Читать книгу Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle - Gemma Burgess - Страница 38
ОглавлениеIt’s so good to be home. Our house is still decked out in Robert’s sister’s Christmas decorations, there’s milk in the fridge and crumpets in the breadbin, and it’s warm and clean. In short, the place feels loved.
As soon as I got back, I took a shower, dressed in my new Christmas J Brand jeans and a white top, unpacked, put washing on, changed my sheets, rearranged my wardrobe, and played my favourite Roxy Music songs very loudly on the iPod player.
Bored.
I’m trying to manage my Daveticipation. He’ll be in touch today. I know he will. He texted ‘See you tomorrow’. I have to be patient and not text-terrogate him.
And when I see him – or kiss him – again, perhaps I’ll know. Just like my father said.
I wonder what Robert is up to . . . I made him a Christmas card in France. I want our friendship to go back to what it was . . . Whatever he doesn’t like about me being with Dave, he’s just going to have to learn to live with.
Hmm.
I take out my notebook and look at the sentence again. When you find the right person you’ll just know. I drew so many little squiggles and arrows around it that anyone analysing that page would think I was crazy and potentially violent.
Very bored. Plum and Henry are spending New Year’s Eve with their respective new partners, Sophie and Luke are driving into London later today . . . DaveDaveDave . . . I wonder what Robert is doing. I’ll call him.
‘Why, if it isn’t the nearly-birthday girl,’ says Robert, instead of hello.
‘You’re not at work, are you? Because it’s nearly 5 pm on New Year’s Eve and that would be weird. Happy Christmas, by the way.’
‘Happy Christmas. And I am at work, yes.’
‘Fancy a little New Year’s Eve drink?’
‘Done. The Only Running Footman in Mayfair?’
‘See you there, one hour.’
The Only Running Footman is a loving Christmas hug of an old pub in Mayfair. It’s just off Berkeley Square, and during normal weekdays is filled with local suits drinking boisterously. At 6 pm on this dark and frosty New Year’s Eve, however, it’s surprisingly empty, with just a handful of people in black tie having pre-dinner drinks before heading off to some glamorous Mayfair ball, no doubt. Ever noticed how men always look smug and round in black tie, and women always look sparkly and freezing?
I order two large whiskies and take a seat, my face lighting up as I see a familiar broad-shouldered figure coming in the front door.
‘Robert!’ I exclaim, jumping up to give him a hug. He looks a bit tired and peaky, probably from working too hard and not eating properly, I muse. And his hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, making him look somehow clean-cut and younger.
‘Love the haircut! Can I call you Drill Sergeant?’
‘Ah, Abby,’ he says, leaning into kiss me on both cheeks, and I give him a hug. He’s so big and broad, particularly in all his winter layers and coat. It’s like wrapping my arms around a tree.
‘Sit down, my boy,’ I say. ‘You look pale. Have you been eating properly?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ he says, taking a sip of his whisky. ‘Oh, fuck me, that’s good. What is that?’
‘Laphroaig,’ I say. ‘Just one for you, though, princess. You know how you get after a few whiskies.’ I raise my eyebrows at him meaningfully.
Robert shouts with laughter. ‘Christ! One time! And I drank about a bottle that night, I’ll have you know. I’m an exceptional drunk.’
‘Of course you are. Now! I made you a Christmas card.’
He opens it. ‘You shouldn’t have! Ah, really. You shouldn’t have . . .’ I know I’m a dork, but I made him a little amateur-découpage card with pictures I cut from magazines and discarded Christmas gift tags. There’s a moped, porridge, a Bloody Mary, a newspaper, and Don Draper from Mad Men, because I think Robert looks like him, and a plum pudding, and a reindeer on which I wrote ‘Fernie 2002’, and lots of stars.
‘It’s ugly, but festive, which I think is fitting given what our house looks like right now,’ I say.
Robert reads the poem I wrote inside.
‘For Robert, so tall and such a grouch, I always see you on the couch, Happy Christmas and New Year, I hope it’s filled with lots of cheer’. Wow. That’s . . .’
‘I know, brilliant,’ I say, laughing. ‘I was bored.’
‘Thank you, Abby. I feel so lucky. Did you make one for Dave, too?’ he asks.
‘No, just my friends. So tell me about your Christmas. Did Santa find you?’
‘Yes, and he brought me pyjamas with airplanes on – my mother doesn’t know that I sleep naked—’
‘And usually have a girl for added warmth,’ I interject. ‘—precisely, and my sisters gave me this rather smart coat. What about you, Abigail, my little Christmas fairy?’
‘These jeans, and this jumper, and some books, and some of that lemon bath oil from doctor whatever-it-is, and very warm gloves.’
‘Alice’s husband gave her gloves one year and it caused a fight that lasted till February.’
‘Schoolboy error. Never give a practical present to someone you sleep with.’
‘I’d like to amend that to “or a present that could in anyway insult the recipient, no matter who the recipient is”,’ says Robert. ‘Last year, my mother gave me a book called Online Dating For Dummies.’ I laugh so hard at this that I choke on my whisky.
‘Peter got me a blender once. Practical AND insulting.’
‘Louisa once got me a card saying she was taking me to Morocco as my present,’ says Robert. ‘And then she left me on New Year’s Eve so we never went. Which was how she’d always planned it, I guess.’
‘That’s not funny at all.’ I’m shocked.
‘I know.’ He sighs. No wonder he looks tired, I think. It’s the anniversary of his broken heart.
God, I’m dramatic these days.
‘Right, well, we’re not going to think about her today, the silly bitch. We’re going to have another drink and cheer the fuck up.’
By the time we’re halfway through the next whisky, the pub is filling up. I have my phone on the table, so I can surreptitiously ensure there’s no chance I can miss a call from Dave, but there’s been nothing so far. It’s 7 pm now. Five hours to go. I just need to be patient. He’ll turn up. In the meantime, Robert is doing impressions of his sisters, who always fight like harpies over Christmas.
‘I think it’s a chemical thing that happens to sisters,’ I say.
‘Alice is properly grown-up with two children, yet she chased Rosie around the house with a wooden spoon screaming “I know you are wearing my fucking knickers, take them fucking off”.’
‘I wonder when people actually turn properly grown-up,’ I say. ‘I don’t feel it.’
‘I don’t think anyone does. Alice says sometimes she sees her kids as really cool housemates with serious dependence issues. So, what do you want to do for your birthday tomorrow?’
‘Nothing is planned,’ I say, and am about to say ‘it depends on Dave’ but then I realise how pathetic that sounds, so instead I shrug. ‘I always feel like New Year’s Eve is the whole world celebrating my birthday a day early, anyway. Maybe we could all go to the pub in the afternoon and just relax. Sophie and Luke and Henry and Charlotte are in London, so . . .’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ nods Robert. ‘And Dave, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I nod. I glance quickly at my phone. Nope, nothing. I look up and meet Robert’s gaze, and before he can mind-read me, I stand up. ‘Right! I’m going to the bar.’
There are a couple of girls on a table near the bar, looking at the A-Z map of London.
‘Well, that can’t be right, that says St James there, but I thought that St James was a park down there,’ says one girl.
‘That’s definitely the Piccadilly Circus region, not St James,’ says the other. They’re American.
‘Hi there . . .’ I say. Oh God, why do I always try to talk to strangers after I’ve had a drink. Oh well. ‘Actually, St James is also a very small area just below Piccadilly, as well as a park, and Piccadilly is a long road between Hyde Park Corner and Piccadilly Circus. And that’s just a big ugly junction no one goes to if they can help it.’
‘Thank you!’ they chorus, looking up at me delightedly. They both have perfect teeth, like all Americans. (Damn them.)
‘You’re so nice!’ says the blonde. ‘I’m Taylor, this is Bree.’
I order my drinks, and we chat together for a minute. They quickly tell me, in the way of all ambitious new graduates, that they’ve just finished their degrees in journalism but couldn’t find jobs thanks to the economy, so are now travelling around the world and blogging about it.
‘We hope to get a book deal at the end, and we’ll parlay that into a career in journalism,’ says Taylor. ‘We have 3,000 followers on Twitter already and it’s only been a month. It’s called Travel By Proxy.’
They’re 21 and they’ve already got more ambition and career smarts than I do at 28-minus-one-day. When did everyone else figure everything out?
‘Can we take a photo of you?’ says Bree, brandishing a digital camera. ‘Will you be an interview subject?’
‘Uh, sure,’ I say. Man, I hate photos. ‘Do you want to interview a guy too? I feel bad leaving him by himself for too long . . .’
Bree and Taylor turn around, see Robert, and both of their jaws drop. I stifle the urge to laugh. Within seconds, they’ve picked up their coats, bags and drinks, and are heading over towards him.
‘I come bearing gifts!’ I beam at him, and make a ta-dah! motion with my hands at Bree and Taylor. They both immediately put on kittenish smiles and Bree pulls down her ponytail, running her fingers through her roots. Robert shoots me a lamb-to-the-slaughter look, before turning to the girls with a smile.
‘Hello, Bree. Hello, Taylor.’
‘Hello!’ says Bree. ‘Now! Let me introduce you to Travel By Proxy!’ She explains the concept again.
‘Abby, darling, you go first,’ says Robert.
I nod, sit up straight and try to look thoughtful.
‘What’s your idea of perfect happiness?’
‘Um . . . My friends and a late-night bar.’
‘And your boyfriend Robert!’ interrupts Taylor.
‘Absolutely,’ I say automatically. Robert and I look at each other and I fight the urge to laugh.
‘What is the quality you most like in a man?’
‘Confidence,’ I say. ‘And charm.’ An image of Dave flashes into my head. I wonder where he is, and why he hasn’t texted. I—
‘What is the quality you most like in a woman?’
‘Silliness. And smarts.’
‘If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?’
‘My inability to decide what I want in life,’ I say. Robert and I meet eyes again. ‘Did you just steal these from the Vanity Fair Proust Questionnaire, or what?’
‘Not the final one,’ says Bree proudly. ‘Where do you see yourself in 12 months?’
I’m stumped. I open my mouth to talk and nothing comes out. Robert starts to laugh. ‘She doesn’t like thinking about the future,’ he tells them.
‘No, no, I can answer this!’ I say. What do I want my life to look like in 12 months? Images flash through my brain: Dave, work, Dave, work . . . nothing is clear. Why am I so indecisive? ‘Um,’ I say desperately, and cast about for inspiration. ‘Well, it’ll be New Year’s Eve, so I see myself drinking in a pub with Robert.’
‘Good answer!’ says Taylor. ‘OK! Robert. Your girlfriend did so well, let’s see how you go!’
‘Be gentle,’ he says seriously. She giggles and chews her pen. I roll my eyes inwardly.
‘OK! OK. What’s your idea of perfect happiness?’
‘Peanut butter on crumpets,’ he says seriously.
‘What’s a crumpet?’ Bree whispers to me.
‘It’s like a type of bread,’ I whisper back.
Taylor clears her throat meaningfully. ‘What is the quality you most like in a man?’
‘High alcohol tolerance. And loyalty.’
‘What is the quality you most like in a woman?’
‘Good posture. And loyalty.’
‘If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?’
‘The list is too long . . .’ he says, looking at me and smiling.
‘Where do you see yourself in 12 months?’
‘Apparently I’ll be drinking with Abigail.’
‘This is great. So great!’ says Bree, tapping away.
‘Oh my God! Bree! We have to go!’ exclaims Taylor, looking at her watch. ‘Our New Year’s Eve party starts in two hours!’
‘You must get tired of girls throwing themselves at you,’ I say, after they’ve left.
‘You’re the one who dropped them at my feet like a cat with a mouse.’
‘I know how hard it is for you to meet women,’ I say.
‘It used to be. It was only because of those snogging competitions with Dave that I kissed anyone in my teens . . . I was more competitive than I was shy.’
Oh, Dave. Where are you, I think. Why haven’t you called.
‘He’ll turn up,’ says Robert. ‘I think he’s still with his family.’
Our eyes meet again, and I’m about to tell him off for mind-reading, when the girls burst back into the pub. ‘We forgot the photo! Some journalists we are!’ Bree exclaims. ‘OK, smile!’
We both sit up and smile for the photo.
‘Come on, you guys! Put your arm around your lady, Robert!’
Robert puts his arm around me. I look towards him, our eyes meet for a second, and I start laughing. This is ridiculous.
‘Perfect! So amazing. OK! Call us later! Or we’ll email you! Bye!’ They run out of the pub again.
‘Where was your first kiss, then?’ says Robert, after a pause. ‘On holiday. A French boy. I was 15 and just happy to get it over and done with. You?’
‘I was on holiday too. I was 14. My sister Alice lined Luke, Dave and I up with the other girls and counted three . . . two . . . one . . . LUNGE!’
I’m laughing so hard that I start banging the table with my hand. Ow, that hurts. Must be a bit tipsy.
‘Who were the girls?’
‘Our sisters, actually,’ he says. ‘Don’t look at me like that! Not our own sisters, obviously. I kissed Louisa who was 19 and, frankly, cradle snatching at the time, Luke kissed Rosie who was 16, and Dave kissed Bella who was 13.’
‘That’s pretty sick.’ Bella and Dave were each other’s first kiss? Oh God, don’t think about it.
‘Yeah, weird, isn’t it? Especially considering . . . everything,’ he says, then glances at me. I meet his gaze and try to smile.
‘Sorry. It was a very long time ago. Do you want a burger?’
‘Oo! Yes. Burger. And a beer. And a shot.’ I need to erase the image of teenage Dave and Bella kissing.
‘Sure you shouldn’t slow down?’
‘I’m totally fine. When I start doing splits on the dance floor then you’ll know I’ve had enough,’ I say. Where is Dave? Argh, the Daveticipation . . . It’s nearly 8 pm: he’ll be here within four hours. He has to be.
