Читать книгу A Girl Like You - Gemma Burgess - Страница 15
ОглавлениеI wake up just past 5 pm to see Robert in my doorway.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
I feel like I’ve just been hit in the mouth with a bucket of sand. I sit up unsteadily, try and fail to croak hello, and after several attempts, hold a bottle of water to my lips and drink till I have to collapse back on the pillow. God, water tastes good. So good.
‘Nice hair,’ he says. ‘Very sexy.’
‘Well, Robert,’ I say finally, ignoring the hair comment. ‘Some idiot told me shots would relax me.’
‘I said have a shot, not a bottle,’ replies Robert, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms. He’s trying not to grin. And failing. ‘How was your walk of shame?’
‘It wasn’t a walk of shame,’ I moan. ‘It was a dash of total fucking mortification. I am full of remorse. I showed my fifi to a strange man. And I don’t even remember it.’
‘Your fifi doesn’t care. Have a shower and get dressed, Abby. We’re going out.’ I’ve noticed him calling me Abby recently, which no one has done since I was little.
‘I can’t possibly face the world. I am a harlot and a lush. I should be branded.’
‘We can brand you later. We’re going out,’ Robert says firmly.
‘I can’t possibly leave the house after my behaviour in the past 24 hours. I’m putting myself under house arrest.’
‘Get dressed,’ he yells, walking down the stairs.
Leaving Skinny Jeans’ house this morning has turned into a fuzzy half-memory. Just like most of last night. I wonder what time we got to bed, I mean sleep.
Flashback: lying on a pillow, kissing Skinny Jeans and looking over at his bedside clock as it hit 5.03 am.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!’ I shout.
‘Get up!’ shouts Robert up the stairs.
I reach into my drawer and pull out my dissolvable vitamin Cs and Solpadeine stash, pop them into the remaining water and swirl them around till they’re all dissolved. Sipping it, I lean over and switch on my iPod player. Quite randomly, it’s ‘Get Over It’ by OK Go. How appropriate.
Ah, the joy of a hot shower. I lather up with as much soap as I can and scrub my head with my poshest shampoo, and spend a careful ten minutes on my bed hair with a wide-tooth comb and half a bottle of conditioner.
‘Where are we going?’ I yell down the stairs at him. ‘What should I wear?’
‘Something sharp,’ he replies. Something sharp?
I open my wardrobe doors. Come on, Abigail. It’s time to start speaking clothes. Not what Plum tells you to wear, not what Peter used to like you to wear . . . but what you want to wear.
I feel like looking invincible and effortless tonight, because I feel just the opposite on the inside. So I take out my new Topshop jeans that make me feel extremely tall and thin, and pair them with a super-lightweight white vest. I add a blazer and a long, skinny red scarfy thing, and put on a pair of boots that add a good four inches to my height.
Invincible. But effortless. Yes.
Halfway through blow-drying my hair, Robert knocks on my door.
‘Room service.’ He walks in with a Bloody Mary and two crumpets smothered liberally with peanut butter. ‘I thought you might want to line your stomach.’
‘How did you know I love crumpets?’ I say, delightedly. ‘I thought I’d run out.’
‘You’ve always got a crumpet attached to your face on weekends, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out . . .’ he says. ‘I picked them up on the way home. And everyone loves Bloody Marys.’
‘Thank you . . . but I don’t think I should drink again. Ever.’
‘A Bloody Mary isn’t drinking, it’s like nature’s Solpadeine.’
I look at him expressionlessly and sip the Bloody Mary.
‘Wowsers, that’s good . . . You’ve shaved,’ I comment.
‘You told me to,’ he replies. ‘Did you just say “wowsers”? Like Inspector Gadget?’
The next half hour is a mix of chewing, slurping, makeupping and smiling. I almost feel better. The Bloody Mary is extremely spicy. The peanut butter is chewy and just a tiny bit salty. And my make-up is – God bless it – working wonders. I need a little extra highlighter and concealer tonight, but apart from that I look surprisingly alright. I’ve had about 10 hours sleep, I guess.
I suddenly feel inexplicably cheerful.
I wonder what Robert has planned for us tonight. I hope it’s fun.
I check my phone for the first time since this morning. Seven missed calls and four texts. I love feeling popular. The texts are from Sophie, Josh From HR and ohfucktwofromSkinnyJeansguy. I listen to a message from Mum, asking me about my bridesmaid dress preference. No one else left a message. Everyone I know is too impatient to bother leaving a voicemail.
Sophie: So I hear you’ve been a very bad girl. Details.
Josh From HR: Hi!!! What are you up to this weekend? Fancy a catch-up? Maybe dinner in SW17? xxx
Skinny Jeans: Devastated. I am devastated that you would leave me like this. x
Skinny Jeans: Well, you can ignore me, but I had a great night. Let me know if you fancy it again some time.
‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ I say to myself, and flop facedown on my bed and moan. I feel sick again.
If I was going to have the first one-night-stand of my life, wouldn’t it be good if I could actually remember it?
And yes, by the way, it was definitely a one-night-stand. I’m too mortified given my drunkenness, and I don’t want to see him again, anyway. He’s kind of cute, but his anecdotes centred largely on getting stoned. I kept thinking, Stick it out, Abigail, this is experience, this is experience . . .
I’m going to be brutal, as per Robert’s instructions. Josh From HR is just ew, and Skinny Jeans . . . I can’t face it. So I won’t. For some reason, the decision to ignore them both makes me feel stronger and in control.
I flip through the rest of my texts from last night. They’re all from Robert, all in reply to apparent text questions from me. From the end of the night, backwards:
1.32 am I am sleeping Abigail.
12.37 am Don’t worry about it. Lots of people get caught snogging in bar toilets.
12.20 am Have a glass of water. I don’t speak drunk.
11.57 pm Maybe he doesn’t know what comatose means.
11.41 pm Everyone’s seen Pretty In Pink. He’s lying. PS I can’t believe you’d choose Stef.
11.37 pm Try this, then. Ducky versus Blaine – who should Andie have picked?
11.16 pm How about this: You look like the kind of guy who sings in a choir. Am I right?
10.24 pm Dater’s block, huh. Very funny. Try complimenting him on something he’s wearing in a slightly sarcastic way.
9.43 pm Relax. Are you even having fun? Did you have a shot? Remember, you can always leave.
We were kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets?
I never want to see Skinny Jeans again. It will be easy because I am never going to get off my bedroom floor. I will die here. Of mortification.
I moan at the ceiling pathetically for a few seconds.
Ooh, text.
It’s Henry.
Abigay. What are you doing tonight and can I join?
I invite him along, and resume my position.
It’s at this second that I remember that I have not had a bikini wax since quite a long time before Peter and I broke up. My moan turns into a loud squeal of anguish.
‘What now?’ Robert is in my doorway again.
‘Nothing,’ I say sulkily. ‘My friend Henry is coming along, by the way.’
‘Tell Uncle Robbie what’s wrong,’ he says, coming into the room and crouching down next to me.
I sigh, and meet his amused eyes. ‘I just realised that I have not had a bikini wax in a long time. It’s pretty bad. I should have had a sign on my knickers saying Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.’
‘Only the penitent man shall pass, huh?’ Robert starts laughing. ‘Hey. I hear the full bush is coming back into fashion anyway.’
‘“The full bush”? Says who, the pubic topiary style mavens?’ I pause. ‘I’m sorry I bothered you so much. With the texts, I mean.’
‘There was nothing good on TV. It was a nice distraction.’
‘You were at home?’ Robert is never home on a Thursday.
‘Of course not. I was with bowler-hat girl. She has a TV in her bedroom.’
‘That’s nice.’ I peer at him through my fingers. ‘I’m a woman of easy virtue,’ I add mournfully.
‘Oh, come on. What is this, 1955? No one is judging you except yourself.’
‘Sleeping with a virtual stranger and being too drunk to even remember it is a pretty bad fucking mistake, Robert. It’s just not something I do. Ever . . .’
‘Just shake it off. Remorse is a pointless emotion. Be bullet-proof. That’s key to surviving single life . . . What did he say this morning?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, taking out my notebook and adding Bulletproof to the list. That’s a good one. ‘I crept out before he could wake up and act like men in films do, all awkward and uninterested . . . what’s that line in When Harry Met Sally? Pretend he had to, you know, clean his andirons.’
‘What’s an andiron?’
‘I don’t know.’ I sigh deeply, and look at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to stay here tonight with nothing but my remorse for company, that’s for sure. OK, let’s go.’
‘Well, at least you pre-empted the number one rule, princess,’ says Robert as we leave the house a few minutes later.
I almost can’t bear to ask. ‘What’s that?’
He holds the front door open for me. ‘Always leave them before they leave you.’
Oddly, that does make me feel better. I pause on the doorstep to add it to my notebook list.
Always leave them before they leave you.
