A Girl Like You (3 page)

Chapter Four

You know what bites about singledom?

No, not the lack of sex and/or cuddling. Though a little bit of sex would not go astray right now. In fact, for a month after the break-up, sex was practically all I could think about, isn’t that weird? Where was I? Oh yeah. Singledom.

I miss not having anyone to chat to about things. No one to nod when I make comments about an inane TV show, or share a new song with, or to make porridge for on a chilly morning. I’m so used to having someone around that sometimes I come out of the shower and say, ‘Can you remind me to get more razors?’ before I remember there’s no one there. Companionship, in other words.

I’m finding that social butterflying is the best way to fill the companionship void, so I try to make sure I’m almost never alone. At least once a weekend, I meet one or all of the girls to go ‘shopping’, a catch-all phrase that covers fashion, coffee, gossip, errands, people-watching, and sharing cupcakes or other baked goods as, of course, calories shared don’t count (like calories consumed standing up, drunk or on an airplane).

Today is an important day: my best friend, Plum and my sister Sophie, are helping me refresh my singledom wardrobe and teaching me to speak style.

I’m trying on a trench coat in Whistles, and Plum is telling us a story about her colleague.

‘And then Georgina is like, since the little fucknuckle hasn’t rung her, she’s going to organise a party just so she can invite him. I have to say, I admire her balls.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, exchanging a glance with Sophie. All of Plum’s non-fashion conversation so far has, as usual of late, centred on men. Men she knows, men she likes, men other women know and like.

Plum walks over. ‘Push the sleeves up,’ she instructs me, undoing the belt and tying it in a half-bow-knot instead. ‘Pop the collar. Never wear a trench the old-fashioned way. This isn’t Waterloo fucking Bridge.’

I nod obediently, exchanging a grin with Sophie. Plum has a bossy-but-charming manner that you could put down to her Yorkshire roots, five years working with posh girls in PR or growing up with four younger brothers. We met at university when she borrowed my French notes, and became best friends when she began dating one of Peter’s friends. That didn’t last, but our friendship did. She was the centre of a much wider group while I was in a relationship with Peter and didn’t really get to know many people . . . I wonder if that’s why I get so socially nervous sometimes. Hmm.

Plum has always been sunnier and more easygoing than me, though the recent months – or is it years? – of man troubles are getting her down. She’s also very pretty, with a smile so perfect, it’s almost American. I’ve had braces twice and my teeth still retain a certain kookiness.

‘Anyway,’ she continues airily, backcombing her light brown hair with her fingers and pouting in the mirror. ‘I told her that was silly. I mean, maybe he lost his phone. Or maybe he saved her number incorrectly. A hundred things could prevent him from calling her. That’s what I always tell myself when I’m in that situation.’

I nod, unsure what to say. When I was in a relationship I didn’t really see this side to her. The man-hunter side.

‘Perhaps I’ll just go back to Yorkshire,’ she says glumly. ‘I’m running out of men in London. My mother would be thrilled.’

‘Don’t be a dick,’ says Sophie gently. She’s the only person I know who can call someone a dick and still sound nice.

Sophie is two years younger than me. As children we were both very shy and spent a lot of time reading and drawing in intense, creative silence. But then, at 12, she developed this calm confidence while I remained quiet and prone to inner panic. For a few years I was jealous of her – she went to more parties and no matter what she did, was unable to keep platonic male friends where I was depressingly capable of it – but that soon faded. And now I just adore her. (Which is fortunate, as her engagement coinciding with my break-up could otherwise have been difficult.) We look very similar: straight, dark brown hair, slim but utterly un-athletic, with blueish eyes. Her teeth are better than mine too.

‘Easy for you to say, you’re the one who’s getting fucking married at the age of 25,’ says Plum.

Sophie doesn’t say anything to this. She told me once that she feels embarrassed about jumping the marriage queue ahead of us both. That is typical Sophie. She’s kinder than anyone I know.

Plum is now trying on the trench I just had on, and is gazing at her reflection in the mirror in that detached, assessing way that all girls have when they’re shopping, like they’re examining fruit in a market. ‘I look like Inspector fucking Clouseau,’ she says. (Plum has to be extremely ‘on’ for her job in PR, which I think is one of the reasons she swears like a sailor with Tourette’s when she’s with us. Another is that she’s just really good at swearing.)

I pick up a dark-blue mini-dress. ‘Good? With a belt?’

‘I’m over belts,’ says Plum. ‘Actually, I’m over dresses. They’re so un-versatile. It’s all about separates now. But that would be OK with some drop earrings and some chic little flats.’

‘I don’t own drop earrings or chic flats,’ I say sadly. ‘How can I have been shopping my whole fucking life and still have nothing to wear?’

I take out my notebook and write ‘Flats, earrings’ in a page I keep specifically for sartorial learnings.

‘How’s this?’ says Sophie, coming out of the changing room. ‘It’s not revealing, it’s informative.’ Her dress is cut to well below boob-crease.

‘When the fuck are we going wedding dress shopping, by the way?’ says Plum, perking up considerably.

‘We?’ repeats Sophie dubiously.

‘You need me, I’m your other big sister,’ says Plum firmly, putting her arm around Sophie and shepherding her back to the changing room. ‘I’m not leaving the Wood sisters alone with that decision.’

‘Fine. After work next week,’ calls Sophie through the changing room curtain. ‘I know a vintage wedding dress company. We did a shoot there once.’

Sophie is an agent for photographers that you’ve almost heard of and soon will. She discovered she loved photography temping in a gallery in San Francisco, then rang 20 London agents every week till one of them gave her a job to shut her up. Another person who knows what she wants and makes it happen. Argh. Did I miss a Figure-Out-Your–Life-Day at school or something?

‘Right, stick a fork in me, I’m done,’ says Sophie, handing the rejected dress back to the saleswoman with an apologetic smile. ‘It’s lovely, I’ll probably come back later, thank you so much for your help!’

She once told me that she feels bad when she doesn’t buy something. It’s why she owns eight identical V-neck black jumpers.

‘Let’s go to Zara for non-basic basics,’ says Plum decisively. ‘That’s what Abigail’s missing.’

‘How are you so good at this stuff?’ I ask as we head outside.

Plum shrugs. ‘My brain automatically co-ordinates outfits. Like that magic fashion computer in
Clueless
. I can even do it with things I haven’t bought yet.’

With Plum’s help, Zara is a success. I find a sexy nude pencil dress, a slightly-longer-than-any-of-my-others-and-therefore-apparently-completely-different black skirt, and some totally inappropriate green high heels that I just want. Plum tells me how I should wear all these things, and I take out my notebook and write everything down till she starts laughing at me.

‘How are you getting along with Robert, by the way?’ says Sophie.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘He’s not around much. He gave me some good “surviving singledom” tips the other night.’

‘He’d be good at that,’ says Sophie. ‘He’s a total ladykiller. One of London’s premier playboys.’

‘Description, please,’ says Plum.

‘Dark hair, dark green eyes, high cheekbones, chiselled jaw line, lips arrogantly curled into a perma-snarl,’ says Sophie, as though she’s reading the back of a Mills and Boon novel. ‘Gorgeous, brooding and manly.’

‘Frowny,’ I add. ‘Grumpy. Needs a shave. Hair’s a bit messy. He’s very tidy around the house, though. Thank God.’

‘Good body?’ says Plum.

‘Yes,’ says Sophie. ‘You really don’t find him hot, Abigail?’

‘I haven’t seen his body. It’s not like I’m going to run into him coming out of the shower, we have separate bathrooms.’

‘Shame,’ says Plum wistfully.

‘Anyway, when we met I was still in break-up recovery mode,’ I say. ‘I only ever saw him as a potential flatmate.’

‘Domesticity breeds contempt,’ says Plum. ‘He sounds like just my kind of bedmate. Roll him in honey and bring him to me.’

‘He’s not the relationship type,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘Totally,’ agrees Sophie. ‘He’s sort of unobtainable. Great guy, but . . .’

‘Marvellous, another fucknuckle, that’s just what I need. Hey, did you hear what happened to Henry?’ asks Plum. ‘He woke up this morning with a bite of unchewed kebab still in his mouth.’

Henry is my other best friend. He’s a real
boy
: uncomplicated, very good-natured and permanently hungry. He shared a house with Plum and me at university. We went through a phase of calling him Miranda, but he said if he was anyone, he was Charlotte, so we stopped. He’s not gay, by the way, and he has lots of guy friends (all mined by Plum a long time ago). But we’ve known him for so long, he’s one of us.

We head towards Marylebone and sit at a table outside the first coffee shop we see, just as Plum’s phone rings.

She pops her Bluetooth earpiece in her ear (she was convinced that her mobile was giving her blackheads), and trills, ‘Henrietta! No, the BabyCare Show is the 25th this year, darling! Mmm. Righto. Byee!’ She hangs up and rolls her eyes. ‘You’d think we were saving the world, not launching a new fucking nappy range.’

Sophie frowns. ‘Plummy. Language.’

‘Well, she always panics on weekends and calls me from her boyfriend Sebastian’s fucking Range Rover as they’re off shooting yachts, or whatever it is they do,’ says Plum crossly. ‘I’m fed up with posh girls, I really am.’

Sophie and I look at each other and start to giggle. I wonder if people I work with do things like that. Then I remember work, and sigh deeply.

‘What’s wrong, kittenpants?’ asks Plum.

‘Do you love work?’

‘I love my work
friends
, even the posh ones,’ says Plum. ‘But the pay is shit, I’m permanently broke and because the office is all women we all go on the blob at the same time, which is a fucking nightmare.’

‘I do love my job,’ says Sophie. Plum throws a sugar cube at her. ‘Sorry, but I do! . . . It’s stressful but I look forward to Mondays.’

‘Fuck me,’ says Plum in dismay. ‘You look
forward
to Mondays? Honestly . . .’ she turns to me. ‘Why do you ask, sweetie?’

I sigh deeply. ‘Work is basically somewhere I go for free internet access. I don’t like it, I never laugh . . . But I don’t know how to do anything else.’ Oh God, I’m getting emotional. Tears, down boy.

‘Remember it pays well,’ says Sophie. I nod. I get paid more than Plum and Sophie put together, which I feel guilty about so I try to surreptitiously pick up the cheque whenever I can. For the record, I’m not the flash-your-cash bankery type: the idea of spending thousands on a handbag is obscene (practical and annoying, but hey! that’s me). I’ve also saved quite a lot over the years without really trying. (I know how practical and annoying that is too.)

‘I don’t think that . . . I don’t think that I care about the money that much,’ I say.

‘So you’re in the wrong job,’ says Sophie calmly. ‘It’s not the end of the world. You can change.’

‘How can I have spent the last six years in the wrong fucking job?’ I exclaim. ‘Then again, I spent the last seven years with the wrong man. I clearly have a talent for ignoring things.’

‘Isn’t it time you bought a house?’ says Plum. ‘You should get a mortgage while you still have a good job. Then you can quit and do what you want.’

I wince. The buying-a-house conversation comes up with my parents every year. I always fudge it. The idea of committing to something so huge makes me feel sick. I can’t imagine it, I don’t want to imagine it. So I ignore it.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t worry about it just now,’ suggests Sophie quickly. She can read me so well.

‘And remember, you are recovering from breaking up with the man you spent a quarter of your life with,’ says Plum, slipping straight into supportive-friend mode. ‘I mean, I need fucking months to get over relationships that didn’t even last as long as a season of
The City
.’

‘But . . . I am fine about Peter,’ I say uneasily. I really do feel fine. Perhaps I’m in denial. ‘Never mind. It’s too late to change careers now.’

‘It’s never too late. What would you do, if you could do anything?’ says Sophie.

Pause.

I’m staring at her, unable to respond. She stares back for 10, 20, 30 seconds . . . I’m speechless, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. My inability to answer that simple question makes me want to be sick even more. What’s
wrong
with me?

Plum exchanges a glance with Sophie.

‘I don’t know!’ I say eventually. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going home to get changed. I need to put my singledom skills to the test again.’

The best thing about a busy social life? It helps you avoid reality.

Chapter Five

Whenever you break up with someone, you don’t just break up with one person. You break up with their family, their friends and their dog. It’s sad, inevitable and kind of annoying. But it’s just the way it is. Which is why this weekend has been a bit . . . urgh.

For a start, Peter’s mother rang yesterday morning, talking about how much she misses me and how love is something that you have to work at. Bloody nightmare. Then last night Plum, Henry and I went to a party which turned out to be a minefield of Peter’s friends who either asked me about Peter, ignored me or gave me death stares. At 10 pm, my cheeks aching from fake smiling, I made eye contact with Plum and raked a finger across my throat to indicate that I wouldn’t mind leaving. We grabbed Henry, who had been rejected by every girl in the bar anyway, and took a cab to a late-night bar in Victoria.

We had a long chat about singledom on the way.

‘I need to hang out with guys more,’ said Henry. ‘I think you chicks are the reason I never get any action.’

‘You don’t think it’s because you tend to wake up with bites of unchewed kebab in your mouth?’ I said.

‘One time!’ shouted Henry. He paused. ‘I could murder a kebab now, actually.’

‘I am so over that crowd,’ I said, applying lip gloss. ‘They all think I’m an evil bitch for dumping Peter.’

‘Me too,’ said Plum, taking the lip gloss from me. ‘But only because I’ve slept with all the decent men.’

‘You didn’t sleep with me!’ exclaimed Henry, slapping Plum away as she tried to put lip gloss on him too.

‘I snogged you at my 21st, sweetie,’ she replied. ‘And it wasn’t great kissing, so I didn’t bother to defile you.’

‘Maybe you’re a bad kisser,’ he said. ‘Because I’m awesome.’

There was a pause, probably as we all wondered if we were, in fact, bad kissers.

‘I’m starting to think I’m bad in bed because men keep dumping me after I sleep with them,’ said Plum glumly.

‘I heard that you were bad in bed, actually,’ said Henry. Plum punched him, quite hard, in the shoulder. ‘Ow.’

‘I have only kissed or slept with one person since my teens,’ I said. ‘So both of you can just shut up.’

Poor Henry, I reflect. My mother would be so happy if I fell in love with and/or married him. So would Plum’s. But we’ve known him too long. I don’t even think of him as having a willy. I sort of imagine he has a mound down there, like a Ken doll.

Today, I’m dragging Plum to meet my sister and her fiancé at a pub called The Cow in Notting Hill.

‘I fucking hate Sundays,’ says Plum, lighting a cigarette as we walk towards the pub. She’s in a mood. ‘Every Sunday I go to bed alone and wake up on Monday alone and think, oh, another week, a whole week till the weekend when I might,
maybe
, get to meet someone new, someone who isn’t a total cockgobbler . . .’

‘Plum!’ I exclaim. ‘That is melodramatic. And untrue.’ Her hung-over negativity scares me. Is that attitude inevitable? Will I end up like that? I did meet someone last night, between you and me, but I don’t want to bring it up now and make Plum feel worse.

‘Churchill had a black dog. I have singledom,’ she says, exhaling theatrically. ‘I will die alone.’

‘Plummy—’

‘It’s enough to make me completely desperate—’

‘Don’t! Don’t say that word,’ I exclaim. I don’t want to catch her Sunday blues. ‘I don’t like it.’

Plum looks at me strangely. ‘Alright. Jeez. Oh, there they are. Sitting outside. Yay.’

Luke is half-Dutch, and inherited white-blonde hair from his Dutch mother so it’s easy to spot him in a crowd, like a little ray of light. He and Sophie met a year ago and got engaged two months ago. Just before I left Peter. I’d tell you that their perfect, blissful love had no impact on my Peter decision, but well, I’d be lying. It was a major catalyst. Sophie wanted to marry Luke, I didn’t want to marry Peter, the contrast was too huge to ignore.

‘About time!’ says Sophie, standing up to hug and kiss us hello. I note, as usual, how she seems to glow with happiness whenever Luke is around. That’s what love should be like. Maybe I’m just not capable of it. Argh.
Love.

Time for a drink.

‘So tell me about last night,’ I say a few minutes later, Corona in hand.

‘Another fucking 30th. A dinner party,’ says Sophie. Luke is 30, so their social life seems to be ‘another fucking 30th’ every weekend. ‘Started with wine and nibbles, ended with straight men doing synchronised dance routines to Backstreet Boys songs.’

‘I rocked out like AJ McLean,’ adds Luke. His phone buzzes. ‘That’s the hotline . . . ah. Dave can’t make it. He’s unable to get out of bed, apparently.’

‘Anything exciting happen last night?’ asks Sophie. ‘I mean men. You know I mean men.’

I grin, and shrug coolly. I want to get the subject off men so Plum doesn’t get even more depressed. I’m also trying out the don’t-think-about-him-don’t-talk-about-him attitude I’ve been working on since Robert’s post-Paulie peptalk.

‘
Bonjour tigre
,’ says Plum under her breath. I look up. It’s Robert, striding towards us, up Westbourne Park Road, talking on his phone.

‘That’s my flatmate,’ I say. ‘Robert.’

‘Fucking hell,’ she says quietly, glancing at Sophie and Luke to see if they’re listening, but fortunately they’re cooing at each other like pigeons. ‘He
is
gorgeous.’

Robert is clearly trying to end the phone conversation. He’s wearing a kind of cool, albeit wrinkled, khaki shirt. Combined with the furrowed brow and stubble, I have to admit he looks pretty good. He’ll need Botox soon if he doesn’t stop frowning, though.

‘Right . . . Is that all? . . . Well, thanks for calling . . . I don’t know yet. It’s six days away . . . I will. Yes.’ He finally hangs up, shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, and turns to us.

‘Luke, you look fantastic. Hello Sophie, Abigail,’ he says, leaning over to give me a kiss hello. His stubble is longer than usual, and he smells slightly of whisky.

‘Long night, huh, sailor?’ I say, wrinkling my nose.

‘You have no idea,’ he says. His voice is very husky. ‘God, even my eyebrows hurt.’

‘You bad man, why are you in the same clothes that you were in last night?’ asks Sophie. Robert winks at her. Plum is practically panting.

‘Robert, meet Plum. Plum, Robert,’ I say.

‘Hello, Plum,’ says Robert, sitting down at the table next to me. ‘What a delightful name. It’s one of my favourite stone fruits.’ Hung-over Robert is infinitely more relaxed than After Work Robert, I notice. I wonder if his job is stressful.

‘So you were out last night? Were you dancing too? Hung-over today? I hate hangovers, don’t you? I had one earlier but it’s gone now!’ babbles Plum, as she frantically flicks her hair. I glance at her in shock. Is that her idea of subtle body language? And is Robert really that gorgeous?

‘No questions, please. I need a drink,’ he says. Luke hands him the beer he has waiting for him. ‘Thanks. Christ, it’s sunny. I’ll pay you a thousand pounds for your sunglasses, Abigail.’ His eyes are dark green, I notice, with irritatingly thick eyelashes. Why do men always get them? Is it the gene pool’s idea of a joke?

I hand over my sunglasses, which are sort of Fifties and cateyeish, and to my surprise he happily puts them on and beams at us all.

‘Do I look like Audrey?’

‘Audrey is boring,’ I say. ‘Katharine Hepburn was so much cooler.’

Robert gasps in mock horror. ‘How could you say that? I heart Audrey!’

‘How come I’ve never met you before?’ says Plum. She’s cool again. At least on the outside.

‘I was seeing a girl in Italy,’ he says, turning to her with a grin. The cat-eye glasses give everyone killer cheekbones. Including Robert. ‘Lots of weekends away.’

‘And another girl in Edinburgh,’ adds Luke. ‘And one in Bethnal Green, and one in Highgate . . .’ Robert shoots him a shut-up look and Luke responds with a wide – albeit slightly watery – grin.

‘Well, I’m free again now, so all’s well that ends well,’ Robert says.

Funny, how men call it being free and women call it being alone, isn’t it?

Soon Plum is talking about the lack of men in London. She’s either already pissed, or wants Robert to know she’s really, definitely, totally single.

‘I go out four motherfucking nights a week. I am in bars and parties and I’m not obese or revoltingly ugly. And yet I cannot meet a decent man. It’s just fucknuckle after fucknuckle, time after time . . .’

‘Seriously, can you please not swear for just one minute?’ says Sophie.

‘No I cannot! There are no fucking men in London.’

‘That’s just not true,’ says Robert.

‘Are you saying I am meeting men without my knowledge?’ Plum reaches out and pokes Robert in the arm.

‘No,’ says Robert matter-of-factly. ‘I’m saying you’re closed to opportunity. Take right now: you’ve got your back to the crowd. You can only see us. I’ve seen every woman who’s walked in . . . and out . . . and in again. ’Scuse me,’ he adds, getting up.

We all turn wordlessly and watch him walk up the steps to inside The Cow, where I can see a pretty, model-esque blonde wearing a bowler hat and pretending not to see him.

‘He’s not
that
attractive,’ says Plum decisively. She’s evidently decided, in the face of his utter non-flirtation with her, to stop throwing herself at him. ‘And he’s a smartarse.’

‘That must be why you’ve stared at him nonstop since he sat down,’ says Sophie. Plum flicks a piece of ice at her.

From my seat, I can see Robert quite clearly. He’s standing at the bar, still wearing my cat-eye sunglasses, and is grinning down at the bowler-hat girl. Then he takes them off and leans in, as though he didn’t hear what she said the first time.

Robert doesn’t have the sleazy, shark-like twinkle of other lothario types. He just seems calm and certain about – well, everything. It’s obviously charming to other women. I’m clearly immune to it.

I tune back into the conversation for a few seconds. ‘Italy, I think, and then driving to Provence—’ Sophie is saying. Luke gazes lovingly at her when she talks, it’s so cute. They met when he walked past a pub in Soho, saw her through the window, went in and drank alone at the bar till he had the courage to go and talk to her. And that was it.

I hope it’s that easy for everyone, i.e. me.

Robert soon returns, putting his phone back in his pocket. He must have just got her number, I think to myself. Smooth.

‘Have you recovered from your disastrous date, Abigail?’ he asks. He maintains very steady eye contact, I’ve noticed. I bet that’s part of the whole calm thing.

‘Yes, thank you. So, are you taking bowler hat to dinner?’

‘Who? Her? No. She’s not dinner material.’

‘What is she then? Tell me you don’t booty call. It’s so five years ago.’

‘I’m not that kind of boy,’ he says, sipping his drink thoughtfully. ‘They booty call me, if anything . . . No, she’s a fancy-afew-drinks-if-you’re-out-at-about-10 pm text.’

‘A short-term investment,’ I suggest. ‘You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you? I suppose your singledom rules will make me a bastard, too.’

‘They’re just survival skills, Abigail,’ he replies easily. ‘Don’t overthink them. So. What did you get up to last night? Give your number out to all and sundry?’

‘Yeah, I got stickers printed up,’ I reply. His know-it-all attitude is kind of annoying. ‘Aren’t you tired of talking about my dating life?’

‘I find it interesting,’ he says. ‘Like a parallel universe of naivety and optimism.’

I glare at him for a moment, and then start to laugh. ‘Fine. His name is Josh,’ I whisper, so Plum can’t hear. ‘He works in HR, and I met him at the bar, and we snogged on the dance floor. My first snog since Peter and I broke up!’ I pause. ‘I wish I could remember it better.’

‘Wow,’ says Robert. ‘I haven’t snogged on a dance floor in years. Did you feel his excitement thrusting against you?’

‘Ew,’ I say. ‘Seriously, ew.’

Robert laughs. He has one of those laughs that makes everyone else feel like they might be missing out on something funny.

‘
Que
?’ says Sophie.

‘I, um, met a guy last night. Robert reduced it straight to sex, immediately,’ I say petulantly. ‘Deviant.’

‘Who’s the guy?!’ says Sophie excitedly.

‘No one, no one, I haven’t heard from him yet, he probably won’t even call,’ I say, glancing at Plum, who is carefully lighting a cigarette. She left soon after we got to the bar last night: no one was chatting her up so she couldn’t see the point in staying.

‘Doesn’t it seem a shame to spend all night chatting to just one person?’ asks Robert.

‘No,’ I say, though now that I think about it, there was a tall guy at the bar who I thought kept looking at me. I wish I’d talked to him a bit, too.

‘I knew it,’ he says smugly.

It’s kind of annoying how he can read my mind. ‘You want me to’ – I pause and look for the right word – ‘
multitask
my flirting?’

Robert nods. ‘Meet, greet, move on. Unless you just want, you know, a one-night-stand.’

‘Men don’t think like that,’ says Plum, who looks a bit upset. I know she’s thinking about a guy she met a few months ago. She talked to him all night, thought a thunderbolt went off, went home with him and shagged till 5 pm on Sunday. She hasn’t heard from him since.

‘Enough about this,’ I say hurriedly.

‘But I thought you were the fuckmerchant!’ she blurts at Robert.

He shakes his head. ‘Casual relationships. Very different thing.’

‘You make it sound so noble,’ I say.

Robert ignores me. ‘I bet, if you two did exactly what I say, you could meet a guy within the next hour.’

‘How?’ interrupts Plum. ‘Write my number on the back of the boys’ toilet door?’

‘Go over to The Westbourne,’ that’s another pub just about 30 feet up, always surrounded by enthusiastic outside drinkers on days like this. ‘Walk in the side entrance and order two pints of beer and a vodka and tonic at the bar. Carry them out the main door—’

‘But how can I carry three drinks?’ asks Plum. ‘I’ll drop them.’

‘Exactly. Pause when you get outside, like you can’t see your friends. It’s packed, so that’s not surprising. Act like you’re having trouble holding all the glasses. Someone will offer to help you. Talk, laugh, flirt. Job done.’