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Chapter Fourteen

The next day, at the end of a lazy morning on the balcony reading Cold Comfort Farm, drinking coffee and eating crumpets with peanut butter, I decide enough is enough. I need company and he needs food.

‘Knock knock!’ I say at Robert’s door, and immediately curse myself for sounding like both of my parents. ‘Robert?’ I say, pushing open the door. ‘You OK?’

I hear a grunt, and tiptoe in. ‘Robert? There’s a girl outside who says she’s pregnant. She says it’s yours?’

‘What?’ he croaks, shocked out of his hangover coma. He sits up, still wearing his clothes from last night. Through the gloom I can make out puffy eyes, stubbly cheeks and wild man hair. Then he realises it’s just me, and flops back down with another grunt. ‘What time is it?’ he whispers hoarsely.

‘It’s high time you got up. I brought you water, a Bloody Mary – good for hangovers I hear – and peanut butter crumpets,’ I say, holding up the tray.

‘This isn’t a hangover,’ he croaks. ‘It’s the plague.’

‘Poor baby,’ I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing him the water first. He takes a feeble sip and hands it back to me.

‘I wonder what time I got home last night,’ he muses. ‘And how.’

‘What’s the last thing you remember?’

‘The Anglesea Arms . . . it’s a pub in Chelsea. Drinking whisky. Why? Did I see you?’

‘Let’s talk about that later. For now, just recover. Can I open a window? This room smells like a boys’ school.’

‘How do you know what a boys’ school smells like?’ asks Robert through a mouthful of peanut butter.

‘My boarding school only accepted girls in the last two years. It stank like unwashed hair and pubic teenage lust.’ I draw the curtains open a few inches, and then push up the windows.

‘My eyes!’ screams Robert. The more I get to know him, the sillier he is. He tucks the duvet high under his armpits like the wolf in Red Riding Hood, and continues to eat and slurp. ‘And I don’t have dirty hair, by the way. I wash it every day. And condition it.’

‘Figures. You scream like a girl, too. I’m bored. Will you play with me today?’

‘Ah, if I had a pound,’ says Robert.

‘I had so much fun last night,’ I continue. ‘And two men asked for my number. The party was officially my bitch.’

‘Come and sit here and tell me absolutely everything,’ says Robert. ‘And if I close my eyes, don’t be alarmed. I’m just resting them.’

I perch on the edge and start chatting about last night, carefully skipping over the and-Robert-turned-up-shitfaced-and-we-hadto-take-him-home bits, because I don’t want him to be reminded about Louisa and get upset again. Fifteen minutes later I’m sprawled across the entire bottom third of the bed, checking my hair for split ends.

‘You’re taking over my bed. You are like a Labrador,’ says Robert.

‘Labradors have split ends?’ I say.

‘Glad the upset over Adam didn’t last, anyway,’ he says, finishing the last of the Bloody Mary with a satisfied sigh.

‘Adam who?’ I say.

Robert grins, but I’m actually not joking. It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Adam The Tick Boxer. Of course! I was upset about him. Oops.

‘If you loved me, you’d get all the papers and maybe a car magazine as a little treat, and some croissants and a latte,’ he says. ‘I’m sick and need looking after.’

‘Alright. But only because you’re teaching me how to be a bastard.’

‘What? Oh, right. No problem. God, I feel like I was beaten up last night.’

We spend the next few hours watching a Curb Your Enthusiasm mini-marathon. I consume yet more coffee and simultaneously read glossy magazines, clipping out pages that will help me further refine my sartorial instincts. (I like to multitask while I watch TV.)

Robert, showered and still feeling rotten, is curled up in his duvet. He’s trying to read the paper but holding it up is proving difficult, and he keeps putting it down with a deep sigh. I’m surprised he’s not holding onto a teddy and sucking his thumb, the big baby.

‘You know, you can’t sulk your way out of a hangover,’ I say.

He looks at me and grunts.

I love being single, I muse, as I reach for US Vogue. I can do whatever I want. Even if that means nothing. Anyway, there’s no one else around today. I’ve texted Plum, who is starry-eyed about Dan, and has floated off to visit her sister in Richmond, safe in the knowledge that questions about her love life won’t bother her today. Henry ended up in a house party till 6 am and isn’t taking calls. My sister and Luke have gone to see his parents in Bath.

‘Are you making a collage?’ asks Robert. I am carefully cutting out the latest Miu Miu ad.

‘I stick pictures I like on the inside of my wardrobe to help me decide what to wear,’ I say brightly. ‘It’s my new idea. Good, huh?’

‘How much time do you spend thinking about what to wear?’ says Robert. ‘Honestly. How many minutes a day. Ballpark.’

‘I can’t count that high,’ I say. ‘It’s one of life’s most surprisingly smashing pleasures, though . . .’

‘Smashing,’ says Robert, without looking up from the paper. ‘Why is it you say quaint little things like “cripes” and “smashing”? It’s like hanging out with Julian from the Famous Five.’

I ignore him. I love Julian from the Famous Five.

His phone beeps and he looks at it quickly and deletes the text. He’s been swatting off texts all day. ‘Ah, the trials of a man in demand,’ I say. ‘Ladyfriends after a little action, are they?’

‘I think any action would kill me today.’

‘Poor Lady Caroline.’

‘No, darling, Lady Caroline only texts me when she’s drunk and bored. That was Janey. She only texts me when she’s tired of shopping.’

‘She sounds awesome.’

‘She is for me,’ he says, flashing me a grin.

Toby and Rich both text and ask how I’m enjoying my Sunday. I’m happy they texted, but I’d be happy if they hadn’t too. I’m not faking this either. I am cool and detached.

‘You’re not replying?’ says Robert in surprise, as I look at Rich’s second text and put the phone down with a little snort of laughter.

‘Maybe later. Keeps them on their toes.’

‘Attagirl. Adam who, indeed.’

I stick my tongue out at him, pick up the paper and realise with a shock that yesterday was Peter’s birthday. How could I have forgotten that? How can you share your life with one person for so many years, cook and plan holidays and talk to his mother on the phone, and then move on and be a complete person with a completely different life, all by yourself, within months? Does it mean I never loved him? Or just that I was ready to change? Or is it just the power of the human id? (Or is it ego? I can never remember.)

‘I’ve got cabin fever,’ I comment at 4 pm.

‘Mmm,’ replies Robert.

I stare at the ceiling for a while.

‘Abigail wants to go for walkies,’ I say. ‘She wants to go to Regent’s Park.’

‘Robert doesn’t feel very well and shouldn’t do anything strenuous,’ says Robert.

‘Get up. We’re going out.’

Regent’s Park on a Sunday afternoon in October is delightful. Especially today. It’s blustery and grey, but not too cold. Robert and I stroll in unison, hands in our coat pockets, only talking occasionally. I instinctively knew these clothes would make me happy today: tight jeans, new biker-y boots, a red hoodie and a navy peacoat. Pretty With A Punch. I never used to like what I was wearing. Now I do.

I love people-watching. Guys playing football, dogs running around, kids screaming, mums and dads with strollers looking tired. Everyone here to escape Sunday blues for a few hours.

Without discussing it, we both slow our pace and my brain stops racing. I suddenly feel very peaceful and relaxed.

Two yummy mummies steering those four-wheel-drive type prams stare at Robert as they walk towards us. It’s kind of fun having a platonic male friend that every woman in London seems to find ridiculously attractive.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be a mother. I wonder if I’ll ever fall in love and get married. It seems so utterly impossible right now. Then again, I used to find it impossible to imagine not living with Peter. That’s one of the nicest things about life, I think to myself. You never know what’s going to happen next.

Both lost in our own thoughts, Robert and I stroll all the way down to the Marylebone entrance, when his phone rings.

‘Mum!’ he says, and then listens for a minute. ‘Well, which button did you press? . . . OK. Is the Sky Box on? . . . Well, is the light blue or red? The light in the middle?’ I start to laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s the Sky, then, Mum . . . Try the other remote. Press the upper right hand corner . . .’ He pauses, and glances at his phone screen. ‘Mum, that’s the home phone. You just called me. You did, you’re on call waiting. Hang up with the home phone and—’ He pauses and looks at me in shock. ‘She just hung up on me.’

I’m in a giggling fit. ‘What a lovely son you are.’

‘Of course I’m lovely, I’m the only boy and the baby, to boot . . . ah,’ he says, as his phone rings again. ‘Mother! Always a pleasure. Yes, I think I meant the other phone too. Right, so that wasn’t the TV remote, that was the home phone, so find the TV remote, it’s the one that says Sony . . . Sony. SONY. Yes . . . And press the green button. It’s in the top corner, Mum. Turn the remote the other way . . . there you go. Only press it once, it takes a few seconds . . . and now press “guide” on the Sky remote and you’ll get the menu you want. The Sky one, Mum . . . Yes. Yay! Well done, you.’ He pauses and grins widely. He looks very boyish when he’s happy, I suddenly think. He’s got lovely white teeth, with pointy incisors that give him a wolfish air. His features are all lit up and his thick floppy hair is going in a million directions, as always. He catches my eye and grins. ‘I’m walking with Abby, so I shouldn’t chat . . . she’s the girl I live with, remember?’ He pauses and rolls his eyes. ‘No, Mother, you can’t. I have to go. I’ll call you during the week. Love you too.’ He hangs up and lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘God! I have at least one of those calls a week.’

‘Robert loves his mummy,’ I say in a happy voice, as we turn right and start walking up the other side of Regent’s Park.

‘I do, I love my mummy. I have never caused her any trouble . . . though when I was nine, I made her cry. I accidentally-on-purpose smashed my birthday cake on the floor right before my birthday party because I was angry that it was football-shaped, not cricket-bat shaped like I wanted.’ He pauses. ‘She’d worked all day on it and burst into tears . . . Then I felt too guilty to enjoy my party. I still feel bad about it.’

‘What a brat you were. I never did anything bad,’ I say proudly, then remember, ‘except steal a viola bow.’

‘A what?’

‘A viola bow,’ I enunciate carefully. ‘I was seven, and I snapped it when I was running around the house, and I knew I’d be in deep shit. So the next day, I stole someone else’s bow before orchestra practice. Isn’t that awful?’ I sigh at the memory. ‘I’m a thief. I felt sick for months about it.’

‘I’m shocked,’ says Robert.

‘I know,’ I say sorrowfully. ‘It was a dreadful thing to do.’

‘No, I’m shocked that a seven-year-old would ever play the viola,’ he says, looking mystified. ‘Come along, let’s walk faster. I want something to eat.’

‘How about Carluccio’s for coffee and pannetone?’ I suggest.

I put my arm through his as we stride along together. He’s much taller than me, with infinitely longer legs, so I do a skippy little pony-trot every few steps to keep up. The second time I do it, Robert notices and slows down. Enveloped in our happy silence, we walk in the direction of St John’s Wood. Suzanne lives in St John’s Wood, I think. Urgh. Work again.

‘Work? That was a work sigh,’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.

‘I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I’m starting to hate it . . . Suzanne has been watching every move I make. It makes me so self-conscious.’

‘Find a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life,’ suggests Robert.

‘Thanks for the hot tip,’ I say sarcastically. ‘You should be a careers counsellor.’

‘One of my dad’s edicts. He has better ones. Like “Never waste an erection” and “It’s not about how big or small it is, it’s how angry it is”.’

‘You should put that on a T-shirt. Or better, a tattoo.’

He turns to look at me as we stop at Prince Albert Road. ‘Why don’t you just quit? You’d figure out what you want pretty fast once you stopped earning a salary.’

‘No,’ I say immediately. ‘Not an option. I just want, um, life to be easy. And I want to not feel sick whenever I see my boss.’

‘Then start doing what she wants.’

‘Smashing. “Step it up”. “Be proactive”. Make more calls. Meet more clients. Introduce more sales. All that shit.’ We walk in silence for a few seconds. ‘Try not to worry about it,’ says Robert. ‘Any of it. Work, dating, none of it matters. Just . . . detach.’

‘I want to be like a female version of you,’ I say. ‘Without quite so much meaningless sex.’ Not that I’d mind a bit of sex, I think to myself. But not like the Skinny Jeans one-night-stand. He’d have to be gorgeous and we’d need some kind of, what’s the word? . . . Oh yes. A spark.

‘Good. Most things in life are only as difficult as you allow them to be.’

‘What the devil do you do, anyway? Why are you always giving me advice? Are you a careers consultant or something? A life coach?’

Robert shakes his head.

‘Are you a lawyer? You have that bossy lawyer thing going on.’

‘Nope,’ he says.

‘Are you a spy?’ I say. ‘That makes sense. You won’t tell me what you do, you’re a control freak, you went to Cambridge . . .’ I shiver as we walk past the church and the October wind hits us.

‘Yes. I am a spy,’ he says, putting his arm around me. It’s like being tucked under the arm of a very large, warm bear. For a second, I press my head against his chest as we walk, then I realise it’s an almost girlfriend-like sign of affection, so I pull away and go back to linking arms.

Just as we reach Carluccio’s, Robert’s phone rings again.

‘Lukey!’ Robert says with a grin. Oh, goody, I think, I want to talk to Sophie. There’s a pause. ‘Pretty tender. Your future sister-in-law has been looking after me.’ Pause. Robert’s face drops. ‘You did?’ Pause. ‘I did?’ Pause. ‘No. She didn’t.’ Robert looks at me, his face now a blank. ‘Yeah. Fuck, thanks. Sorry about that . . .’ Pause. ‘Well, yeah. Talk later.’

‘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?’