Читать книгу Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle - Gemma Burgess - Страница 27

Chapter Eighteen

‘Fuckety fuck, fuck, fuck it,’ I say. I’m saying it to no one, because the minute I clocked the three of them, I ran straight for the bathrooms. Now I’m locked in a cubicle, having what I sup pose is a very mild version of a panic attack: I’m looking at my shoes and saying ‘fuck’ a lot.

What do I do now? I have to leave, right? I cannot brazen my way out of this, no matter how detached and cool I pretend to be. I’ll text Plum and ask her to come in here, perhaps we can fashion a burkha of some kind out of her scarf, and I can escape without them seeing me—

‘Abigail?’ says a voice. It’s Plum. ‘Why did you just do a pirouet te and leap for the ladies?’

I open the toilet door and walk out just as Charlotte bursts into the bathroom.

‘What’s going on?’ she says. ‘You left me with Henry!’ she stops short. ‘Not that I mind . . .’

‘I have to leave,’ I say, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. ‘The dweeb is here and the guy that I, you know, was a drunken slutty nightmare with, and Peter’s brother, Joe, who hates me and called me a selfish bitch. What are the odds? I can’t possibly stay and sit face-to-face with them for three minutes each!’

‘You can’t leave!’ they say in unison.

‘I need you here,’ says Plum. ‘And if you leave, you’ll fuck up the guys-to-girls ratio.’

‘I only came because of you!’ says Charlotte nervously.

Fuck. It’s true, I really can’t leave Charlotte since I invited her. Plum was practically hysterical on the street just now, I mean, she seems stable since Dan rang but God knows what might happen if something went wrong. And it really would be difficult to hold a speed dating night with too many guys.

‘Oh God, I’m having a hot flush from nerves, this may have brought on The Change,’ I say, leaning over the sink and running my wrists under the cold water.

‘I find it unlikely that you’re going through menopause at 27,’ retorts Plum.

‘When were you a drunken slutty nightmare, by the way?’ says Charlotte. Ah yes, I pretended I was sick. Oh well, we’re friends now. I give her a quick rundown on the Skinny Jeans date, and she laughs so hard I think she might be ill.

Then we’re all silent for a second. ‘There’s what, seven million people in London? What are the odds?’

‘I thought it was eight million,’ says Charlotte.

‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I need some thinking time. What time is it starting? We’re just butterflying now, right?’

‘We’re supposed to go to the private room upstairs by 9 pm,’ says Plum, glancing at her phone. ‘You have half an hour.’

‘I’ll tell Henry what’s going on,’ says Charlotte, dashing back out. ‘He’ll be worried.’

‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ says Plum. ‘Then we can figure out what to do.’

And I’m alone again. I feel sick, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t . . . I never responded to any of the texts from Josh From HR or Skinny Jeans. Perhaps this is my comeuppance for being so arrogant. Karma is a bitch. Should I say I lost my phone? Or that I just never got their texts? Perhaps I could pretend to have amnesia. Like Guy Pearce in Memento.

Fuck it, I’m calling Robert.

‘Why are my spidey senses telling me that you need advice?’ he says, instead of hello.

‘Total fucking meltdown. Can you talk?’

‘I learned to talk when I was a year old, but I was advanced for my age. What’s up?’

‘I’m at speed dating, you know, and Skinny Jeans the one night stand guy is here, and Josh From HR, remember that bad date at the Albannach? And Peter’s brother Joe who hates me, and called me a stupid bitch, and I’m going to have to talk to them all for three minutes each, and I can’t leave or the girls will kill me.’

There’s a pause.

‘You’d better not be laughing!’ I say.

‘Sorry,’ he says. I can tell by his voice that he’s smiling.

‘Why is it echoing?’

‘I’m hiding in the, uh, euphemism.’

‘Right . . . So, who cares? Three minutes. You can do anything for three minutes.’

‘No! I need help!’ I am overreacting, but I can’t help it. ‘Joe was so horrible to me the last time I saw him, and I couldn’t even say anything back, I just clammed up and ran away and cried. And last time I saw Skinny Jeans guy, he was passed out in bed and I was crawling around his room looking for my knickers. I will die of mortification when I have to face him.’

‘If you die, text me.’

‘I don’t think that the state of deadness – or the speed dating environment, for that matter – is conducive to texting.’

‘Drinks!’ says Plum, bursting back in with two very large vodkas.

‘Is that Robert? Hi, Robert!’

‘Is that Plum?’ he says. ‘Christ, she’s cheerful.’

‘I’m putting you on speaker,’ I say, and press loudspeaker. ‘Robert is my scriptwriter.’

‘Right then. To to the Josh guy, you say that you lost your phone,’ he says, his voice sounding all tinny over the loudspeaker.

‘Roger that,’ I nod. ‘But he might ask me out again.’

‘Then say that you’re, God, I don’t know . . . working through a few issues with a recent break-up,’ he says.

‘So she’s allegedly working through break-up issues by going to a speed dating night?’ says Plum dubiously.

There’s a pause. Plum and I stare hopefully at my mobile.

Robert clears his throat. ‘Let’s move on. Skinny Jeans. Just act like you’re mildly amused to see him again.’

‘That’s no help!’ I exclaim. ‘I need a script, Robert. What if he asks me why I left before he woke up? Or why I ignored his texts? I’m too embarrassed to tell him that I was too embarrassed.’

‘What?’ Robert starts laughing again. ‘Why do you care what he thinks?’

‘And what if Joe picks a fight again? I’m not good with people being mean! What if – I mean, what if—’

‘I can’t script non-specific “what if” situations, Abigail,’ says Robert. ‘You can handle this. Come on. Be a man. Pull yourself together.’

‘I’ve got an idea!’ exclaims Plum. ‘My earpiece. The Bluetooth thing on my phone. We can arrange your hair to hide it, and Robert can call my phone and listen in and suggest things to say.’

I gaze at Plum for a second. It’s the perfect solution.

‘Yes! Awesome idea!’ I say. Plum starts high-fiving me and jumping gleefully around the bathroom. I turn back to the phone. ‘Robert! Will you do it?’

‘Um . . . OK,’ says Robert slowly. ‘Can you really hide it, though? And I need to be able to hear what he’s saying, too.’

Plum brandishes a hairclip. ‘Side part, so all your hair is over your ear. Voilà.’

‘Got it,’ I say. ‘In that case I need another double vodka, please. My shout. Take my card. You know my pincode. Robert, I will call you back in a few minutes.’

‘Roger that,’ says Plum, and runs out of the bathroom. I get my make-up out of my bag and start reapplying. I need more warpaint for this battle.

Twenty minutes later, my hair is now in a (rather becoming, actually) bouffy side-swooped ponytail, entirely covering my right ear. Plum’s phone earpiece is tucked safely behind said side-swoop, and Robert is sitting on the couch at home with a bottle of wine, his voice beaming into my ear via the magic of Bluetooth. Or wireless. Or whatever it is.

‘Can you hear me? Testing, testing.’

‘Affirmative,’ I say into the bathroom mirror.

‘You can’t see a thing,’ says Plum admiringly. ‘God, I am brilliant.’

She’s bursting with sunny positivity. What a difference a date makes. I also notice that she’s backcombed her hair and done a sex-kitten-swish with her eye make-up. ‘Miaow,’ I say. ‘I know,’ she beams. ‘I’m seeing Dan tomorrow. But the admiring male gaze is good for the soul.’

‘Amen to that, sister,’ I say, and we clink glasses. ‘Robert, can you hear us talking?’

‘Loud and clear,’ says Robert. ‘And heavy on the oestrogen.’

‘OK,’ I say. My nerves have solidified into a tiny fist in the pit of my stomach. I can handle anything tonight throws at me . . . with Robert’s help. ‘Robert, thank you so much for doing this,’ I say. ‘I mean really. I owe you.’

‘Add it to my tab,’ says the little Robert voice in my ear. ‘OK, team,’ I say, as a bell rings outside. ‘Let’s go.’

We walk outside and upstairs to a private room, where Charlotte, Henry and the rest of the speed-daters have already congregated. Forty of London’s young singles, all in the one room. I can practically smell the hormones.

Keeping my head down, I take a seat at a table for two with a bottle of wine and two glasses. How thoughtful to provide a conversational lubricant, I think, pouring myself an extremely large glass, drinking half of it and then refilling it. There’s also a pencil and a sheet of paper with 20 numbered lines on. I’m supposed to make notes? Fuck that.

A girl at the front is calling out instructions to people, but I’m having trouble paying attention. I look around and see Charlotte and Plum at their own little tables, and give them little thumbs up and nods. The rest of the speed daters are all in different stages of nervousness and excitement. I can’t see any particularly good-looking guys, by the way. Which is good: the next hour is about surviving, not flirting.

‘You OK, Abby, darling?’ says Robert.

‘Smashing!’ I exclaim brightly, scaring a guy walking past who thinks I’m talking to him. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ If I’m not careful, I’m going to look absolutely cuckoo. Thinking this, I say ‘cuckoo!’ aloud, and I hear Robert laughing.

‘Hi, I’m Christopher,’ says a shaven-headed man in a suit, shaking my hand. ‘I think I’m your first victim.’

‘Tell him you’ll take it easy on him, but you like to draw first blood,’ says Robert. I crack up and Christopher looks at me oddly. ‘If you find that amusing, we’re going to have a great time.’ he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. Two can play the arrogance card, my friend.

Then a bell rings again, and the speed date has officially started.

‘So, what brings you here tonight, Christopher?’ I say.

‘I’m a journalist. I’m reviewing this for Time Out,’ he says.

‘He’s lying,’ says Robert in my ear. ‘He’s trying to look cool.’

‘Really,’ I say. ‘Do you work with Kristina O’Shaunnessy?’

‘Yeah, I think she’s on another floor,’ he says smoothly. He is lying. I totally made that name up.

‘Do you live, um, in London?’ I say.

‘Oh God, I’m so bored already,’ says Robert.

‘Shut up,’ I say. Christopher looks at me oddly. ‘I mean . . . don’t shut up! Talk! Talk!’

Robert starts laughing in my ear and I’m having trouble holding it together. The rest of the speed date is a complete catastrophe, as all I can hear in one ear is Robert laughing, and Christopher, clearly thinking I’m mad, in the other.

Then the bell rings again. Christopher can’t wait to get away.

‘Listen, dammit, I need you to be serious,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘I’ll be sectioned if it continues like this.’

‘Sorry,’ Robert says. ‘OK, OK, I will be serious now.’

Then the bell rings again, and I look up, and it’s Josh From HR.

‘Abigail,’ he says awkwardly, sitting down.

‘Josh!’ I say loudly.

‘Who?’

‘From HR,’ I add quickly.

‘Got it.’

‘How’ve you been? What have you been up to?’ I gabble. Ah, job interview mode. We meet again.

‘Great,’ he says, and pauses. ‘Look, I don’t want to make this awkward . . .’ he trails off, clearly trying to think of how to ask me why I ignored him. I clear my throat, hoping Robert will take that as a cue to talk. He does.

‘I’ve been meaning to text you,’ says Robert.

‘I’ve been meaning to text you,’ I say.

‘I just think I’m not ready. Uh, to date. I was in a very serious relationship and meeting someone straight away wasn’t part of the plan.’

‘I just think I’m not ready to date. I was in a very serious relationship and meeting someone straight away wasn’t part of the plan.’

‘I totally get it,’ says Josh. ‘And actually, I wanted to ask you about the girl I just met. I think she’s a friend of yours. Plum? . . . She’s amazing! Tell me everything about her!’

Robert starts laughing again.

‘Plum!’ I say brightly, trying to ignore Robert. ‘Of course. She’s one of my best friends. What do you want to know?’

‘Where does she live? I want to meet someone who’s also south of the river,’ he says.

The rest of the three minutes is filled by telling Josh all about Plum. Hopefully she won’t get annoyed.

By the time Josh leaves, I’m sweating lightly.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ I hiss into my earpiece.

‘And you thought it was going to be all about you. Serves you right for being arrogant.’

‘I thought arrogance was good.’

‘Only if it’s funny.’

The next dates are easier: perfectly nice guys, none of them particularly interesting, funny or good-looking. I’m not feeling with it enough to apply myself to the task of conversing, so each speed date drifts pointlessly through predictable questions and answers. All of them probably think I’m strange, as I keep grinning when Robert makes little comments about them into my ear.

‘I’m an entrepreneur,’ says one.

‘Pimp,’ says Robert.

‘I love travelling,’ says another.

‘Sex tourist.’

‘Have you been to Canada?’ says the smoothest of the bunch.

‘Serial killer.’

And then Skinny Jeans sits down.

‘Abigail,’ he says. ‘I thought it was you.’

‘Hi!’ I say loudly. ‘Mark!’

‘Who?’ says Robert. Fuck, he doesn’t know his real name. Why do I give everyone stupid nicknames?

‘I almost don’t recognise you out of your SKINNY JEANS,’ I enunciate carefully. He’s wearing grey flannel trousers and a pink T-Shirt with leather Converses. He speaks clothes exceptionally confidently for a straight man. I wonder if he’d take me shopping.

‘Oh, right. Got it.’

‘That’s odd,’ says Skinny Jeans. ‘Since I was wearing nothing at all when you left my room without saying goodbye . . . let’s see, seven weeks ago?’

‘Um, yes. Well, you know . . .’ I trail off. Come on, Robert, I think desperately.

‘I’m sorry, were you planning on making me breakfast in bed?’ says Robert. Yes! Make a joke!

‘I’m sorry, were you planning on making me breakfast in bed?’ I say.

Skinny Jeans grins.

‘Scrambled eggs? Toast? On a little tray?’

‘Scrambled eggs? Toast? On a little tray with a rose on it?’ I say.

‘Don’t fuck with my script,’ says Robert, which makes me grin slightly more broadly.

‘Find yourself hilarious, huh?’ says Skinny Jeans.

‘I’m a great audience,’ I reply, without thinking.

‘Cute line,’ says Robert.

‘Well, whatever . . .’ says Skinny Jeans. ‘I had a good time anyway. I was just . . . surprised not to hear from you.’

‘I’m sure you got over it,’ says Robert.

‘I’m sure you got over it,’ I say, in a slightly teasing tone.

‘I don’t know why I expected a girl like you to want to see me again, anyway,’ says Skinny Jeans, half to himself.

‘What does that mean? A girl like me?’

‘Cocky. Funny. Hot,’ he says.

I start laughing. ‘I was so nervous on our date . . .’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘You were?’

‘Don’t talk about feelings . . . talk about booze,’ instructs Robert.

‘Have some more wine,’ I say. I fill up his glass as slowly as I can, and then mine. How long can three minutes possibly last?

‘Do you remember rubbing the fat guy’s tummy for luck? Holy shit, that was hilarious.’

‘Uh, yeah,’ I say. I do remember it, kind of.

‘And singing all the words to Smokey Joe’s Cafe in that kebab shop on Portobello Road? And getting everyone in the shop to join in?’

‘Erm, yeah, that was smashing.’ Nope, don’t remember that at all.

‘You are one classy lady.’

‘It was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time,’ says Skinny Jeans.

‘Yeah . . .’ I say doubtfully. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? You don’t strike me as the speed dating type.’

‘I lost a bet with Alfie,’ he says. ‘You met him at The Cow that day . . .?’ Waistcoat Guy, I think, nodding. ‘I said to him that if you didn’t text me back then I’d try speed dating, because I’m officially the worst single man in London.’

‘You’re not!’ I say. ‘I mean, it wasn’t a bad date. I was just . . .’

‘Don’t say you were drunk! It’s the biggest post-sex insult ever.’

‘. . . drunk, I mean drinking, a bit more than I ought, and I was, uh, cringing at the thought that I’d been a nightmare date.’

‘No. You were great,’ says Mark/Skinny Jeans.

‘Actually, the biggest post-sex insult is “we did?”’ says Robert. ‘But that’s another story.’

I laugh out loud and quickly turn it into a girlish giggle and try to focus on Skinny Jeans. ‘Well, anyway. It’s nice to see you now.’

‘You too,’ he says. ‘Any chance of a second date?’

‘This is a second date,’ says Robert.

‘This is a second date,’ I say. Good time-buying, I think.

‘Then . . . a third?’ he says.

‘Sounds like fun. Have your people call my people.’

‘Sounds like fun,’ I repeat. ‘Have your people call my people.’

‘I get it,’ says Skinny Jeans, laughing to himself as the bell rings again. ‘You are one tough customer.’

I’m so not, I think, but I grin at him and take a long slug of my wine. Thank God that’s over.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper into my earpiece.

‘Pleasure,’ Robert replies.

Next I have to sit opposite Henry. He interrogates me about Charlotte and Robert starts giving Henry advice through me. After that, the rest of the dates are pretty easy. Robert is mostly quiet – in fact, for a moment I think he’s dropped off to sleep until he sneezes very loudly and I squawk in surprise, scaring the guy opposite me half to death.

‘Anyone worth a date?’ says Robert as I finish date 18 – or is it 19? – pour myself another glass of wine and sit back with a happy sigh. This is easy!

‘No,’ I mutter. ‘I need to get out of here, soon. Let’s get drunk.’

‘Abigail,’ says a deep voice, and I look up to see Joe, Peter’s brother, walking towards me. Fuck.

‘Joe . . . hi,’ I say, all thoughts of Robert forgotten.

‘I’m just coming over to tell you that I’m not going to sit opposite you for three minutes, so you’re saved,’ he says.

‘Fine,’ I say.

‘What an asshat,’ says Robert in my ear.

Joe nods and gives me a look of utter disdain.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, you know,’ I say involuntarily.

‘What?’ says Robert.

‘What?’ says Joe.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong. With Peter. I broke up with him, but I didn’t hurt him and he’s fine, he’s totally fine, right?’ I stammer hopefully.

‘I’m not telling you how my brother has been since you walked out on him, without so much as a backward glance,’ he says, every word dripping with contempt. ‘But I want you to know something. He had an affair. Two years ago. With a girl he worked with. He ended it because he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting a girl like you, even though he loved her. And she’s with him in Thailand now.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Robert.

‘Fuck off,’ I repeat, and immediately clap my hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to repeat that, it just came straight out because I was too shocked to process what I was saying. I stand up, my eyes filling with tears. Peter had an affair. And Joe hates me enough to tell me.

‘I, uh, I, uh, I’m going d-d-downstairs,’ I stammer, picking up my bag and wine and hurrying past Joe.

‘See ya,’ he says.

I stumble down the stairs, trying to stop the tears that are welling up in my eyes.

‘Abby? Are you OK? Abby? Say something . . . Do you want me to come down there and punch that guy?’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ I say, stalking through the bar to the front door, ripping out the earpiece as I go. ‘I’m hanging up. I’m having a fag.’

‘But you don’t smoke—’ says Robert, as I pull the earpiece out. Peter had an affair. At the same time that I was trying to ignore the fact that I felt like something wasn’t right, like the relationship was missing something, but thinking that I should do my best and keep trying and above all not hurt him because I was responsible for his happiness, he was banging someone else on the side. How stupid I must be. When I broke up with him he looked at me with his sweet, sad face and said ‘I’ll always love you, no matter what. Even if we’re not together.’ God, he must have thought I was so gullible. Just think! All that worry and uncertainty, the guilt about leaving a man who I thought was so fundamentally good and decent . . . who cheated on me. And Joe thinks I should feel bad because he didn’t want to hurt me? Why not just leave me?

What a fucking liar.

Maybe Plum was right. There are no good men. Only different degrees of bad ones.

I only smoke when I’m stressed and I am really, definitely stressed now. With trembling hands I put the coins into the cigarette machine, beg a lighter off the bartender, tear open the pack and am outside lighting up within 60 seconds.

Just as I exhale, and take a huge slug of wine, my own phone rings. It’s Robert again.

‘Abby, are you OK?’ says Robert, when I finally answer.

‘Yes,’ I say, my voice high and quivery.

‘Are you crying?’

‘No,’ I lie, as another tear escapes out the corner of my eye. ‘I’m just, I don’t know, in shock. Joe has a nasty vindictive streak . . . And he never liked me. Peter took me on a family skiing holiday the first year we were together and Joe hated it . . .’ I take a shaky drag. ‘Can you believe Peter had an affair?’

‘No,’ says Robert. ‘He’s clearly an asshat, too. And Joe probably fancied you.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, laughing and blotting tears with a tissue. ‘I wonder who she is?’

I suddenly remember a girl in his team at work, a sporty type I always thought was odd; she stared at me a lot but never started any conversations. I mentioned to Peter, after his work Christmas drinks one year, that I thought she was weird. He jumped to her defence, saying that she was just very shy. ‘I know who it is,’ I say now. ‘I mean, I know who she is. I’m sure it’s her.’

‘I wouldn’t waste any time thinking about it,’ says Robert.

‘I wonder how long it went on for,’ I say. ‘And how it started. And it ended. And how often he lied to me . . .’

‘Abby, darling, you’ll never get the answers you want,’ says Robert. ‘It will just torture you. You left him. You ended it, you walked away and you were loyal while you were with him.’

‘Yes,’ I say uncertainly.

‘So forget about it. Otherwise it will drive you crazy. Trust me,’ says Robert. I suddenly think about him and Louisa, and how the man she’d cheated on him with is now her husband.

‘What an asshat,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ says Robert. ‘He is.’

There’s a pause. Actually, I meant Louisa, I want to say, but don’t.

‘Thanks for calling back,’ I say.

‘Anytime.’

‘And helping me survive tonight. I feel like you’re my therapist sometimes.’

‘That’s what friends are for.’

‘Actually, that’s what best friends are for. You just got a promotion.’

‘Lucky me. And you didn’t even need me. Not really. You could have handled all of that on your own.’

‘Yeah, but our way was fun.’

There is silence for a few minutes. I take another sip of wine and hear Robert taking another sip of his. It’s oddly comforting.

‘I told you speed dating sucked,’ he says finally, and I start laughing despite myself. Fuck Peter. I am bulletproof.

‘Are you OK? What the hell happened with Joe? Let’s get out of here!’ exclaims Plum, bursting out of the pub and onto the pavement. ‘Can I have my phone back? Like, six guys want to ask me out! I’m saying no, of course. My heart belongs to Dan.’

‘Plum’s here,’ I tell Robert.

‘Good. I’m late to meet your sister and Luke for a house-warming party. Why don’t you come and join us?’ he says.

‘Maybe later, I have to talk to my homeboys,’ I hang up and turn to Plum, who is having trouble lighting a cigarette through the ecstatic smile on her face. See what I meant about the victori ous circle of self-assurance?

‘Hey chicks,’ says Henry, following her out with Charlotte by his side. ‘Would you stop running off and leaving us alone? You’re giving us a complex. That was shit, by the way. I don’t know why I let you talk me into it.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say. ‘Anyone want to go for a few drinks? My shout.’