Читать книгу A Girl Like You - Gemma Burgess - Страница 12
ОглавлениеI’m finally embarking on my second-ever date. YES! I know. I’m happy for me, too. I’m not quite as nervous as I was last week. You can tell I’m not as nervous tonight, right? I had a mini confidence crash earlier, but I closed my eyes and took deep breaths till it passed. I just have to fake it, that’s what Robert said. Fake it till you feel it.
It’s Josh from HR, the guy I met when I was out with Henry and Plum on Saturday night. We’re meeting at the Albannach bar, just off Trafalgar Square, for a couple of drinks. Robert recommended I make it drinks, not dinner, as it saves time if you decide you don’t like them. If you like them, you can do dinner on date two. I shared that piece of genius with Plum.
‘But that makes the date so much shorter, so they have less time to get to know you and decide they like you!’ she exclaimed in dismay.
I thought for a second, and replied, ‘Shouldn’t you be deciding if you like them, not the other way around?’
Silence.
Perhaps I’m wrong. As previously established, I don’t have much ‘experience’ or ‘confidence’ in dating. (Harrumph.) Plum is seeing the guy she met at The Westbourne tomorrow night, by the way. And no, I haven’t heard from Skinny Jeans guy yet.
I’m early, so I sit in Trafalgar Square for a little while and text people. To Sophie: Yes to shopping on Saturday. How was the wedding place?
To Henry: Remember to chew.
To Plum: Any news from Westbourne Guy? Thank you for clothes help.
Plum helped me work out what to wear tonight over a series of long, highly specific emails today. The result – a pretty, pale pink mini-dress with brown platform sandals – feels both comfortable and confidence-boosting. ‘Pretty with a punch, in the form of the unexpectedly chunky sandals,’ said Plum. I think that might be my special flavour. Pretty With A Punch. Hell yeah, I speak style.
I wait for a few minutes, but no one texts right back. I’ll take out my powder and check my make-up. Yes, good: smokey eye, nude lip gloss, check teeth, yes, good, fine. Right. Time to go . . .
Boom! In a split-second, my stomach goes from mild nerves to hyperactive butterflies – no, that’s far too pretty for how it actually feels. My stomach is moths. Flappy, molty-winged moths. Deep breaths, Abigail. You can do this. It’s just a date. You won’t mess it up this time.
Oh God, I think I’m sweating again.
Text! From . . . oh, Robert.
From Robert: You left your keys here.
I check my bag to make sure. Yep. No keys. Shit.
To Robert: Oops. Are you at home all night?
From Robert: At The Engineer for a few drinks. Call in on your way home.
How does he know I won’t be on this date till past midnight, I think. Josh From HR could be my soulmate, for all he knows.
Ooh, another text.
From Robert: Unless Josh From HR is your soulmate, of course.
Bastard.
To Robert: OK. Thanks. I’ll call you later . . . ps any advice for me, o dating sage?
From Robert: Act like you don’t care.
His tips are getting annoying. Isn’t that kind of the same as ‘act detached’, anyway? I check my watch. It’s 8 pm! I’m going to be a few minutes late. What a novelty. Time to go.
The Albannach is a dark, masculine bar, with deer antlers on the wall giving it a slightly creepy look, and it’s full of business types having a post-work drink. I hope Josh sees me before I see him. I was tipsy when I met him last weekend, and yes of course I remember what he looks like but, well, I don’t want to have to gaze into the face of every man between 25 and 40 to make sure . . .
‘Abigail,’ says a voice behind me, and I turn around with a smile. It’s Josh. Slim build, slightly oversized pink shirt that gapes around the collar, pukish-taupe tie, little wire-rimmed glasses.
‘Josh!’ I say, and we kiss hello. No aftershave. Cheeks very warm.
‘I got us seats over here,’ he says. Following him, I look down and see that his trousers are about three inches too short. ‘Want to look at the drinks menu?’ he says, handing it over. He’s drinking a pint of beer.
‘Sure thing,’ I reply easily.
My nerves disappeared the moment I saw him. I can’t believe I snogged him . . . He’s not quite how I remembered, ahem. I’m not sure he’s much more than 25 and he looks even younger. I study the cocktail menu for a few seconds, and automatically start reading the names aloud thoughtfully à la Bam-Bou.
‘Pea—’
I stop.
‘I’ll have a Pear Sour, I think,’ I say. He smiles back and I realise that he has no intention of going to the bar for me. Of course! HR. Equal opportunity. ‘Back in a sec,’ I say, and walk up to the bar. What an awkward start.
I get back to find him absent-mindedly squeezing something on the back of his neck.
‘I’m back,’ I say, slightly pointlessly.
‘Did you have any trouble getting here?’ he says quickly, taking a large sip of his beer and spilling a little on his tie.
‘Um, no,’ I say. ‘Did you?’
‘I did,’ he says earnestly. ‘I thought Trafalgar Square was near Leicester Square and, well, you can imagine!’
It is near Leicester Square, I think, but don’t say anything. It’s not nice to make someone feel stupid. Even if they might be stupid. (Is he stupid?) Instead I smile. ‘Central London is designed to confuse. Perhaps next time you should bring a compass and some sandwiches in case you get lost.’
Josh From HR continues, completely missing the compass/ sandwiches thing. ‘I know! I hate it! I never come here if I can help it. I never leave Wandsworth if I can help it, actually, except to go to work.’
‘Wandsworth is delightful,’ I agree, as it seems like something to say, though actually I have never been there. And why live in London if you hate the place? Move somewhere else. It’ll bring rent prices down for the rest of us. Gosh, I’ve got a feeling he’s a dweeb. I didn’t think I was that tipsy on Saturday. Perhaps I shouldn’t make dates after more than three drinks.
‘Isn’t it?!’ he exclaims, smiling and revealing a large piece of food lodged between his teeth.
Oh God, he is a dweeb.
For the next ten minutes, the conversation continues like this. Question, answer, comment. I realise I’m acting like Robert told me to – I’m cool, detached, offering a funny/teasing comment here and there (that he never picks up on), and generally acting friendly. It’s easy to act like I don’t care with Josh, because – yup – I really don’t care. At all.
Despite not caring, I discover that he works in Croydon for Nestlé, studied geography at university, grew up in East Anglia, loves his mum’s Sunday roast more than any restaurant meal and has every episode of Little Britain memorised. He, in turn, discovers that I studied Medieval French, work in a bank but find it boring, love reading, live in Primrose Hill and have never, ever, watched a single episode of Little Britain.
I finish my drink quite quickly, and though he’s finished his, he doesn’t offer to go to the bar. So I do instead.
As I stand waiting at the bar, it finally hits me: I don’t want to be here. And that sounds obvious, but really, it goes against every stick-it-out, wait-and-see, have-you-thought-this-through? instinct I’ve ever had. It’s a revefuckinglation.
I order our drinks, and get out my phone to text Robert. He’s the only person who seems to be able to provide textual healing tonight.
To Robert: Please help. Give me an excuse to get out of here.
Robert replies: He could be your soulmate.
I narrow my eyes at the phone. Nice one, smartarse. I reply: Seriously. Should I fake a burst appendix?
From Robert: I’ll call you in ten minutes. Have your phone out.
I head back with our drinks and sit down with a bright smile.
‘Saturday was fun, huh?’
‘I know! We got the overland to Victoria and then the train to South Kensington, and got off there by mistake instead of High Street Kensington, and—’
Hurry up, Robert, I think. Please hurry up. I’m trying to engage Josh on the marvellous subject of Wandsworth (‘When the shopping centre was opened, it was the largest indoor shopping centre in Europe! That was 1971, of course . . . but it has all the shops I need now: Burtons, JD Sports, Primark . . .’ ‘Oh, I adore Primark!’ I say, grateful to finally have something to say about Wandsworth), when my phone rings.
‘It’s my flatmate, I’m so sorry, I must get this,’ I gabble. ‘Hello?’
‘Abigail, I’ve locked myself out of the flat,’ says Robert.
‘You’ve locked yourself out of the flat?’ I repeat, very loudly and clearly.
‘Yes, I have. And I need you to come and let me in.’
‘You need me to come and let you in?’
‘Yes. Fast. I’ll be in the pub.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can!’ I say, and turn apologetically to Josh. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go . . .’
‘I had a great time,’ Josh says. ‘I’d love to see you again,’ he stands up awkwardly and moves towards me. Cripes, he’s not going to try and kiss me at 8.20 pm in a Central London bar, is he? I make myself all elbows putting on my jacket, and turn away whilst picking up my bag.
‘That’d be great,’ I lie, and smile at him. ‘Don’t worry about walking me to the tube. I’ll be fine. No, no. Bye!’
Walk fast, woman, and don’t look back.
Why bother to make dates when they’re going to be that boring? Was I that boring when I was with Paulie? No, perish the thought.
Seriously, though: is dating always this difficult and/or dull? Why is everyone always talking about dating if it’s this turgid? Life with Peter was a non-stop rave in comparison.
Do you think I’m being terribly mean? Look, I can’t help it. Josh is a dweeb. He wasn’t funny or interesting. I just don’t fancy him. I did fancy Paulie, a bit. Having said that, Paulie got my name wrong and didn’t make much effort even before my nervous meltdown. Hmm.
If you were me, would you get the tube home? Me neither.
I get in a black cab and start giggling to myself in the back. Not one but two bad dates! At least that one wasn’t stressful. How silly the whole dating thing is! I mean, really. Oh well, experience equals confidence, right? I just – oh, more texts.
From Henry: If you were a real friend you’d blend all my food from now on.
From Sophie: Wedding dress hell. I’m getting married in jeans. How’s the date?
From Plum: Seeing the guy from The Westbourne tomorrow!! ARGH!
By the time I get to The Engineer, I’m in a really good mood. I walk in and see Rob in a corner talking to a very pretty girl with long dark hair. Interesting body language: she’s leaning forward in her chair, and he’s leaning right back. Something not fun is happening.
‘Hi!’ I say brightly, when I reach their table. The girl – the tanned, glamorous type that you see on holiday, the kind with no body fat and improbably full lips – turns towards me, and I see that she’s been crying. Her long fingers are curled around tatty little tissues. She seems unable to speak.
‘This is Antonia,’ says Robert shortly. I look at him, and back at her. His face is completely closed, giving nothing away. ‘I’m Abigail, Robert’s flatmate,’ I say. She blinks and looks away. ‘I’ll get a . . . bottle,’ I add, and turn towards the bar. Yikes. This is going to be awkward. Third-wheel-tastic. Should I just leave? I pretend to look around the bar and see Antonia storming out. Problem solved.
By the time I get back with the wine, Robert has sprawled himself over the two seats. He has a habit of taking up all the space at a table, or a sofa, or anywhere, I’ve noticed. Anyone else feels like they’re encroaching on his territory just by being in the same room. I push his feet off the chair with my knee, sit down with a dramatic flourish, and pour us each a glass of red. I feel slightly euphoric to have got away from Josh From HR so easily.
‘You need to shave,’ I say.
‘So, did you break his heart?’ replies Robert, ignoring my shaving comment. I notice again how green and steady his eyes are. He really nails the whole self-assured eye contact thing.
‘I don’t think so. We had nothing to say to each other.’ I sigh. ‘My second date in my whole life was a dweeb. And the first was a fucknuckle.’
‘You now think Bam-Bou Paulie was a fucknuckle?’ says Robert in surprise, his eyes lighting up in amusement.
‘I’m always more discerning in retrospect.’
‘Aren’t we all, Abigail darling?’
‘I’m not your darling. You clearly just broke your darling’s heart.’
‘Oh, no grief, please . . . she flew here from Milan. I didn’t ask her to. Fucking nightmare.’
‘I expect you led her on,’ I say.
‘I did not,’ he says defensively, running his hands through his hair. ‘I never do, I always say “this is just casual” and then before you know it, it’s where-is-this-going, what-am-I, and what-do-you-take-me-for . . .’
‘How awful it must be when the easy sex starts asking hard questions.’
‘Quite. I admit, it got a little too serious with Antonia . . . I mean, that’s been going on for months. My bad.’
I snort with laughter.
‘But the rest of the time, I’m totally honest that I am not looking for, uh, anything, and I end it within a month. I mean, that doesn’t make me a bad guy, does it?’
‘You’re such a cliché.’
‘How amusing, because you’re not at all. Newly single girl, late 20s, trying to bag a boyfriend . . .’
‘Shut up. And I’m not trying to “bag a boyfriend”. I’m just trying to survive singledom and make up for lost time.’
‘I’ve given you a few tips. You’ll be fine.’
‘Tonight was easy,’ I admit. ‘I had no problem walking out. I felt totally in control.’
‘Of course, Christ, you should always feel in control,’ says Robert in surprise.
I take out my notebook and write Stay in control on the list. Robert watches me with a bemused look on his face. As I look up our eyes meet, and I raise an eyebrow at him.
‘Nice dress by the way. It suits you.’
‘But what if I meet someone I like?’ I don’t want to talk about my dress, I want to talk about my dating.
‘Then you see them as much as you want. Whatever blows your hair back. The point is, you’re calling the shots.’
I hear my phone beep from my bag. ‘Ooh! Text,’ I say excitedly, reaching for my bag. ‘It’s the guy I met at The Cow on Sunday! Skinny Jeans guy!’
‘What’s he say?’ he asks, trying to read my tiny phone screen. ‘I haven’t seen a Nokia like that since Britney was a virgin.’
‘I like this phone, why change?’ I say, and clear my throat. ‘Ahem! He says . . . Princess Malbec Of The Cow. I need a recommendation for a wine bar. You seem like the boozy type who’d know somewhere good. Any ideas?’ I make an excited-grin face at Robert. ‘What should I reply?’
‘Well, what do you want to say?’
‘Well, I’m going to ask where he lives, and then what area he wants to go to. That will help me narrow it down, right? And then I’m going to tell him I’m most certainly not the boozy type, thank you very much . . .’
‘No, no, no. Don’t jump, don’t be serious, don’t respond to every point, it’s too anxious. And don’t ask so many questions. You’re in control, remember?’
‘OK,’ I say, and take a long drink of wine. I like the way that Robert doesn’t make me feel too stupid for not knowing this stuff. ‘Like . . . umm . . . Are you asking me out? Before I recommend anything, I want to know which area, and when . . .’
‘No, no, that’s still jumping.’
I bury my face in my hands and squeal. ‘This is hard! I can’t play this game . . .’
‘You keep saying that, but you seem to be learning quite fast,’ says Robert drily.
I peer at him through my fingers. ‘What would you say, then . . .?’
‘I’d wait for a bit, then say something like: I’m flattered to be your drinker of choice. Mention my name at Negozio Classica on Portobello Road and they’ll look after you.’
‘That’s so arrogant! And I’ve never even heard of that place. And shouldn’t I say what time?’
‘Arrogance is good. Keeps him on his toes. Let him take care of the details. Don’t be obvious. It’s needy.’
‘But . . .’
‘Send it.’
I obediently tap it in, reading aloud as I go, and press ‘send’ before I can think about it. Goodbye little text. God speed.
‘Tell me more about Antonia.’
Robert sighs and rubs his eyes. ‘I met her in Croatia last summer. She’s beautiful. And crazy . . . We had a hedonistic week drinking and sleeping and swimming all day, staying on her dad’s boat . . .’
‘Seriously. What happened?’
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ he says in surprise.
Wow. That’s unlike any holiday I’ve ever had. Peter and I went on a boat trip off the coast of Majorca once, but Peter was seasick and I got a headache and we were only out for six hours, anyway. Then he went to bed and I lay by the hotel pool and watched other people having a good holiday. God! Enough about Peter.
I pause, as a dark-haired girl in a tiny black dress and huge black boots walks past us to the bar. She’s trying to give Robert some intense eye contact as she passes, but – unusually – he’s oblivious.
‘Do women always just present themselves to you on a scent-spritzed platter?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. So, you fell in lust with her, then what?’
He shrugs. ‘We’ve been stealing weekends together here and there, but it was never going to last, was it? She lives in Milan, for God’s sake . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m surprised she’s surprised, if you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t think women think like that.’
‘Well, guys do.’
‘Do you want to know what I think?’
‘If it’s anything other than that I should end it, no.’
‘You don’t have to be such a bastard about it. I think you need to make her feel better. Did you tell her you’re sorry?’
‘Never apologise, never explain.’
I’m about to retort when my phone beeps.
‘Ooh!’ I read the text aloud. ‘For my safety, you should probably escort me. Negozio Classica, tomorrow, 8 pm? What should I say?’
Robert reads it. ‘Short notice. Do you want to see him?’
‘Yes . . .’ I say, thinking about Skinny Jeans’ blue eyes and engagingly bold manner. ‘I think so. Yes.’
‘Leave it for twenty minutes. Then text him back “sounds good, see you there”.’
‘Shouldn’t I say something funny?’
‘Leave him wanting more. And don’t use an exclamation mark or a smiley face.’
‘Like I would!’ I exclaim. We sit in silence for a few moments. I might have used an exclamation mark, actually. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever date someone I actually like,’ I say. ‘Instead of just saying “yes” to any random man I meet.’
‘Course you will. But you have to slay a lot of dragons to get to the princess, that’s what my mother always says.’
‘What a peach.’
‘She is,’ he agrees.
‘I have to use the euphemism.’
‘You know, “loo” isn’t a dirty word. You can even say “bathroom” or “toilet”.’
By the time we finish the wine, I’ve sent the second pre-agreed text to Skinny Jeans, and receive a reply as we’re contemplating getting a second bottle.
‘Ooo! Another text!’ I say excitedly. Robert grins. It says . . . “I’ll see you there. You lucky girl.” What should I reply? Something about him being the lucky one?’
‘No,’ says Robert. ‘Don’t reply. Remember, always leave them wanting more.’
‘Yes, master. Any other advice?’
‘Make this one work hard. He’s slick.’
‘What if I need help? Like once I’m on the date?’
‘Text me,’ he says, grinning. He seems to find my dating panic highly amusing.
‘Thanks,’ I grin at him. Maybe having a male flatmate will work out after all. His phone beeps again. ‘OK. I have to go, I’m afraid. Lady Caroline. Here are my keys. I’ll be home at 6.30 am, will you be there?’
‘Yep. I’ll make us breakfast,’ I say. Yay! I hate eating breakfast alone. I get up and put my coat on.
‘Don’t all your tips kind of defeat the point of dating?’ I wonder aloud as we walk towards the door. ‘You know, to get to know each other and see if you like each other?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he replies. ‘The point is to have fun.’
All the way home, this thought plays over and over in my head. Dating is supposed to be fun?
