Читать книгу Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle - Gemma Burgess - Страница 39

Chapter Thirty

After we eat, we decide to go to The Punchbowl, another Mayfair pub a few minutes away.

Robert is showing me photos on his phone of his niece Merry, who is four, and Tom, who is two and who has the hugest smile you’ve ever seen. ‘He’s the spitting image of myself at that age, by all accounts,’ says Robert proudly. ‘I always figured you as a grump from birth.’ I glance up at him and grin. ‘Don’t worry, I know you’re the Stay Puft marshmallow man underneath. It’s a big grouchy facade.’

Robert makes a huffing-laugh sound. ‘So is your so-called inability to know what you want in life.’

‘Really,’ I retort. ‘I think you know exactly what you want. You’re just too scared to admit it because then you’d actually have to do something about it.’

My face falls. Wow, that was pretty fucking insightful. But I don’t want to think about it.

‘Too far? Did I go too far?’ he says, grinning at me. ‘Yes, too far,’ I say, frowning up at him. ‘That cut me. Deep.’

‘Sorry, Abby, darling.’ He puts an arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You can say something cutting to me, if you like.’

‘OK, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re still hung up on some absolute bitch who was never good enough for you anyway,’ I say, pushing his arm off me. ‘I mean, some people are asshats. You have to let it go. You can’t control everything in life.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ he snaps. ‘That’s great, from the girl who can’t take a risk.’

We stare at each other angrily for a second and then start laughing.

The Punchbowl is the pub owned by Guy Ritchie, and has a more dilapidated air than the cosy-cool The Only Running Footman. The crowd in here seem like they’ve been here for weeks, sort of glamorous faux-ruffian types who are probably perfectly respectable and work in music or film, plus the inevitable Mayfair tourists and a few New Year black tie types who seem to have forgotten they’re meant to be at another party.

Robert heads off to find us a table, and I order two vodka and sodas. Yes. Simple and soothing. It’s 9 pm. Dave could turn up at any second, he could be surprising me, he might be texting Robert right now to find out where we are . . . The idea makes me smile.

‘You should smile more often,’ says a voice to my left. I turn and see a tall guy – mid-30s, slightly scruffy – in a minging leather jacket. ‘It makes you much prettier.’

Why do men say things like that? It’s not even a compliment, it’s saying we’re ugly when we’re not smiling. I turn back to the bartender and pay for my drinks. ‘Guess I’ll have to find you at midnight and make you smile,’ he continues. ‘Guess so,’ I agree, carrying the drinks over to the table. As if. ‘I came here with Antonia once,’ comments Robert. ‘It wasn’t a good match.’

‘I can imagine,’ I say, picturing Antonia’s all-white Euro ensemble in here. ‘Did she wear the white fur gilet? What is that? Albino kittens?’

‘No, baby wabbits,’ he says, and pauses as we clink glasses. ‘God, it probably is made from wabbits. Gross.’

‘What happened that time you saw her in the airport?’ I say, hoping he’s feeling more open than usual.

‘What? . . . oh. That time. Well, I said “hi Antonia, how are you?”. Then she told me what a total bastard I was, how miserable she’d been over me, how if I didn’t care I shouldn’t have flown out to Milan to see her when she was upset about her dog dying—’

‘You did?’

‘She was upset!’ he says, grinning. ‘I didn’t think that was that romantic.’

‘Well, it is. The knight in shining armour act is an obvious aphrodisiac.’

‘I did hope I might get some sex,’ he admits. ‘You’re such a gent. So then what happened?’

‘And so then I said, I am sorry, it was unfair of me to expect you to be fine with it. And I shouldn’t have dumped you by text—’ I gasp in horror ‘—I’m sorry for not answering your phone calls and for refusing to talk about it. I was wrong.’

‘God, Robert, I can’t believe I ever took dating advice from you. You’re such a prick.’

‘I apologised to her! And she forgave me. And it wasn’t dating advice. It was singledom advice. Huge difference.’

I glare at him. ‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘I said I was sorry. Your lectures made me see the error of my ways . . . or rather, the error of how I deal with the aftermath of my ways.’ He smiles angelically.

‘A lifetime of bad habits can’t be changed overnight. I feel like I should slap you on behalf of the sisterhood.’

‘Go for it.’

I raise my hand and slap him firmly across the cheek – not enough to hurt – and he pretends to start crying. I start giggling, I can’t help it. ‘Such a reprobate, and yet I adore you,’ I say, laughing despite myself. ‘You do?’ he says, brightening. ‘But I sure as hell wouldn’t want any woman I know going near you with a 10-foot pole.’

Robert’s face falls for a second. Then he smirks. ‘How did you know my pole is 10 feet? Right. Me to the bar.’

‘Another cleansing vodka for me, please.’

Hmm definitely a bit tipsy, applying lip gloss is tough. I’m almost drunk enough to call Dave. I try to weigh up the joy of hearing his voice versus the joy of winning today’s phone call powerplay. Perhaps I’ll just—

‘Are you OK?’ I look up. It’s Leather Jacket man. ‘I’m fine.’ I look back at my drink. I want him to go away. ‘I saw you slap your boyfriend,’ says Leather Jacket.

I start laughing. ‘That was a joke! He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘You shouldn’t spend your New Year’s Eve with someone like that. Come and sit with us.’

‘No, thank you,’ I say, smiling as coldly as I can, considering I’m in a really good mood. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

‘I think you’d enjoy it. Why don’t you give me your number, we can go out sometime. I promise not to give you any reason to slap me.’

He’s being too pushy, and he’s slurring slightly. I look up at him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m seeing someone.’

‘Yeah, someone you just slapped.’

‘Everything alright here?’ says Robert, coming back with our drinks.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You watch yourself, man,’ says Leather Jacket to Robert, poking him in the chest with an outstretched finger. ‘She’s too good for you.’

‘I know that,’ says Robert amiably, sitting down. Leather Jacket throws me a baleful glance as he walks away.

‘He’s a fucknuckle too. Like most men.’

‘Except Dave, presumably,’ says Robert. I check my phone for the fifth time since we got here. Nope, nothing. ‘Do you have any New Year resolutions?’ says Robert. ‘I don’t believe in them.’

‘They’re not imaginary,’ he replies. ‘For example, I resolve to not be a bastard to women.’

‘How noble,’ I say. ‘I resolve to not have someone be a bastard to me.’

Robert pauses and seems on the verge of saying something. ‘Dave—’

My phone buzzes. Dave! ‘He just texted me!’ I say delightedly, interrupting him. ‘He says . . . “With Luke and Sophie now. On the way to London. With you by next year.” . . . I wonder why he’s with them? And why they left so late?’

‘Dave stayed at Luke’s last night. They had car trouble today, apparently.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I say, ignoring the sudden stab of nervy jealousy. Luke’s house? Was Bella there, too?

‘You didn’t ask,’ he replies, taking another sip of his drink. Why couldn’t Dave just text me that there was car trouble? Does he not care that I’ve been waiting all day to hear whether I’d see him tonight? Isn’t that kind of inconfuckingsiderate? I sigh. At least he’ll still be here by midnight.

‘Scuse me,’ slurs a voice, and I look up. It’s Leather Jacket man. ‘I would like you to come and sit with us.’ I look up and over at his table, where his two friends are sitting. The table is littered with shot glasses.

‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘I think you should stay away from this guy.’ The words at the end all run into each other. Awayfrmthsguy.

I sit back and look at Robert. He raises his eyebrows. I shake my head to tell him not to get involved. ‘Please go away,’ I say coldly.

Leather Jacket takes a step back and forward in that drunken staggering-on-the-spot way. ‘Bitch.’

A split second later, Robert has stood up and grabbed Leather Jacket guy by the lapels. ‘Hey. Fucknuckle. She said no. So fuck off.’

Leather Jacket tries to push Robert away, but Robert’s taller and stronger than him and won’t let go. I’m not sure what Robert intends to do with him now that he’s got hold of him, and Robert doesn’t seem sure either. For a second I have the urge to giggle. He said fucknuckle!

Then it all becomes a bit messy. As Robert and Leather Jacket are shoving each other, Leather Jacket’s two friends finally notice what’s going on and hurry over, one shouting ‘Jesus Christ, Damien, not again!’ One friend stops next to me, while the other starts hitting Robert in the arm and gets a couple of good swings in before a bartender finally restrains him. A second bartender grabs Leather Jacket, who wrestles himself away and tries to get Robert in a headlock, resulting in a protracted, imprecise and slightly pathetic scuffly-dance between the three of them for several seconds. I take a second to gaze around the pub, shocked that no one else is trying to stop them, but everyone is silent and entranced. How ridiculous fighting looks. Seriously.

Shaking off the bartender one last time, Leather Jacket punches Robert, rather untidily, in the neck. Robert retorts by punching him, very precisely, in the face. Blood immediately explodes from Leather Jacket’s nose.

Two seconds later, Robert faints and crashes to the floor. Gasping, I hurry over and crouch down next to him, looking up quickly to see Leather Jacket and his mates being dragged outside by the bartenders. Someone passes me a bottle of water, and I kneel next to Robert’s head and try to pull him up. He looks like a black and white photograph of himself. My heart feels like it’s stopped beating, all I can think about is Robert.

‘Robert, oh please be alright, Robert . . .’ I whisper, stroking his forehead. God, he’s got lovely hair and such smooth, warm skin.

The rest of the pub is completely silent, looking at Robert passed out cold on the floor and me huddled over him. Robert blinks a couple of times, and opens his eyes. ‘Abby . . .’ he says croakily.

He’s fine. I sigh with relief. ‘I take it you faint at the sight of b—’

‘Don’t say the b-word,’ he whispers, and takes a sip of water. Someone else brings over a glass of lemonade. Then, like someone turning the music back up, everyone in the pub realises that the drama is over and starts talking amongst themselves again. We are forgotten.

One of the bartenders comes back to chat to us. ‘Sorry. We were keeping an eye on those guys all night, we knew they were trouble,’ he says. ‘Are you OK, mate?’

Robert is now leaning against a table leg, sipping lemonade. Somehow, I’ve ended up perched next to him stroking his hand and hair, like some kind of tipsy Florence Nightingale. ‘I’m fine . . . but I think I need some air. Abigail, will you take me walkies?’