Читать книгу Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle - Gemma Burgess - Страница 28

Chapter Nineteen

Speed dating left us all with post-traumatic euphoria. We found a new bar around the corner, took over a table and started to tell dating stories. Plum and I pressed olives in our cheeks and did our Stockard Channing imitations, Henry told a story about a friend of his who had a weekend in Ibiza that started with a small glass of white wine on the flight over and ended in being airlifted out by helicopter.

‘I’ve never been to Ibiza,’ said Charlotte shyly. She’s completely out of her shell; Henry’s puppyish openness seems to reassure her.

‘Neither have I,’ said Henry. ‘We’ll go together. What’s your favourite place to go on holiday?’

They’ve been flirting a lot. Henry is following Robert’s just-make-conversation tip, and Charlotte is twinkling back. Plum is in brilliant form, and I’ve laughed so much that my face is aching. Even the inevitable discussion about Peter doesn’t upset me.

‘Now’s the time to tell you, I never liked the guy,’ says Henry.

‘But . . . I thought that you got along!’ I say. ‘You always came over for dinner, and we watched rugby together . . .’

‘We did get along,’ he says. ‘But we were friendly. Not friends.’

‘You’re way out of his league,’ agrees Plum. ‘You smile so much more now.’

I put a small black olive over my incisor and grin at them all. There’s no point in talking about Peter. Or his brother. Who cares about the affair? I am bulletproof. Nothing affects me.

Another text arrives from Jon, the blind date guy.

Hey! Just checking you got my text earlier. I had an awesome night. Would really love to do it again. Jon

Delete, ignore, continue. To hell with karma.

And now we’re at the housewarming. It’s in a top floor flat in Notting Hill, and you can hear the party from the street before you even get in.

‘Raise the roof, raise the roof,’ sings Henry as we walk up the stairs, and does a little dance. Plum, Charlotte and I fall against the wall giggling.

As we walk in, the first person I see is Robert, propped in a doorframe with his arms folded, talking to a blonde girl wearing, frankly, way too many sequins.

‘Survive, did you?’ he calls to me, turning away from her.

‘Just,’ I say, and turn around to help the others with the wine that we picked up from the off-licence. Charlotte and Henry have already charged into the overcrowded kitchen, and Plum is talking to the guy who opened the front door for us. I turn back to Robert, and see the girl he was talking to gazing at the back of his head balefully, before stalking quickly down the corridor.

‘Your sequinned blonde is leaving,’ I say in a low voice, walking over to him.

‘She’ll be back,’ he says. ‘Come on, let’s find your sister. She’s pretty hammered.’

‘Thank you for tonight,’ I say. ‘Especially the Peter thing.’

He grins. ‘Enough with the thank yous. I’ve had experience in dealing with similar revelations.’

As we walk into the living room I’m hit by a tsunami of happy, party noise. There’s about sixty or seventy people in here drinking, whooping, dancing, smoking, laughing or shouting over each other. The music is turned up full blast and half the crowd is wearing wigs and sunglasses for no apparent reason.

It’s not one of those parties where everyone looks to see who you are and then dismisses you. It’s a party where you walk in and immediately feel like laughing for the delightful indulgent silliness of it all. I also immediately identify five girls wearing outfits I want to copy.

‘I was going to introduce you to everyone,’ says Robert. ‘But I think we’re one drink too late for that.’

We smile at each other for a second, but I’m quickly distracted by a guy charging into the wall next to me in an attempt to walk up it, à la Donald O’Connor’s ‘Make ’Em Laugh’ routine from Singing in the Rain. It fails miserably, and he crashes noisily to the floor.

‘Are you alright?’ I ask, leaning over him gingerly.

‘Did anyone see?’ he squeaks through his armpit, which is somehow over his face.

‘Um . . .’ I’m not sure what to say.

‘That’s JimmyJames,’ Robert tells me. ‘He’ll do anything for attention . . .’

‘I will NOT do anything for attention,’ says JimmyJames from the floor. ‘I draw the line at nuns and dogs.’

He grabs Robert’s proffered hand and pulls himself up with a bounce. Jimmy, I can now see, was built for power, not for speed. Or climbing up walls. He’s about my height and barrel-shaped, with scruffy brown hair.

Before I can reply, or ask why he’s called JimmyJames for that matter, I’m distracted by a shout behind me. ‘Sistaaaah!’

I turn around. It’s Sophie, uncharacteristically dancing on a coffee table to ‘Bust A Move’ by Young MC. She screams my name in joy and reaches her arms out to me, and promptly falls off the table. For a split second, I imagine her plummeting headfirst onto the floor and breaking her nose, too drunk to even put her hands out to stop herself, but a moment later Robert has caught her and places her safely on her feet. She doesn’t even seem to notice, and collapses happily into me. ‘I missed you so much!’

‘Thank you, oh my God, that was close,’ I say. Robert smiles and turns back to JimmyJames.

‘Tell me everything about speed dating!’ says Sophie. She doesn’t usually get drunk like this. Someone has been giving her shots.

‘Tomorrow,’ I say, shaking my head.

Sophie grabs my hand and makes me do the (rather pathetic) bendy arms breakdancing move we perfected as children. Laughing, I turn to look at Robert, but he’s staring at a very pretty girl, with big slanty eyes like a Siamese cat.

‘Robbie, can I have a quiet word?’ the girl murmurs in a husky voice. God, I wish my voice was deeper. I swear I sound about seven on my voicemail.

‘Olivia! Of course. I’d love to,’ he says. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen. Abby, do you want a drink?’

‘Lukey is over there, come and say hi,’ Sophie says, grabbing me by the hand.

‘Yes, and I’ll have anything,’ I call over my shoulder as Sophie leads me away. ‘I’m clearly too sober for this party,’ I add to myself.

‘Sobriety kills,’ says the guy standing in front of me. We make eye contact. Holy sensory overload of gorgeousness. I turn to Sophie to break eye contact with him.

‘Abigail, this is Dave,’ says Sophie.

‘Hello,’ I say, and – stunned into rudeness – turn quickly to Luke before Dave can say anything back. ‘Hi, Luke.’

‘Hello, nearly sister-in-law,’ says Luke, kissing me on the cheek, before dipping Sophie into a huge movie star snog. I have no choice but to turn back to Dave. Oh God. The handsomeness.

‘Can I interest you in a shot?’ says Dave. He has a bottle of tequila strapped to his chest in one of those water bottle holders normally used by runners, with six shot glasses on either side like bullets. In an iPod holster on his left arm is a small salt shaker, and he’s holding a plate of sliced lemons in his right hand. He’s clearly responsible for my sister’s present state.

‘You couldn’t rig up a contraption to hold the lemons with?’ I say. Hold it together, Abigail. His eyes meet mine and my face tingles painfully. I’m blushing.

‘I was hoping to strap this plate to a dwarf’s head,’ he says. ‘But my go-to dwarf is on holiday.’

‘Bummer,’ I reply, my eyes flicking up to meet his and then quickly away. Funny too. Shit. Come on, Abigail. Pull yourself together.

He’s just so handsome. Short dark blonde hair and extremely blue eyes that I can’t look into for more than a half-second. Very tanned, like he’s just been skiing or sailing or something. A huge smile that almost takes over his face. Tallish and fit, perhaps a little on the thin side, but as long as his jeans aren’t smaller than mine I don’t care. In summary, hot as hell. And probably out of my league.

‘Places!’ shouts Dave. Sophie and Luke stop kissing and stand to attention as he hands us all shot glasses from his holster, and fills them up with tequila.

‘I’m not sure that I like tequila shots,’ I say, thinking of that night with Skinny Jeans. Ew. Block it out.

‘No one likes tequila shots, Abigail, my darling,’ says Dave, raising an eyebrow. ‘Obviously.’

Lick hand. Sprinkle salt. Do the shot. Suck the lemon. As I shake my head at the disgusting taste, I look up and meet Dave’s eyes again. God. It’s like being punched in the stomach with – well, sorry, but it’s true – desire. I have never felt like this in my life. I bet we’d have that spark, if we kissed . . .

There is nothing cool or detached about me right now. In fact, I’m quite sure he can read my mind and it’s saying, in very large print: I would like to be naked and in bed with you.

I turn to Sophie.

‘You should call that guy! Jon!’ she exclaims. ‘I heard he really likes you. Did he text you?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ I say distractedly. ‘But I’m not into it.’

‘Can you make up a lie rather than ignore him? Like, that you’re getting back with your ex? At least he won’t have to wonder . . .’

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Can’t be bothered. I told him I wasn’t looking for a relationship.’

‘You’re being mean. Apparently he’s really lovely . . . Oo! I ran a marathon today!’ she says proudly.

‘I thought it was a charity 5k in Hyde Park at lunchtime?’ I say. God bless drunk attention spans.

‘Whatever. The point is, I ran a long, long way,’ she says. ‘Then I went home to recover, then I met Luke for dinner at Bumpkin, and then Dave announced himself as the captain of fun,’ she says, hiccupping slightly. ‘It’s been a bit crazy ever since.’

‘No, no,’ Dave interrupts. He has a very self-assured way of speaking. ‘Captain Fun. Not the captain of fun. It’s a legitimate name. Abigail, you can see the difference, can’t you?’

‘Absolutely,’ I nod, again stupidly. I wonder if he heard that thing about Jon. At least he’ll know I’m single, right? (Does that sound desperate? Oh God.)

I charge towards Robert, who has just come in with two beers and no Olivia, hissing ‘follow me!’ as I reach him. The moment we’re in the corridor, I collapse dramatically against the wall.

‘Dave. You’re like, best friends with him, right? How have I never met him before? Is he single?’

‘Yes, why?’ says Robert. Then he clicks. ‘Really? Him?’

‘Yes, yes, he’s the first guy I’ve met since breaking up with Peter that I find just – argh, divine,’ I babble. ‘Tell me about him, does he have any deal-breaking faults? Is he nice to waitresses? Do you think he’d like me? Would he ask me out? I think I might take him as my lover.’

‘Your lover? OK, just relax, Abby,’ says Robert. ‘Dave is one of my oldest friends, I can help.’

‘You can?’ I say. ‘Yes. Please. If he’s your best friend, he must be normal! Isn’t this exciting? Finally, I know what I want! I want him!’

‘Just one thing,’ he says, pausing to think for a second. ‘Dave—’

A shout from down the other end of the corridor draws my attention, and I see Henry and Charlotte holding hands and heading out the front door.

‘Look!’ I say, grabbing Robert’s arm. ‘Henry and Charlotte!’

Robert nods. ‘I saw them doing a mating dance in the kitchen.’

‘So, what do I do about Dave?’

Robert thinks for a second. ‘Just ignore him. That’s the best thing you can do.’

‘Really?’ I say doubtfully.

‘Yes, definitely,’ he says.

Plum comes bounding up. ‘This party is awesome! I beg your pardon,’ she says before I can reply, turning around to face the guy behind her. ‘Did you just place your hand on my bottom?’

‘No . . .’ he says. He’s cute, in a beardy way. ‘Maybe. Can I get you a drink to apologise?’

‘I suppose,’ she says, and skips after him into the kitchen, turning to flash us a manic grin.

‘Come on,’ says Robert. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

The people at this party come not only from all over the country, but all over the world. A Greek girl called Aphrodite is teaching a Liverpudlian called Dylan how to say ‘I’m pregnant with your child’, an American who is, rather fabulously, called Vlad, is standing on a chair having a Cypress Hill song com petition with JimmyJames, and a Canadian guy called Matt asks for my number but then repeatedly calls me Jessica.

‘Where do they all come from?’ I say.

He looks around and shrugs. ‘That’s London for you. I guess JimmyJames and Dave are very good at making friends.’

I love it. As much as I enjoy the warmth of having friends I’ve known since I was 18, these people don’t know me as Peter’s quiet girlfriend, or the girl they always saw in the library, or Plum’s subdued friend, or Sophie’s less fun, elder sister. I have a blank slate. As a result I’m a bit louder and more confident than I’ve ever been before. I talk more and laugh louder. It’s brilliant.

Throughout all of it, I’m acutely aware of exactly where Dave is on the other side of the room, what he’s doing and who he’s talking to. I’m discreetly tracking him. He’s so good-looking and funny, and exudes confidence and charm. If he was to come and talk to me, could I be cool and detached? Would I clam up or babble? I have no idea. But I’m following Robert’s instructions and ignoring him.

Then I head into the kitchen for a refill. ‘You’re Robert’s flatmate,’ says the girl in too many sequins that I saw talking to Robert earlier.

‘Yes,’ I say, though it wasn’t really a question. ‘I’m Abigail.’

‘I’m Emma,’ she says. ‘I expect Robert’s told you about me.’

‘Oh, yes, Emma! Of course.’

Her eyes fill with tears. ‘He hasn’t ever mentioned me, has he? Bastard.’

‘Um, I’m sorry,’ I falter. ‘What . . . are . . . did he do?’ I can’t think of what else to say, though it’s pretty obvious what she’s upset about.

‘What he does to everyone,’ she says, flailing her arms wildly and spilling a little bit of gin on the floor. ‘Slept with me three times and then told me it was better we kept it casual.’

I grimace. That sounds like Robert alright. Though according to him, it’s always mutual, and the girl doesn’t expect anything else. Like hell.

‘He makes you feel special, like he’s going to look after you, you know?’ she says. She’s slipping into full rant mode. ‘And 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 material. But it’s all a front, it’s a game to him, he’s just a big fucking slut.’

‘He’s not,’ I say defensively, though actually, if Robert wasn’t such a good friend of mine, I’d probably think he was a big fucking slut, too. ‘He’s a great guy to have as a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s just not looking for a relationship.’

‘He told me that, too, but it’s like part of the attraction!’ she says hysterically. ‘He’s unobtainable. You must be the only female friend he’s ever had that he hasn’t slept with. And I bet he will,’ she spits bitterly. ‘I bet he sleeps with you. And then you’ll know.’

‘Well, thanks for the heads up,’ I say. This conversation isn’t going anywhere. ‘Lovely talking to you.’

I turn around and leave the kitchen and run straight into Robert. ‘I wouldn’t go in there,’ I say. ‘Emma’s waiting for you.’

‘Fuck, thanks,’ says Robert, doing a 180 and walking back quickly towards the living room.

‘You know, you should stop having sex with girls and then dumping them. It’s just not nice,’ I say.

‘The sex is very nice, actually,’ he says.

‘That’s not what I mean. That girl is miserable and it’s your fault.’

‘I never lied to her. I never pretended it was going to be anything more than it was,’ he replies easily. ‘I always say “I am not looking for a relationship, this is just casual”. It’s perfectly clear.’

‘You may think that, but they don’t,’ I say, frowning at him. ‘I guarantee it. Girls get involved . . .’

‘You slept with Skinny Jeans and didn’t get involved,’ says Robert, raising his eyebrows at me.

I grimace at the memory. ‘That was a mistake. And an aberration. I had to leave when he was still asleep so as to avoid the morning-after awkwardness . . . Anyway, I’m talking about your so-called casual relationships, not one-night-stands,’ I pause, thinking. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so kind to them.’

‘I admit, Emma wasn’t my best idea ever,’ he admits. ‘Too sweet. I’ve since moved on to tougher girls who will love it when I avoid morning-after awkwardness.’

‘Like Olivia?’ I say. The Siamese-cat-eyed girl from earlier is now sitting on some guy’s lap on the sofa a few feet away, but staring at Robert.

‘Olivia, if you must know, uses me whenever she’s between boyfriends,’ he says in a low voice, running his hands through his gravity-defying hair so it’s almost completely upright. He grins wolfishly, showing his very white, straight teeth. ‘See? Victim. Moi.’

‘My heart bleeds,’ I say, looking up at him with a frown on my face. ‘You should tell Emma you’re sorry, or something.’

‘Never apologise, never—’

‘Explain,’ I interrupt, finishing the sentence for him. ‘You told me that one already . . . Shit. Hang on. Where is Dave?’

I suddenly realise that my Dave-o-meter has lost track of where he is. I scan the room and can’t see him, then scurry to the corridor and poke my head around the corner. Dave! Leaving! With sequinned Emma! He doesn’t even turn around to say goodbye. He just puts his hand on her back and shepherds her out. Argh!

‘He’s leaving! With Emma!’ I hiss at Robert.

Robert mutters something about a death wish, but I can’t catch it.

‘Sorry?’ I say. ‘Dave has a death wish? Emma didn’t strike me as a genuine bunny boiler . . .’

‘No . . .’ he sighs. ‘Don’t worry about Dave. Trust me, that won’t be anything serious.’

‘Really?’ I say. ‘Why did you tell me to ignore him, you doofus?’

‘You’ll see him soon. We’re all going to your folks’ house in France in two weeks, remember? Bridal party get-together.’

‘Yes!’ I say, punching the air in delight. ‘OK, between now and then, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about him. I need a game plan.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, swigging his beer.

Luke comes up, half-carrying Sophie. ‘She’s toast. We’re heading.’

‘It’s because I ran a marathon!’ exclaims Sophie, slurring slightly. ‘Alcohol hits the system fast when you run fast. That’s a biological fact.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Plum, bounding up. ‘I’ve got a hot date with Dan tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep.’

‘I’m ready to go too,’ I say. ‘Robert? Or do you have things to see, people to do?’

‘Ha,’ he replies. ‘Well, Felicity has requested my presence. But I’ll see you home safely first, of course.’

‘You’re such a gent,’ I say.

We find two black cabs within minutes of standing on Westbourne Grove. Sophie, Plum and Luke take the first one, and Robert and I jump in the second.

‘That was fun,’ I say, turning to him.

‘It was,’ he agrees, looking over at me.

We smile at each other in the silent darkness for a few seconds.

‘You look nice tonight,’ he says. ‘I like your shoes.’

‘Thanks. I like yours too.’ I lean my head back and close my eyes. ‘Thank you for everything tonight,’ I murmur. ‘You’re the best.’

‘That’s what they tell me.’

‘You’re my Cyrano de Bergerac,’ I mumble.

‘Does that make you Roxane?’

‘No . . . Christian. The guy he helped was Christian de Neuvillette.’

I’m so tired. Such a long night. Between counselling Plum, the speed dating car crash, the shock of Peter’s affair, and finally the stomach-thumping discovery of Dave, I am absolutely exhausted. Thank God it’s only Friday. I’m going to have the laziest Saturday morning ever. I might even cook. No, who am I kidding? I won’t cook. I’ll pick us up something at Melrose and Morgan. Or, ooh yes. I’ll have crumpets with peanut butter. I wish we had one of those foursome toasters. Sometimes two crumpets just isn’t enough . . .

‘Abby, darling, wake up, we’re home,’ whispers a voice, and I open my eyes. I’m lying down in the cab, my head on Robert’s thigh, his big hand on my arm. I am unbelievably warm and sleepy and comfortable. My hair falls over my face and Robert smooths it back.

‘But I’m so cosy,’ I murmur.

‘Come on,’ he says, and takes me by the hand. I slowly get out of the cab. There’s a big jacket around my shoulders. It must be Robert’s. He pays the driver through the front window and takes me by the hand. I am so sleepy, I can’t open my eyes. My brain feels like it’s made of warm honey. I follow Robert up the stairs and wait for him to open the front door, and then he takes my hand again and leads me inside and up the stairs towards my room.

‘What big hands you have, grandmamma,’ I say, half to myself.

‘Shh,’ says Robert.

‘Shh,’ I repeat.

We stop on the landing outside my bedroom door and I lean over to take my heels off. It’s difficult with my eyes nearly closed. Robert crouches down and helps me, and I fall against him slightly.

Then we’re in my room, and I can’t even be bothered to take off my make-up or get undressed. So I let go of Robert’s hand, shuffle across the room and flop down on top of my bed. I sense him leaning over me and for a frightening second, think he’s going to kiss me, but then he just pulls half of the duvet over me and tucks it over my clothes.

‘Night night,’ I whisper, letting my brain relax completely into warm sleepiness.

‘Night night,’ whispers Robert, closing the door. I hear his footsteps going down the corridor, and then his phone ringing.

‘Ah, Miss Felicity,’ I hear him saying. ‘Now what is a girl like you doing awake at a time like this?’

And then I’m asleep.