Читать книгу A Girl Like You - Gemma Burgess - Страница 11
ОглавлениеWhenever you break up with someone, you don’t just break up with one person. You break up with their family, their friends and their dog. It’s sad, inevitable and kind of annoying. But it’s just the way it is. Which is why this weekend has been a bit . . . urgh.
For a start, Peter’s mother rang yesterday morning, talking about how much she misses me and how love is something that you have to work at. Bloody nightmare. Then last night Plum, Henry and I went to a party which turned out to be a minefield of Peter’s friends who either asked me about Peter, ignored me or gave me death stares. At 10 pm, my cheeks aching from fake smiling, I made eye contact with Plum and raked a finger across my throat to indicate that I wouldn’t mind leaving. We grabbed Henry, who had been rejected by every girl in the bar anyway, and took a cab to a late-night bar in Victoria.
We had a long chat about singledom on the way.
‘I need to hang out with guys more,’ said Henry. ‘I think you chicks are the reason I never get any action.’
‘You don’t think it’s because you tend to wake up with bites of unchewed kebab in your mouth?’ I said.
‘One time!’ shouted Henry. He paused. ‘I could murder a kebab now, actually.’
‘I am so over that crowd,’ I said, applying lip gloss. ‘They all think I’m an evil bitch for dumping Peter.’
‘Me too,’ said Plum, taking the lip gloss from me. ‘But only because I’ve slept with all the decent men.’
‘You didn’t sleep with me!’ exclaimed Henry, slapping Plum away as she tried to put lip gloss on him too.
‘I snogged you at my 21st, sweetie,’ she replied. ‘And it wasn’t great kissing, so I didn’t bother to defile you.’
‘Maybe you’re a bad kisser,’ he said. ‘Because I’m awesome.’
There was a pause, probably as we all wondered if we were, in fact, bad kissers.
‘I’m starting to think I’m bad in bed because men keep dumping me after I sleep with them,’ said Plum glumly.
‘I heard that you were bad in bed, actually,’ said Henry. Plum punched him, quite hard, in the shoulder. ‘Ow.’
‘I have only kissed or slept with one person since my teens,’ I said. ‘So both of you can just shut up.’
Poor Henry, I reflect. My mother would be so happy if I fell in love with and/or married him. So would Plum’s. But we’ve known him too long. I don’t even think of him as having a willy. I sort of imagine he has a mound down there, like a Ken doll.
Today, I’m dragging Plum to meet my sister and her fiancé at a pub called The Cow in Notting Hill.
‘I fucking hate Sundays,’ says Plum, lighting a cigarette as we walk towards the pub. She’s in a mood. ‘Every Sunday I go to bed alone and wake up on Monday alone and think, oh, another week, a whole week till the weekend when I might, maybe, get to meet someone new, someone who isn’t a total cockgobbler . . .’
‘Plum!’ I exclaim. ‘That is melodramatic. And untrue.’ Her hung-over negativity scares me. Is that attitude inevitable? Will I end up like that? I did meet someone last night, between you and me, but I don’t want to bring it up now and make Plum feel worse.
‘Churchill had a black dog. I have singledom,’ she says, exhaling theatrically. ‘I will die alone.’
‘Plummy—’
‘It’s enough to make me completely desperate—’
‘Don’t! Don’t say that word,’ I exclaim. I don’t want to catch her Sunday blues. ‘I don’t like it.’
Plum looks at me strangely. ‘Alright. Jeez. Oh, there they are. Sitting outside. Yay.’
Luke is half-Dutch, and inherited white-blonde hair from his Dutch mother so it’s easy to spot him in a crowd, like a little ray of light. He and Sophie met a year ago and got engaged two months ago. Just before I left Peter. I’d tell you that their perfect, blissful love had no impact on my Peter decision, but well, I’d be lying. It was a major catalyst. Sophie wanted to marry Luke, I didn’t want to marry Peter, the contrast was too huge to ignore.
‘About time!’ says Sophie, standing up to hug and kiss us hello. I note, as usual, how she seems to glow with happiness whenever Luke is around. That’s what love should be like. Maybe I’m just not capable of it. Argh. Love.
Time for a drink.
‘So tell me about last night,’ I say a few minutes later, Corona in hand.
‘Another fucking 30th. A dinner party,’ says Sophie. Luke is 30, so their social life seems to be ‘another fucking 30th’ every weekend. ‘Started with wine and nibbles, ended with straight men doing synchronised dance routines to Backstreet Boys songs.’
‘I rocked out like AJ McLean,’ adds Luke. His phone buzzes. ‘That’s the hotline . . . ah. Dave can’t make it. He’s unable to get out of bed, apparently.’
‘Anything exciting happen last night?’ asks Sophie. ‘I mean men. You know I mean men.’
I grin, and shrug coolly. I want to get the subject off men so Plum doesn’t get even more depressed. I’m also trying out the don’t-think-about-him-don’t-talk-about-him attitude I’ve been working on since Robert’s post-Paulie peptalk.
‘Bonjour tigre,’ says Plum under her breath. I look up. It’s Robert, striding towards us, up Westbourne Park Road, talking on his phone.
‘That’s my flatmate,’ I say. ‘Robert.’
‘Fucking hell,’ she says quietly, glancing at Sophie and Luke to see if they’re listening, but fortunately they’re cooing at each other like pigeons. ‘He is gorgeous.’
Robert is clearly trying to end the phone conversation. He’s wearing a kind of cool, albeit wrinkled, khaki shirt. Combined with the furrowed brow and stubble, I have to admit he looks pretty good. He’ll need Botox soon if he doesn’t stop frowning, though.
‘Right . . . Is that all? . . . Well, thanks for calling . . . I don’t know yet. It’s six days away . . . I will. Yes.’ He finally hangs up, shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, and turns to us.
‘Luke, you look fantastic. Hello Sophie, Abigail,’ he says, leaning over to give me a kiss hello. His stubble is longer than usual, and he smells slightly of whisky.
‘Long night, huh, sailor?’ I say, wrinkling my nose.
‘You have no idea,’ he says. His voice is very husky. ‘God, even my eyebrows hurt.’
‘You bad man, why are you in the same clothes that you were in last night?’ asks Sophie. Robert winks at her. Plum is practically panting.
‘Robert, meet Plum. Plum, Robert,’ I say.
‘Hello, Plum,’ says Robert, sitting down at the table next to me. ‘What a delightful name. It’s one of my favourite stone fruits.’ Hung-over Robert is infinitely more relaxed than After Work Robert, I notice. I wonder if his job is stressful.
‘So you were out last night? Were you dancing too? Hung-over today? I hate hangovers, don’t you? I had one earlier but it’s gone now!’ babbles Plum, as she frantically flicks her hair. I glance at her in shock. Is that her idea of subtle body language? And is Robert really that gorgeous?
‘No questions, please. I need a drink,’ he says. Luke hands him the beer he has waiting for him. ‘Thanks. Christ, it’s sunny. I’ll pay you a thousand pounds for your sunglasses, Abigail.’ His eyes are dark green, I notice, with irritatingly thick eyelashes. Why do men always get them? Is it the gene pool’s idea of a joke?
I hand over my sunglasses, which are sort of Fifties and cateyeish, and to my surprise he happily puts them on and beams at us all.
‘Do I look like Audrey?’
‘Audrey is boring,’ I say. ‘Katharine Hepburn was so much cooler.’
Robert gasps in mock horror. ‘How could you say that? I heart Audrey!’
‘How come I’ve never met you before?’ says Plum. She’s cool again. At least on the outside.
‘I was seeing a girl in Italy,’ he says, turning to her with a grin. The cat-eye glasses give everyone killer cheekbones. Including Robert. ‘Lots of weekends away.’
‘And another girl in Edinburgh,’ adds Luke. ‘And one in Bethnal Green, and one in Highgate . . .’ Robert shoots him a shut-up look and Luke responds with a wide – albeit slightly watery – grin.
‘Well, I’m free again now, so all’s well that ends well,’ Robert says.
Funny, how men call it being free and women call it being alone, isn’t it?
Soon Plum is talking about the lack of men in London. She’s either already pissed, or wants Robert to know she’s really, definitely, totally single.
‘I go out four motherfucking nights a week. I am in bars and parties and I’m not obese or revoltingly ugly. And yet I cannot meet a decent man. It’s just fucknuckle after fucknuckle, time after time . . .’
‘Seriously, can you please not swear for just one minute?’ says Sophie.
‘No I cannot! There are no fucking men in London.’
‘That’s just not true,’ says Robert.
‘Are you saying I am meeting men without my knowledge?’ Plum reaches out and pokes Robert in the arm.
‘No,’ says Robert matter-of-factly. ‘I’m saying you’re closed to opportunity. Take right now: you’ve got your back to the crowd. You can only see us. I’ve seen every woman who’s walked in . . . and out . . . and in again. ’Scuse me,’ he adds, getting up.
We all turn wordlessly and watch him walk up the steps to inside The Cow, where I can see a pretty, model-esque blonde wearing a bowler hat and pretending not to see him.
‘He’s not that attractive,’ says Plum decisively. She’s evidently decided, in the face of his utter non-flirtation with her, to stop throwing herself at him. ‘And he’s a smartarse.’
‘That must be why you’ve stared at him nonstop since he sat down,’ says Sophie. Plum flicks a piece of ice at her.
From my seat, I can see Robert quite clearly. He’s standing at the bar, still wearing my cat-eye sunglasses, and is grinning down at the bowler-hat girl. Then he takes them off and leans in, as though he didn’t hear what she said the first time.
Robert doesn’t have the sleazy, shark-like twinkle of other lothario types. He just seems calm and certain about – well, everything. It’s obviously charming to other women. I’m clearly immune to it.
I tune back into the conversation for a few seconds. ‘Italy, I think, and then driving to Provence—’ Sophie is saying. Luke gazes lovingly at her when she talks, it’s so cute. They met when he walked past a pub in Soho, saw her through the window, went in and drank alone at the bar till he had the courage to go and talk to her. And that was it.
I hope it’s that easy for everyone, i.e. me.
Robert soon returns, putting his phone back in his pocket. He must have just got her number, I think to myself. Smooth.
‘Have you recovered from your disastrous date, Abigail?’ he asks. He maintains very steady eye contact, I’ve noticed. I bet that’s part of the whole calm thing.
‘Yes, thank you. So, are you taking bowler hat to dinner?’
‘Who? Her? No. She’s not dinner material.’
‘What is she then? Tell me you don’t booty call. It’s so five years ago.’
‘I’m not that kind of boy,’ he says, sipping his drink thoughtfully. ‘They booty call me, if anything . . . No, she’s a fancy-afew-drinks-if-you’re-out-at-about-10 pm text.’
‘A short-term investment,’ I suggest. ‘You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you? I suppose your singledom rules will make me a bastard, too.’
‘They’re just survival skills, Abigail,’ he replies easily. ‘Don’t overthink them. So. What did you get up to last night? Give your number out to all and sundry?’
‘Yeah, I got stickers printed up,’ I reply. His know-it-all attitude is kind of annoying. ‘Aren’t you tired of talking about my dating life?’
‘I find it interesting,’ he says. ‘Like a parallel universe of naivety and optimism.’
I glare at him for a moment, and then start to laugh. ‘Fine. His name is Josh,’ I whisper, so Plum can’t hear. ‘He works in HR, and I met him at the bar, and we snogged on the dance floor. My first snog since Peter and I broke up!’ I pause. ‘I wish I could remember it better.’
‘Wow,’ says Robert. ‘I haven’t snogged on a dance floor in years. Did you feel his excitement thrusting against you?’
‘Ew,’ I say. ‘Seriously, ew.’
Robert laughs. He has one of those laughs that makes everyone else feel like they might be missing out on something funny.
‘Que?’ says Sophie.
‘I, um, met a guy last night. Robert reduced it straight to sex, immediately,’ I say petulantly. ‘Deviant.’
‘Who’s the guy?!’ says Sophie excitedly.
‘No one, no one, I haven’t heard from him yet, he probably won’t even call,’ I say, glancing at Plum, who is carefully lighting a cigarette. She left soon after we got to the bar last night: no one was chatting her up so she couldn’t see the point in staying.
‘Doesn’t it seem a shame to spend all night chatting to just one person?’ asks Robert.
‘No,’ I say, though now that I think about it, there was a tall guy at the bar who I thought kept looking at me. I wish I’d talked to him a bit, too.
‘I knew it,’ he says smugly.
It’s kind of annoying how he can read my mind. ‘You want me to’ – I pause and look for the right word – ‘multitask my flirting?’
Robert nods. ‘Meet, greet, move on. Unless you just want, you know, a one-night-stand.’
‘Men don’t think like that,’ says Plum, who looks a bit upset. I know she’s thinking about a guy she met a few months ago. She talked to him all night, thought a thunderbolt went off, went home with him and shagged till 5 pm on Sunday. She hasn’t heard from him since.
‘Enough about this,’ I say hurriedly.
‘But I thought you were the fuckmerchant!’ she blurts at Robert.
He shakes his head. ‘Casual relationships. Very different thing.’
‘You make it sound so noble,’ I say.
Robert ignores me. ‘I bet, if you two did exactly what I say, you could meet a guy within the next hour.’
‘How?’ interrupts Plum. ‘Write my number on the back of the boys’ toilet door?’
‘Go over to The Westbourne,’ that’s another pub just about 30 feet up, always surrounded by enthusiastic outside drinkers on days like this. ‘Walk in the side entrance and order two pints of beer and a vodka and tonic at the bar. Carry them out the main door—’
‘But how can I carry three drinks?’ asks Plum. ‘I’ll drop them.’
‘Exactly. Pause when you get outside, like you can’t see your friends. It’s packed, so that’s not surprising. Act like you’re having trouble holding all the glasses. Someone will offer to help you. Talk, laugh, flirt. Job done.’
‘Will that really work?’ I ask, as Plum heads off.
‘No reason it shouldn’t. The first step to being chatted up is being visible,’ says Robert. ‘She’s a pretty girl and she swears exceptionally well . . . Of course, she’s also transparently high-maintenance, and that’s her Achilles’ heel.’
‘What’s mine? Achilles’ heel, I mean?’
‘Lack of confidence,’ says Robert instantly. Ouch.
‘I have confidence,’ I protest feebly. (This, of course, isn’t the correct response when someone accuses you of lacking confidence. The correct response is a derisive ‘blow me’.) ‘Dating is just out of my comfort zone.’
‘Well, you also often look preoccupied, like you’re arguing with yourself. It gives you a fuck-off aura.’
‘Suck my aura,’ I say sulkily.
Robert smirks.
‘It’s not my fault,’ I say, after a pause. ‘You need experience to be confident at anything. Driving. Putting on make up. Flipping pancakes. I have no experience at being single. How could I possibly be confident at it?’
‘We’re working on that,’ he says. ‘You’re next.’
I sigh. I really don’t want to set myself up for another terrible Paulie-date.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine. It won’t be like Paulie. Experience, remember?’
His mind-reading trick is getting really annoying.
‘There she is!’ exclaims Sophie a few minutes later. I look over. Plum is sauntering over the road towards us, an enormous grin on her face. She holds her fist in front of her chest and flips up her index and little finger in the heavy metal, devil sign.
‘Victory is mine, beetchez. First, a man at the bar gave me his card,’ she says, sitting down. ‘And I met two guys outside. One went to make a call, and the other asked for my number and asked if I would like to meet for a drink on Wednesday!’
Sophie and I reach over to give her surreptitious high-fives.
‘Ditch the card,’ says Robert. ‘It’s lazy. If he was really keen, he would have asked for your number.’ Plum obediently tears the business card in two and drops it in the ashtray.
Paulie gave me his card. No wonder the date sucked.
Plum sits back, smiling peacefully to herself. Funny how happiness is tied in to feeling wanted, isn’t it? Or not feeling unwanted, anyway.
‘Abigail, your turn,’ Plum grins at me.
Oh God no. I couldn’t bear to have everyone watch me fail.
‘No point,’ I say quickly. ‘The guys at The Westbourne have seen Plum do exactly the same three-drinks-lost thing. If I did it, it’d look weird.’
‘Forget The Westbourne. Try the bar here. Go in, order five drinks,’ says Robert. ‘Stand next to someone decent. When the drinks arrive, look perplexed. He’ll offer to help.’
‘I don’t want to,’ I say in a faux-whingey voice that I hope hides how nervous the idea makes me feel.
‘Go on, darling,’ says Sophie. ‘I need a drink, anyway.’
‘There’s nothing to be nervous about, Abigail,’ says Robert.
Sighing, I walk into The Cow, stepping over a couple of sprawling dogs and the long legs of a model on the way in.
I size up the bar. There are three guys standing together, all wearing knee-length khaki combats that remind me of Peter, so I dismiss them instantly. A curly-haired woman is next to them gossiping with the bartender. I decide to stand next to two guys studying a wine list down the other end of the bar. God, nerves suck.
‘Montepulciano,’ one is reading. He’s cute, wearing skinny jeans and a slightly too-tight T-shirt. ‘Or Valpolicella.’
‘You can’t choose a wine just because you like saying the name,’ says the other, who’s wearing just a waistcoat and shorts. He’s carrying it off, surprisingly.
‘I think I’ll call my first child Montepulciano,’ replies Skinny Jeans pensively. ‘Monty, for short, obviously.’
I grin to myself at this, and duck my head to hide that I’m eavesdropping.
‘See? The lady in red thinks it’s a good idea,’ says Skinny Jeans. I glance down. I’m wearing a loose red mini dress and Converses. He means me! I don’t know what to say, so – cool! detached! – rather than gabble, I look over and smile mutely. Skinny Jeans is cute in a skinny, media-boy kind of way.
‘She thinks you’re a drunk,’ replies Waistcoat.
OK, now I need to speak.
‘Actually, I’m thinking that I always wanted to name my first child Mascarpone, but I may have to rethink that now,’ I manage to say.
‘You choose, then,’ says Skinny Jeans. He hands me the wine list and I scan it slowly, trying to think of something to say.
‘Quite the wine buff,’ comments Waistcoat. I look at him and raise an eyebrow. To disagree would look falsely modest, to agree would be idiotic.
‘The Brunelli is nice, if you want Italian,’ I say calmly. ‘Personally, I like Malbec.’ Actually, it’s the only wine I remember drinking recently.
‘Malbec it is,’ replies Skinny Jeans. ‘Care to join us?’
‘Alas, I cannot,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve got to get a round . . .’ I turn to the bar and see the bartender looking at me expectantly, and quickly order. I ignore the guys while I wait. Nerves, my nemesis (nemeses? Nemesii?) have overcome me, and I don’t know what to say. I hand over my money, take the change, feeling painfully self-conscious the whole time . . .
‘Need a hand with those drinks?’ asks Skinny Jeans.
‘Uh, yes, please. Thanks,’ I say.
‘Alfie, order the Malbec,’ Skinny Jeans says over his shoulder as he nods to me to lead the way.
‘Thanks . . .’ I say again, as we’re walking outside.
We reach the table, and Sophie and Plum beam at Skinny Jeans. Could they be any more obvious?
‘Next time you need a drink, you should come and find me first,’ says Skinny Jeans to me, after he sets down the drinks. ‘It makes sense. Logistically.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say. He walks back inside and I sit down nonchalantly.
Everyone makes an ‘oooooo’ sound.
‘Shut up,’ I say. I can’t help smiling. Confidence, engage! Experience, add one point!
‘Did he get your number?’ asks Plum.
‘No,’ I say. Everyone except Robert murmurs ‘oh’ disap-pointedly. Confidence, dash yourself against the nearest rock! Experience, minus two! See? I do suck at being single! ‘This is weird, guys. Stop it.’
‘Play a long game,’ says Robert. ‘He’ll be after you next time you’re inside.’
‘OK,’ I say glumly.
‘Why are you being so fucking helpful, Rob?’ says Luke suddenly. ‘This is completely unlike you.’
Everyone looks at Robert. He stares into space for a second and then frowns, ‘You’re right. I have no idea. Back later,’ and stalks off towards The Westbourne.
‘Have you spoken to the folks this weekend, Abs?’ asks Sophie. Our parents have retired to a little village in the south of France, which is just as idyllic as it sounds, and twice as boring. When they moved there six months ago, our mother rang us both once a day, sometimes twice. Then, thankfully, Sophie got engaged, and Mum threw herself into Mother Of The Bride work with fervour. She started a MOTB blog and even tweets about it, much to Sophie’s horror.
‘Yep, she’s organising an expat MOTB tweet-up,’ I say.
‘A what?’ say Luke and Plum in unison.
‘A meeting of Twitterers. Tweeters. Whatever,’ I say.
‘It’s her new career. She’ll be dying for you to get married next,’ says Sophie.
‘She’ll be waiting a while, at this rate . . . Oh my God, I’m the elder sister spinster,’ I realise. ‘How depressing.’
‘It’s not your fault Sophie is a child bride,’ says Plum.
‘And it’s not my fault that Luke is ancient and wants to settle down,’ replies Sophie.
‘I’m not that old,’ protests Luke half-heartedly. ‘But it is past my bedtime. Can we go home please? I need to tuck my hangover into bed.’
Plum and I decide to go home too. It’s nearly dark now, and getting that chilly September Sunday feeling.
‘Should I wait for Robert?’ I wonder aloud. We all look over. He’s pouring a bottle of wine for two uber-cool girls in jumpsuits, who are laughing at something he has just said. Wowsers, how does he do it?
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ says Luke.
Before we leave, I walk back into The Cow to go to the bathroom in the basement. On my way back up the stairs, Skinny Jeans is coming down. We do a polite little side-step-side-step dance, and I smirk and head past him without saying anything.
‘What . . . that’s it? No conversation? After all we’ve been through?’ he says, and we pause on the same step.
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? I am sorry,’ I say. ‘What would you like to discuss?’
He chuckles and looks me right in the eye. ‘Your phone number.’
High five! Robert really is good at this. Looks like someone isn’t failing at being single after all. (That someone is ME. In case you’re wondering.)
‘I’m Mark, by the way,’ he says. ‘Abigail,’ I nod. You don’t look like a Mark, I think. I’m going to call you Skinny Jeans.
At home, I potter around for a while, remembering to drink water and eat crumpets to soak up the booze. I try to read in bed, but almost immediately fall into a slumber with Jilly Cooper’s Polo open on my chest. When I wake up it is midnight, and I can hear voices downstairs. I wake up long enough to focus on them. It’s Robert and a girl. Good for him, I think to myself, then turn off my light and fall back to sleep.
