A Girl Like You (24 page)

Luckily, Luke is telling stories that cover my self-reproaching silence. Luke’s mother got drunk on Christmas Day and announced she wasn’t slaving over the fucking turkey this year, she wanted to ‘eat white fucking chocolates in front of Miracle On fucking 34th Street like everyone fucking else’. Luke’s Dad has never knowingly touched an oven, so Luke and Bella had to make Christmas lunch, and as a result they didn’t eat till 10 pm and the turkey was cold in the middle.

Apparently Bella and Ollie were fighting the whole time, again.

‘It’s actually getting kind of boring,’ says Luke. ‘I asked her to dump him, just to give the rest of us a break, but it seems that’s out of the question.’

I steal a glance at Dave, but he doesn’t look interested. He looks over at me and grins. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispers into my ear, pulling me towards him. ‘I’m not quite done with you yet.’

I’m torn. I’ve been craving this, the moment I could binge on class-A Dave, for over a week, but now I kind of want to party with my sister. Then again . . . I glance over and see Robert whispering something into Millie’s ear. She giggles and swivels her eyes up at him flirtatiously.

‘Let’s go,’ I nod. ‘We’re staying at my house, though.’

‘With pleasure.
Au revoir,’
everyone, I’m taking Abigail home to ravish her.’

My eyes dart back to Robert as I kiss Sophie and Luke goodbye. He’s not looking at me. I say a quick goodbye to Millie, who seems to have cheered up considerably.

‘See ya,’ I say in the general direction of Robert.

‘See ya,’ he echoes.

We leave the bar and Dave takes my hand. ‘It’s very good to see you,’ he says. ‘Now let’s get you out of those wet things.’

As we get in a cab, I cast one last look back at the outside of the Portobello Star, surrounded by the usual intrepid, freezing smokers.

What just happened? It doesn’t matter. Don’t think about it.

Chapter Thirty Two

You want to know how I’ve dealt with it? I’ve totally ignored it. Or tried to, anyway.

The kiss was nothing, we’d drunk enough booze to kill a dog, or at least I had, and, you know, shit happens. We’d just been through the whole fight-faint trauma, and it was the anniversary of his Louisa thing, and I was knocked into him, it really was a total accident. I don’t even remember it that well.

I admit I feel horribly guilty. But it happened, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. It was a drunken mistake. So there’s no point in thinking about it, right?

It helps that I haven’t really seen Robert in the fortnight since New Year’s. He’s out a lot, and so am I, of course. When I do see him, we both act perfectly polite and friendly. It’s not normal between us, it’s even less normal than it was at the end of last year . . . but it’s fine. It will be fine.

And guess what. My Dave insecurities are over! More or less. I’ve put them down to general dating inexperience. I hadn’t started a relationship in seven
years
. I didn’t know how to feel like part of a couple. And seeing him with Bella at lunch that day, as innocent as it obviously was, well, it just played into my silly insecurities. So it’s no wonder I obsess slightly, I mean, obsessed. Past tense. Right? Right.

I’ve even got used to his inability to ‘cosset’. And I’ve tried to be demanding a couple of times over the past few weeks, just to see what happens. Not much, usually.

‘Coffee,’ I said when we woke up this morning.

‘I’d love one, my little bowling ball,’ he whispered, snuggling into me.

‘Why am I a – oh,’ I said, blushing in the darkness. ‘No, I want you to get me a coffee.’

‘Tell you what, how about you get us coffee today, and I’ll time you, and then tomorrow I’ll get it, and we’ll see who’s faster?’ he said, nibbling at my ear. I shivered in delight. And so he got his way, as he always does.

Not that much else has changed. I still wait for him to contact me, and making a statement with a rising inflexion, so it sounds like a question, is the only way that I can get him to talk about his plans.

For example, this morning, as he was getting dressed and I was savouring the last few minutes in bed before I had to get up and hurry home through the cold, I said ‘I expect you have a day of excitement and thrills ahead of you,’ with my voice rising inquisitively on ‘you’.

‘I’m having dinner with Mother tonight,’ he said.

‘Fun,’ I replied, thinking how much I wish he’d ask me along, but that it’s just not his style. Sigh.

Then he leaned over and grinned at me. ‘Why don’t you come along?’

‘I’d love to!’ I gasped, before restraining myself. Cool, Abigail. Detached. ‘I mean, sure. Where are we going? What time? What should I wear?’

‘Questions, questions,’ said Dave in mock-irritation. (I think it was mock.) ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know later. Now get up. You’re not making me late again.’

It’s 4 pm now, you’d think ‘later’ would mean ‘before the end of the work day’, wouldn’t you? There’s no point in calling him. I did it the other week to confirm what time he wanted to meet for dinner, and he snapped ‘as soon as I know, I’ll tell you. Don’t nag me’ and hung up. He said sorry about it later – he’s abrupt when he’s busy; it’s not personal – but you see, it’s not even worth trying. It’ll just upset both of us.

I press ‘refresh’ on my emails again. Nothing. Maybe he’s changed his mind, or maybe his mother has said she doesn’t want to meet me.

Cripes, and I was just boasting about how almost-not-insecure I am these days . . .

January has been quiet at work, but the big report I was working on during most of November and December has done well. We got our bonuses in early January, and mine was better than it has been in years. I’m saving it for a rainy day, maybe if Dave and I were ever to . . . anyway.

Today Andre, who I haven’t seen since before Christmas, is back in London and has suggested we meet downstairs at 4 pm and head out for ‘
un
café and a chat’. I guess it’s to talk about that Hong Kong job. It’s probably blown over entirely, so it’s a good thing I haven’t seriously thought about it . . . I glance over the cubicle divider at Charlotte, who’s typing with a little smile on her face.

‘Say hi to Henry for me,’ I say.

‘What? I’m not – I’m actually working on a – I’m not –’ she pauses and giggles. ‘OK, I am.’

I wish Dave and I sent emails all day. But he says it distracts him. Sometimes he sends naughty texts.

Charlotte’s work phone rings, and she answers it with a caramelly, ‘Charlotte Barry . . .’ I’m transfixed for a second. She never used to talk like that. Is that why she’s getting so many phone calls recently?

‘I can see why you’d think that, Ed, but actually, we believe that it’s going to far exceed expectations next quarter,’ she says, swivelling her chair round to look up at me. I mime drinking a coffee and she shakes her head and winks. God, she’s sassy these days. ‘Well, that’s exactly right,’ she says, swivelling back. She’s taken the brains she always had and added confidence. And now she’s unstoppable.

I sigh, and walk to the lifts. I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m in a holding pattern. I feel kind of depressed and lacking in energy. It could be SAD, you know, I haven’t seen sunlight in days.

Maybe it’s just this office and Suzanne that need to change. Maybe moving to Hong Kong is the answer.

For a brief moment I picture myself living in Hong Kong with Dave, both of us working hard and sharing a fabulous, busy, joy-filled life . . . it seems a bit of a stretch, doesn’t it? But I can’t imagine a future without him, either.

‘Andre!’ I say, walking up to him in the lobby. He turns around. He’s tanned from skiing for the past two weeks, probably in Courcheval or Chamonix somewhere.

‘Abigail,’ he says, leaning over to kiss me hello on both cheeks. I wasn’t expecting this, and start slightly, before recovering.

‘
On y va
?’ he says, and continues to speak in French. ‘I know you speak French, Abigail. I’ve seen your CV.’

‘I’m shy,’ I reply, in French.

‘Ha. Cheer up. I have some news that will make you show me that lovely smile.’

He should really stop flirting. We work in finance goddammit.

I plaster a businesslike smile on my face as we walk towards the Italian coffee shop. The two men behind the counter act as though they haven’t seen me in an age, though it’s been since exactly 8.04 am this morning, when I did the latte run for Charlotte and I.

‘Firstly, how are you? How was your Christmas?’

‘Great,’ I say, lying just a bit. What am I meant to say – ‘quite dull, mostly marked by a deeply uneasy yearning with just a little bit of insecurity, and climaxing in a guilt-inducing near-scandal when I jumped my best friend’?

‘You have been travelling a lot?’ he asks. ‘Is Suzanne making life hard?’

‘No,’ I say. Why is he asking that? Is that code for ‘you look like a miserable shit’? I’m fine. I’m totally fine!

‘I have the official job offer for you. I wanted to get you out of the office because, well, what’s that saying? The walls have eyes.’

‘Ears,’ I say, stalling. ‘The walls have ears.’

‘Right. Guaranteed bonus first year, and we’ll double your base salary. We’ll cover relocation costs, help you find an apartment . . .’

Without even thinking about it, I start talking specifics with Andre. Years of training, I guess: I want all the details. I’m not saying yes, but I can’t help but nod and smile a lot. It’s a ridiculously good offer, and I suddenly realise that I really would be pretty stupid to turn it down. It’s more money than I’ve ever made. I’d get away from Suzanne, lead my own team, and get to run research analysis my way. Whatever ‘my way’ is.

All I have to do is move to Hong Kong.

‘So, I think the next step is for you to visit the Hong Kong office, meet the team,’ he says, watching me carefully.

‘OK,’ I agree. It seems easier than saying no. Or yes. Whichever I decide.

Andre starts telling me all about the team he’s setting up, their projects and the logistics for my visit. Suzanne can’t find out about the job offer, not that she’d be devastated to lose me, but just because cross-team poaching is messy and frowned upon. That doesn’t make it any less common, of course.

We decide I’ll fly out in mid-February – in a month – for a four-day visit, timed to coincide with a Luxury In Asia trade show that I can use as my excuse for Suzanne. Andre will already be there and can show me around.

I’ve never been to Hong Kong, and part of me is excited. The other part of me is distracted. As per fucking usual.

Four days (five nights!) without Dave would suck. I wonder what he’d think about the job offer?

Goddammit. I am a grown woman, I should make career decisions based on what I want. I should be genuinely thrilled and flattered too. What’s wrong with me?

I get back to my desk and stare at my computer all afternoon. At 5.50 pm my phone buzzes and, I swear, I nearly purr with happiness. It’s Dave. We’re meeting his mother at the Orrery in Marylebone at 8 pm, which doesn’t give me a lot of time. Shouting ‘bye’ to Charlotte, I pick up my bag and coat and dash for the lifts, then take a taxi home. Thank God that Robert’s not home yet, I muse, the awkward small talk is really getting annoying. I can spend an intense hour getting ready.

Dinner with the mother of my boyfriend. Wowsers, this is a big deal. Now that I know I’m definitely going, I can embrace the emotion that I’ve been stepping around all day. I’m nervous as hell. But this will be great! This will bring us closer together.

I don’t know what the story is with Dave’s father, by the way. I don’t know if he passed away or left Dave’s mother, and I don’t want to ask. Dave never discusses him, and I’ve never remembered to ask Luke or Sophie. I wonder if I could call Robert to ask – ah, no. I can’t. Not anymore.

I shower and blow-dry my hair in the feverish way I always do when I’m hurrying to meet Dave. Now comes the hard bit.

Dressing for his mother.

Hair down or back? Ponytails are too girlish, but hair down could be seen as sexy, and I shouldn’t wear black, it’s a bit funereal. Mustn’t look too serious. Or too sexy or too demure or too fashionable. Not jeans, she might hate jeans, and God, not a short skirt, she’ll think I’m slutty. Blazers are too boxy, cardigans too casual, my Christmas cashmere jumper needs hand washing and I’m never home long enough to do it, a pretty blouse would be ideal but it’s freezing outside, and I can’t just wear a long-sleeved shirt . . . Oh God, I could cry. I feel like I’m hyperventilating. I wish I was better at clothes. Fuck it, I’m calling Plum.

‘What up, A-Dawg?’ she says cheerfully.

‘Don’t talk street to me. I’m meeting Dave’s mother tonight. Sartorial nightmare.’

‘Your high-waist dark grey trousers, pair them with the silky top from Cos and a black cardigan over the top, plus your black LK Bennett heels. Very mother-in-law friendly.’ Plum is talking with the seriousness of someone giving CPR instructions in an emergency situation. Can you believe she knows my wardrobe this well?

‘Not my mother-in-law, but yes, perfect,’ I say, my despair immediately lifting. God, I love Plum.

‘Almost mother-in-law, whatever. Wear your pearl studs, and no perfume, what she doesn’t notice she can’t dislike. And make sure you wear a sensible scarf, hat and gloves, it is January and she’ll think you’re far more practical than you are.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I say obediently, trying to think where my old gloves are. I lost my new Christmas ones on New Year’s Eve and haven’t replaced them. (Urgh. New Year’s Eve.) ‘Thank you, you are brilliant.’ And so calm, I think to myself. That’s the Dan effect. I wonder what effect Dave has had on me.

‘My pleasure,’ she says. ‘Remember, she has to fucking love you, because her son does.’

No he doesn’t, is my instant thought, as I hang up.

I look at myself in the mirror for a few seconds.

Does Dave love me?

I
hope
he does. Or will. Or might . . . But I can’t even think of Dave and love in the same sentence.

I certainly don’t want to say it, or even think it, until he does. I feel giddy when I’m with him and long for him when I’m not. And that’s enough. For now, anyway.