightclub called Embargo’s, and it wasn’t till he said he was hoping to go to Sandhurst next year that I said, ‘How
old
are you?’ and he said ‘Well, how old are
you
?’ I said, ‘Twenty-seven,’ at the same moment he said, ‘Eighteen.’ We both stared at each other for a few seconds and called it a night 10 minutes later.

I snogged a guy called Tom at one of Henry’s rugby parties, and we went out once, but he ruined it for himself by texting me eight hopeful ‘Are you still out’ texts at 3 am the following weekend. (‘That just means he likes you! That’s a good sign!’ exclaimed Plum when I told her. ‘No,’ I said. ‘One drunk phone text means he likes me. Seven drunk texts means he’s an idiot.’)

I also went out with an American called Chad (honestly, that was his name, though he didn’t laugh when I asked if I could call him Dimpled Chad) a couple of times, but he was rude to the waitress.

And lastly, I went out with a charming guy called James twice, who read the
Daily Mail
. Enough said.

So I ditched them, and haven’t thought about them since. Delete, ignore, continue.

Plum and Sophie think I’m strange. Henry thinks I’m awesome, having taken similar advice from Robert.

‘It’s you and me, Abigay! We rock singledom!’ said Henry.

‘You are acting like a man,’ said Sophie. ‘A bastard man.’

‘A bastardette,’ corrected Plum. ‘A fucknuckle bastardette.’

‘Plum. Language,’ said Sophie.

‘Sorry.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m just acting the way men act. Why pretend to like them when I don’t?’

‘Because you’ll hurt their feelings?’ said Plum.

I thought about this for exactly one second. ‘I don’t care. I’m having fun.’

It’s true. Who wouldn’t like to get dressed up and sit in a bar with someone who is at least slightly attractive, and who has never heard your best lines and stories before? If it’s a bad date, it’s a great story. If it’s a good date, then – hell. It’s a good date!

Yes, I am still nervous, but I just keep smiling – cool! confident! – and it’s always fine. More than fine. Smashing.

Tonight is a new experience in the dating spectrum: a blind date.

It’s the brother of a guy Sophie works with. All I know about him is that his name is Jon, he’s 29, does something in media, and is apparently ‘really quite good-looking’.

Sophie’s colleague was whingeing that Jon kept meeting absolute cows and ‘he just needs someone nice’. She texted and I thought, why not?

It’s Thursday night, and we’re meeting in Soho. You’d think, since this is media-land, that Jon would know all the best places to go, but in the few texts that we’ve exchanged, he’s been star-tlingly ambivalent about venues.

‘He’s easygoing,’ protested Sophie, when I rang her to point this out.

‘You say easygoing, I say wishy-washy,’ I replied. ‘I want someone to take charge so I don’t have to decide everything.’

‘God, you’re turning into a ball-breaker,’ she said.

I was thrilled. ‘Thank you!’

Ball-breaker is
such
a nice change from always being called nice, dependable, sweet, subdued . . .

We eventually agreed to meet at 9 pm at 22 Below, a cocktail bar in Soho.

I put on my fail-safe date outfit: extremely high black heels, black tights and a short black dress. I add a white jacket, tied with a big, black Obi belt. (Pretty with a monochromatic punch.) Hair down, in case I need to hide behind it. There. I feel slim and tall and confident. And when it comes to dating, that’s half the battle already won.

I head downstairs at 8 pm to get myself some crumpets with peanut butter (strong drinks on no dinner is not a good idea for me), and turn on the TV to ‘You Belong With Me’ by Taylor Swift. I love teen girl-pop. I was quietly obsessed with Avril Lavigne’s ‘Sk8ter Boi’ and ‘Girlfriend’ for years. (Immature, I know, but Plum loved Justin Bieber so I feel OK about it. Fucknuckle.) I stretch my feet out to the coffee table, admire my heels, and sing along loudly. I know every word.

‘That’s a fucking naff song,’ says a voice behind me. It’s Robert.

‘Don’t care,’ I reply.

‘Seriously. You’re too old to like teen pop.’

‘LOVE. LOVE teen pop,’ I correct him. ‘Right, I’m off. I’ve got a date.’

I stand up and head to the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher. Robert’s unpacking a little take-away box from Marine Ices. I know it is spaghetti napoletana without even looking at it, as it’s his standard dinner on weeknights.

‘You’re going to get sick if you don’t eat some vegetables soon,’ I tell him.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he replies. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you just ate. You are the laziest cook ever.’

‘I had vegetable soup and a chicken salad at lunch,’ I protest, leaning over to flick his ear with my index finger as I leave the kitchen. ‘Anyway I cooked for Peter for years. I’m officially exempt from cooking until, well, until I feel like it again. What are you up to tonight?’

‘Not sure yet,’ he shrugs. ‘I could do with some sleep. Lady Caroline was exhausting last night.’

‘So I heard,’ I call, as I head out the front door.

It’s much easier to make dates for a bit later in the evening, as you can call it quits after an hour at 10 pm and no one’s feelings are hurt, I reflect, as my cab pulls in to Great Marlborough Street. Jon told me he’d be outside 22 Below, and made some slightly lame joke about wearing a carnation.

I text Sophie quickly.

He’d better not have a ponytail or you’re dead.

I pay for the cab and get out, and see a tall, skinny guy. He’s in a slightly crumpled suit and satchel, with a nervous expression on his face. Cute, with hair in a sticky-looking quiff.

For a second, nerves overtake me, as they always do, and my heart puckers in apprehension. I’m about to make conversation with a virtual stranger? Easy, Abigail, breathe. It’s just a couple of hours. Cool and detached. Elusive and alluring. Bastardette.

Jon walks forward and smiles. ‘Uh . . . Abigail?’

‘Jon!’ I reply, and we both half-giggle at the awkwardness of the whole blind-date situation. He has a very nice smile.

‘Thank God it was you, you’re the third girl I’ve asked and the other two thought I was nuts. Shall we get a drink and get this thing started?’ he says.

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I nod. Nice voice, soft Welsh accent.

We walk down to the basement bar, which is small, sexy and very, very red. ‘Cool bar,’ says Jon. ‘It’s like being in a blood clot,’ I agree.

Jon barks with surprised laughter and, showing a decisiveness missing in his texts, grabs a menu. ‘You choose. I’ll order.’

I choose quickly. ‘Uh, a Russian Rocket, please.’ Our eyes meet and he nods, a little grin on his face. He fancies me, I think suddenly. I can tell, I don’t know how – the glint in his eye? – but I can. That makes things easier.

‘Cocktail aficionado?’ he says.

‘You can’t go wrong with anything with vodka and lemon,’ I reply.

‘Do you want to—’ he gestures towards the bar. Go with him? Why would I want to do that?

‘I’m good here,’ I smile calmly.

Once seated, I check my phone, more as a look-busy mechanism than anything else. There’s a text from Robert.

Remember, he could be your soulmate!

Ha. I laugh out loud, and quickly reply.

Mummy is busy. Be a good boy and hush.

Jon comes back with our drinks, and we start by talking about the only thing we have in common, i.e. my sister working with his brother. This segues easily into his job, which is in media sales (yep, I have no idea what that is either), and then my job, which I dismiss quickly with, ‘If you ever have trouble sleeping, call me and I’ll tell you all about my day’. We talk about
Battlestar Galactica
, which both of us loved (Peter insisted on watching it, and I discovered I loved sci-fi); and pork belly, which we agree should always be ordered if it’s on the menu, if only to encourage the restaurant to keep offering it; and Playstation and Nintendo Wii, which I have never played (and have no desire to) and which he adores. It’s a pretty easy, seamless date, in other words.

‘So, is this something you do often? Set-ups?’ asks Jon at one point.

‘Yes, it’s a hobby,’ I say airily. ‘More of a lifestyle than a hobby, actually.’

Jon laughs. He finds me a lot funnier than I find myself.

‘Right, I’m going to the bar,’ I say eventually, when our glasses have been empty for several minutes.

‘No, no,’ he replies quickly. ‘It’s mine.’

Here are my thoughts: Jon’s fine. He’s good-looking, and polite, and quite funny, and well, there’s nothing
wrong
with him. But I’m pretty sure I can’t be bothered to see him again. He’s failed a few tests: he hasn’t made me laugh much, I feel like I’m carrying the conversation too much, and he didn’t suggest the second drink. There’s just something a bit passive about him, something that doesn’t quite click . . . The big test, of course, is coming. Later.

He returns with the drinks, and I ask him where he’s from, and we get into a long conversation about Bristol, where he went to university.

‘When I was little, I thought Blame It On The Boogie went “I spent the night in Bristol, at every kind of disco”,’ I say. Jon grins. ‘There are two kinds of nightclubs in Bristol. The ones that are awful, and the ones that are closed.’

I laugh at this. Perhaps he is funny after all.

‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing on a blind date?’ he says. ‘You must have guys falling – over, um—’ his confidence stalls halfway through the sentence.

‘I thought it might be fun, I guess,’ I say. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship. I just broke up with someone. So this is all new to me . . .’

‘And is it fun?’ he says hopefully.

I can’t answer honestly (I’d say ‘meh’). So I smile instead. ‘It is.’

I get us the next drink, and as we finish, I notice that it’s 10.45 pm. I think I’ll call it a night. I don’t want to ignore my self-imposed midnight date curfew.

‘I have to get up at 6 am,’ I say apologetically. ‘I must take my leave.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ says Jon, looking slightly crestfallen. ‘I’ve had a, er—’

‘Best night of your life?’ I suggest, standing up to put my jacket on. He stands up to help me, a second too late. ‘I thought so. You lucky man.’

He grins again. My cocky-little-madam act works a charm on dates, I think to myself. Men have no idea what to do with it.

‘Will you escort me to a cab?’ I ask. ‘I may need your protection on the dark streets of Soho.’

This is, obviously, a lie, but he says ‘Of course!’ and escorts me upstairs. I stand back for a second, so Jon can hail an oncoming black cab for me, the way Toby and Robert and other take-charge types always do, but he doesn’t move. So I hail it myself. The cab pulls up just as Jon reaches out and takes my hand. I pretend not to notice, and lean in the front window to ask the driver if Primrose Hill is OK. (For some reason we do this in London, as though the driver might say ‘Hmm, I don’t fancy that direction’ and we’d say ‘Oh, of course, so sorry to bother you, silly me’.)

The driver nods, and I turn to Jon. His hand is very warm and ever so slightly sticky. I hope that’s from cocktail dribble, rather than from not washing it the last time he went to the bathroom.

He clearly wants to kiss me, but his nerve is failing. I smile up at him expectantly. Seconds pass. Nope, nothing. Come on, man, I think to myself. Grow a pair.

‘I think you should kiss me now,’ I say finally.

Jon grins, his face lighting up with relief, and leans forward. It’s a pretty nice kiss, as kisses go. It lasts somewhere between 10 and 12 seconds. He has soft lips and he smells of one of those watery aftershaves.

But there’s no spark. No frisson in my body, no racing heart, no excited feeling. And that’s the ultimate test.

I lean back and smile at him.

‘I’ll text you,’ he says.

‘Look forward to it,’ I reply.

I get in and close the door, and take out my phone and call Sophie.

‘Negatory,’ I say, instead of hello.

‘Already? You’ve decided
already
?’

‘He’s too passive,’ I say. ‘And he loves Nintendo Wii more than anything in the world.’