A Girl Like You (29 page)

‘Remember that time at New Year’s, when you said you thought I knew what I wanted in life, but I was too scared to admit it?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘You were right. I need to quit my job, to get a life that I actually . . .’ I pause, thinking. ‘That I actually want and will enjoy. I’m a shit research analyst . . . But I was too petrified to admit it. It’s hard for me to, um, make decisions.’

‘You were just waiting for the right time and opportunity,’ he says, smiling easily at me. ‘Now it’s here.’

‘It is,’ I agree, taking a thoughtful sip of my drink and gazing out the window for a few seconds. ‘I feel like I’m at a turning point in my life,’ I say, turning to him. ‘I finally know what I want.’

‘I do too.’

For a second we lock eyes, and all of a sudden, my heart starts hammering. I have the presence of mind to turn to gaze out the window again. Though the view isn’t as magnetic anymore.

‘Another drink?’ he says. I nod frantically, unable to speak. He waves the waitress over to order.

What’s going on? Something is clicking inside me, like someone turning a key in a lock. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Just look out the window and think about talking with Katherine and Ronan today. Think about my new life, my new job . . .

The bar is almost empty now. I turn back to Robert. Our eyes meet yet again and I find myself unable to look away. I feel tingly and warm . . . He smiles at me, a tiny smile that’s almost more in his eyes than on his face, and I grin back automatically.

Then, slowly and calmly, Robert reaches across the little table and takes both my hands in his. I look down at our hands and back up at him. ‘Abby, darling . . .’ he murmurs, leaning forward.

I snatch my hands away as the waitress approaches with our drinks. For a second reality reasserts itself. I’m in a hotel bar with Robert. My best friend. What am I doing? Why am I feeling like this? When the waitress leaves, I don’t look back at Robert, and instead focus on my drink.

‘You look beautiful tonight, by the way,’ he says, interrupting my self-terrogation. ‘I don’t think I told you.’

‘Uh, oh, um, no,’ I stammer, and take a long, very slow sip of my drink, staring pointedly at the glass. After fifteen seconds my lips start to freeze on the ice, and I am forced to look back at him.

‘Are you tired?’ asks Robert.

I turn to look at him and nod as my heart starts hammering again. Where did this come from? I feel like I’ve been possessed.

‘Shall we head back downstairs? I’ve got the room next to yours, by the way. I just need to call reception and get them to bring up the key.’

I clear my throat. ‘Right then, let’s go to my room and call them.’ Act normal, Abigail.

We walk, side-by-side but not touching, out of the bar in silence, then stand in the lift in silence, then walk – yep, in silence – down the corridor to my room.

When we get to the room, Robert walks straight over to the TV and starts playing with the remote control.

‘I’m DJ,’ he calls. ‘You’re bartender.’

‘Smashing. I’m just going to use the, uh, euphemism.’

I walk into the bathroom unsteadily. I can still feel the whisky burning in my throat.

I pause in front of the bathroom mirror and look at myself. I look less shiny and flushed than I’d have expected. I lick my finger and run it under my eyes to fix an eye liner smear. Why am I trying to fix my make-up? I’d better eat some toothpaste. Why would I eat toothpaste? Who is going to be smelling my breath? Don’t answer that. Answer this: What the fuck am I doing? Six days ago I was hysterical over Dave. No, don’t answer that either. And don’t think about Dave.

I lean over the sink, rest my forehead against the mirror, close my eyes and take a deep breath. My heart is racing thunketythunk, and my fingers are quivering. But not with nerves. With excitement.

And this is not like the nervous excitement I felt around, well, you know who. It’s different. It’s more like an unbearably delici ous, certain, sweet anticipation . . . like I know what’s going to happen.

Do I know what’s going to happen?

Without pausing to – consciously, at least – answer my own questions, I walk out of the bathroom.

Robert is sitting on the bed watching a Cantonese pop video. He glances up as I approach and then grins back at the TV.

‘Check out Faye Wong! I think I might be in love with her.’

I reach out to Robert’s arm, pull him up to stand in front of me, and for a second we lock eyes. Then I lean forward and kiss him.

My first thought, after the shock of fuck-I’m-fucking-kissing-fucking-Robert, is, oh my God, yes, yes, yes, this is what kissing is
meant
to be. He’s so warm and strong and such a perfect kisser, I feel like my whole body is melting, like I’m thawing out for the first time in days, months, years . . . For a second I sway, my knees tingling, but then his arms wrap around me so tightly that I wouldn’t move even if my legs gave way completely.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
. . .

This isn’t what I expected. This isn’t what I remember from New Year’s Eve. All I recall from that is the whooooosh feeling. Then again, this is a sort of whooooosh feeling too. But I’m far more sober, so I can concentrate instead on his hands on my neck and face and hair and oh God, the delicious smoothness of his lips, the warmth, the melting warmth . . .

Yes, yes, yes . . .

We kiss like this, slowly and deliberately (‘necking’, I believe is the term) for the length of four Cantonese pop songs. Then Robert takes one hand away from the back of my neck and, without breaking the kiss, reaches for the remote control and turns the TV off. I giggle at the smoothness of his action, and he pulls away and grins.

‘Nice move, Romeo.’

‘I practised it when you were vomiting.’

I look up at him. You’re so gorgeous, I think. I know you inside and out, and I adore you. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I’m not nervous, or fluttery, or helpless, or any of the emotions that I would have felt if he was – you know. That was sparky and scary, this is warm and sure . . . Thinking this, I reach up and start kissing him again.

After a few more minutes of kissing, I start (full disclaimer) pushing things faster than he is. With both hands, I shove him down flat on the bed, half-sitting, half-lying on his chest and start unbuttoning his shirt.

But Robert stops me. (Irritatingly.) He grabs my wrists and pulls me down over him, and then rolls over so he’s lying on top of me. Pinning my arms to my sides, he kisses my neck and I shiver in delight, and crane my neck to kiss along the line of his jaw, nibbling that soft little patch of skin just under his earlobe till his breath comes out in a gasp.

‘I want you,’ I murmur without thinking, and well, it’s a pretty goddamn sexy thing to say. (Try it.) Robert certainly thinks so. He looks intently at me, then rolls back so I’m on top of him again. My arms are now properly free, and I start unbuttoning his shirt again. (I’m quite determined like that.)

‘You sure about this?’ he says, as he sits up so I can pull it off. When I finally tear my eyes away from his body (holy pectorals, Batman) I notice that his face is more serious than I’ve ever seen it before. ‘Totally sure?’

‘You know I’m sure,’ I reply, and grin at him. ‘Your chest is surprisingly hairy.’

‘I hope I can’t say the same thing about you.’

I start to laugh, and it’s like this that we continue, teasing and undressing each other. And then we’re naked and well, we stop giggling, and well, it all becomes rather deliciously intense.

Now, you know how I feel about discussing the gory details. I don’t see you having sex, and I’m sure you don’t want to see me either – but I have to tell you one thing. It has never. EVER. Been like this. It’s a bit of everything by turn, and absolutely perfect altogether: slow, fast, quiet, loud, rough, tender, smooth and just absolutely fucking incredible. The second time is faster, more passionate, more urgent, more grabby. And the third time is achingly sweet and slow and sleepy.

(Sorry, am I boasting?)

‘Abby, my darling,’ he murmurs much, much later, as we lie draped over each other in the darkness, the light from Hong Kong’s never-dark sky coming into the room. ‘Cripes, that was . . .’ he pauses as I pinch his arm for making fun of my words. ‘Smashing.’

‘That was rather nice,’ I agree softly. I am so sleepy.

‘We have to talk about this,’ he whispers, a few seconds later.

‘Later.’ A tiny alarm bell is ringing somewhere in my head. I ignore it. ‘Later.’

He wraps his arms around me and I fall asleep.

Chapter Forty Two

So here I am.

Naked. In Hong Kong. Where I came to chase/surprise my boy friend. And where I ended up having ecstatic sex with my best friend Robert. Three times.

My eyes open wide and I look around. God knows what time it is, but the room is dark. At some point last night – between sex
deuxiéme
and
troisiéme
, I think – Robert closed the curtains. I have a clear memory of his rather delightful nakedness silhouetted at the window, and then he turned and smiled at me, and I ordered him back to bed.

I’ve just realised that this is the biggest bed in the world, by the way. We’re marooned together in the middle, with miles of space reaching out to the edge. I’m lying on my side, and Robert’s arm is tucked over me. I can tell by the way he’s breathing that he’s sleeping. I try to wriggle away, and his arm tightens around me in his sleep, pulling me towards him. He’s so warm and strong, and breathing slowly and deeply. He’s like a fucking bear in hibernation.

My eyes adjust to the light and I crane my head to see the bedside clock. It’s 6.34 am. Oh God. I need to think.

Come on, Abigail. Use your brain.

You’re lying in bed next to a guy who has slept his way through most of London and the Home Counties, with pit stops to Europe and the States for variety. The biggest lothario you’ve ever met. A man who has made ‘playing the field’ an Olympic sport. Sure: he has never been anything but a good and loyal friend to you. But he is a lothario nonetheless.

So be honest with yourself. The way you couldn’t be about Dave. See this situation for what it really is.

This was a bad idea.

This was just sex.

We got carried away.

Maybe it was the only way to end a week as intense and crazy as this one. I mean, he flew all the way to Hong Kong to find me. Maybe it’s the Florence Nightingale effect: I fell in lust with my nurse. Or maybe it’s good old-fashioned knight-in-shining armour appeal.

And remember, Robert’s a rescuer by nature. He rescued me on every bad date I ever had. He punched that guy on New Year’s Eve. He even flew to be by the side of Antonia when her dog died. It’s not meaningful. He likes helping people. It’s just who he is. He’s got a saviour complex.

And dinner last night felt . . . I don’t know, different, special, it really did. But we’re in Hong Kong and it was my first time out since recovering from the twin perils of gastric flu and Dave. And yesterday was such an amazing, genuinely life-changing day, what with discovering the documentary job . . . All these things combined to make it feel special. But it was just sex. It’s only ever just sex for Robert, remember? As he said, he hasn’t met the right girl, but he likes sex. And when you think about it like that, the way he acts doesn’t sound
that
wrong.

And I don’t want to indulge in the emotional chase again, either. Another self-contained, gorgeous, confident, funny, seemingly unobtainable man? No wonder I’m drawn to him. I’m like a little sniffer dog for bastards. And Robert would be a bastard to me in the end. I’m certain of it.

What was it that sequin girl said at that party? She said he makes you feel special. Like he’s going to look after you. Well, no shit, Sherlock.

What else was it she said? I can remember it perfectly . . . ‘He always says how he’s not looking for a relationship but he’s so kind and sweet and hot and seems like perfect boyfriend ma terial. But it’s all a front, it’s a game to him, he’s just a big fucking slut.’

If it’s a game, then he’s the only one who ever wins. Which means the other person always loses. And I don’t want to lose again. I might be a big fucking slut too, but I’m not stupid.

I’m not like every other girl he’s been with, the ones who expect more. I know I can’t change him. Sophie said he was unobtainable, that he was a womaniser. And that girl at the party said Robert has sex three times and then says it’s better if they keep it casual.

Well, we had sex three times.

So that means he’ll do his disappearing act when he wakes up.

Maybe I’ll just beat him to it.

What would happen if I stayed? I briefly try to imagine it. Let’s say that he doesn’t dump me when he wakes up. Then what? We go back to London, still living together, and what – friends? Lovers? Dating? It would be awkward, he’d be tense and distant, and I’d be nervy and worried, and our easy friendship would be truly over, he would just dump me in the end. After everything that’s happened, I can’t do that. I need to protect myself.

For the first time in my life, I’m going to be decisive.

And I’m going to leave him before he can leave me.

I slither down the bed slowly, out from under his arm. Robert’s breathing doesn’t change. I tiptoe into the bathroom as silently as I can, turn the shower on and stand under it motionless, my face upturned, letting the water beat down on my face.

I know I am right.

Everything with Dave combusted because I ignored everything I knew about surviving singledom. I wasn’t in control, I wasn’t detached, and I certainly wasn’t fucking bulletproof. I recite Robert’s original surviving singledom tips, whispering them to myself under the shower.

Be cool

Be detached

Act brutal

Stay in control

Bulletproof

Always leave them before they leave you.

I’m going to leave without waking him, fly home to London, and by the time he gets back, we’ll be over this blip. Our friendship has survived blips before, after all. It was just a one-night-stand.

How’s that for detached?

I finish showering quickly, apologising to my poor hair for yet another traumatic yanking-the-comb-through-conditioner experience, and smear some moisturiser on my red stubble-rashed cheeks. Then I dress quickly, and throw all my clothes and toiletries into my suitcase. Robert doesn’t stir.

Should I leave him a note to say I’m totally fine about what happened last night? That everything is cool between us?

I rip a page out of my notebook, grab a pen from the desk, and think for a second.

That about sums it up, right?

I stop, just as I’m leaving the room, to watch him sleeping. His hair is flopped out over the pillow and his jaw is even more stubbled than usual. He looks like a superhero playing truant: strong and warm and God, so tempting.

For a second, I pause, and take a step back towards him. Maybe I could just get back into bed. Kiss him awake and . . .

But then I remember that if I don’t do this now, then he definitely will. I’d rather leave than be the one left behind.

I hurry down to the hotel lobby, pay my bill – making a mental note to not resign before these expenses are approved by work, haha – and request a transfer to the airport. I’ll sort my flight out once I’m there. I take out my now-charged phone, still containing tens of texts messages I need to return, and once in the car, start replying one by one. Every text that I send is the same.

I’m fine . . . gastric flu is a mean little bitch. Home tonight. See you this weekend? X ps Dave and I broke up.

I can’t wait to get home, I tell myself. I’ll do washing, I’ll call the girls, I’ll sort my career out . . . I’d better make a to-do list.

Flipping to a new page in my notebook, I start writing a list. I want to Google Katherine and Ronan, and their company, Intuition Films. I think I have dry-cleaning to pick up, too, and I need to order some more contact lenses. It’s Dad’s birthday in two weeks, so I must buy a present. Ah, the satisfactory diversion of a list.

Fuck me, I feel strong all of a sudden. No, I feel . . . bulletproof.

I get to the airport, march straight up to the British Airways desk and ask to change my flight. Fortunately for me, there’s one in an hour, so if I hurry through security, I can just make it.

By the time I’m on the plane, I’m exhausted again. I don’t know how much sleep I got last night, but it can’t have been more than a few hours. I wonder if Robert’s still sleeping. He’ll be relieved when he realises I’m gone, so he doesn’t have to deal with it. He really will.

I start making notes on ideas for the documentary. I need to find out more about it, but off the top of my head I can think of a dozen specific stories that illustrate the idea of the luxury myth. I close my eyes as the wheels lift off the tarmac, and by the time the seatbelt sign has been turned off, I’m asleep. I don’t wake up till we land in London.