Читать книгу A Girl Like You - Gemma Burgess - Страница 16
ОглавлениеIt’s raining. Not real, hard rain, but that autumn perma-drizzle that ruins your hair and make-up. Robert and I stand under an umbrella on the corner of our street, waiting for a black cab to take us to a pub in Belgravia called The Pantechnicon Rooms.
‘You look alright, by the way. Considering.’
‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say, slightly sarcastically, to hide the fact that actually, I can feel myself blushing. Compliments have been quite light on the ground since I left Peter.
‘Sorry, Abby. You look stunning. Gob-smackingly stunning. Now, let’s get you a drink.’
‘I don’t think I can drink,’ I’m trying to angle my words to the side in case, despite cleaning my teeth and scrubbing my tongue three times, my breath still smells like booze and/or vomit. This umbrella seems abnormally small.
‘Alright, alright. You’re in charge, OK?’
I’m so achey. I think it’s the remorse, not the hangover. Can you believe I was kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets? And I did splits on the dance floor. Oh the self-loathing . . .
Once we’re in the cab, I look out of the window at rainy, grey Friday-night London, and sigh deeply.
‘Do you want me to tell you a story to make you feel better?’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.
‘Yes please,’ I say in a small voice.
‘When I was 22, I secretly started seeing one of my mates’ older sisters. She was 27 and clearly slumming it with me . . . Anyway, I was still at Cambridge, doing a postgrad, which by the way was an utter waste of time, in case you’re thinking about doing one.’
‘I’m not. But thanks.’
He continues. ‘So, I came down one weekend and she took me to a London party,’ he says, enunciating ‘London party’ with all the excitement he clearly felt at the time.
‘How glam.’
‘I was very nervous, drank half a bottle of Jäger, got naked, threw up on her housemate, passed out on the dining room table wearing nothing but a pair of washing-up gloves, woke up three hours later to find the party still going and asked her to marry me.’
‘What did she say?’ I gasp through my laughter.
‘She said no,’ he says, looking out the cab window for a second, before turning back to me. ‘Unsurprisingly. So, still drunk, I put some clothes on and stormed out to a train station, slept on the platform, got on the first train at dawn the next day, passed out again and ended up in Scotland.’
‘Wowsers,’ I say, trying not to laugh.
‘You think a walk of shame is bad. Try a six-hour train ride of shame back to Cambridge, wearing nothing but boxers, a rugby jersey and washing up gloves as shoes.’ He pauses, and starts laughing despite himself.
Our cab pulls up outside The Pantechnicon Rooms.
‘Making a fool of yourself at least once is a rite of passage,’ he says, as we walk in and get enveloped by the serene, happy buzz. ‘Onwards and upwards.’
‘Onwards and upwards,’ I agree, looking around. Robert was right to force me out of the house. This morning’s dash of total fucking mortification in Kensal Rise suddenly seems a long time ago.
I sit down and look around happily. You get the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen in this pub. It’s clean and warm and just so. I want to move in and live under the stairs like Harry Potter.
‘So, is bowler-hat girl your main squeeze right now?’ I say, turning to Robert, once he has a pint and I have a nice calming lemonade.
‘Interesting terminology. Nope, she’s going travelling next week.’
‘You sound devastated. Do you actually like women, Robert?’
‘I love them!’ he says, an injured expression on his face. ‘Don’t give me the you-must-be-a-misogynist crap. I love talking to women, I love their company. I simply prefer their company on a very, very casual basis.’
‘Lucky them. Why don’t you invite bowler hat to join us?’
‘Maybe later. What about you? Seeing Skinny Jeans again?’
‘Oh, fuck me, no. No way,’ I sigh. ‘I suppose I had to get it over and done with. First person since, you know. Peter.’ I pause to pretend to spit over my shoulder.
‘That’s the spirit.’
I frown into space for a second. Peter. Paulie. Josh From HR. Skinny Jeans. God. What a mess I’m making of this whole singledom thing. Robert’s still looking at me and grinning.
‘Can we change the subject from my love life?’ I ask.
‘Tell me about your job. You never talk about it . . .’
‘Neither do you!’ I exclaim.
He smiles, but doesn’t say anything.
I sigh. ‘My work life is, to misquote The Breakfast Club, unsatisfying. I don’t enjoy it and I’m not very good at it, either,’ I add, thinking about my meeting with Suzanne yesterday. Fuck, and I didn’t turn up today. She’ll love that. ‘I know I have to do something about it,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know where to start.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s just . . . I don’t like it anymore,’ I say. ‘I don’t find it interesting. I used to love taking a wide-angle lens to the world and then zooming in on specifics, does that make sense?’ Robert nods. ‘But the rest of it, the calls, the sales . . . I just don’t care about. My boss told me I had to start delivering and stop being so passive,’ I sigh. ‘Whatever the fuck that means. But I can’t. I am not very good at making, uh, decisions.’
‘That’s not true . . .
You decided to leave Peter.’
‘Yeah, about five years after I should have,’ I reply, shaking my head. God, he’s good at making me talk. I can’t think of the last time I chatted like this, even with one of the girls. ‘Oh well. At least the money is good, why take a risk?’ I sigh, and try to sound cheerful. ‘And if it ain’t broke, right?’
‘Isn’t that the kind of thinking that kept you with Peter for so long?’
‘Ouch,’ I say, wincing.
‘Sorry. My big sister rang from Dublin earlier. She always asks me pointed questions like that. It’s catching.’
‘I didn’t know you had a big sister.’ The idea of Robert being a baby brother is strangely delightful.
‘I have two. Both older, both boss me around constantly. Alice is married with children in Dublin. I see her every couple of months. Rosie is in London, but south of the river. So I see her even less. Is Sophie your only sister?’
‘I most certainly am!’ Sophie, Luke and Henry have arrived. I feel almost surprised to see them. I was enjoying talking to Robert so much that I forgot why we were here.
We stand up for the inevitable hug-and-kiss hello dance. Robert hasn’t met Henry before, and I can see them sizing each other up the way men do. Henry still looks about 21: his rugby brawn is somehow boyish. In comparison, Robert looks like his dad.
I briefly recount the highlights of last night. Everyone tells morning-after stories to make me feel better.
‘My worst walk of shame was Battersea Bridge to Clapham North,’ says Luke. ‘I’d just moved here and knew Battersea was next to Clapham so figured it couldn’t take more than ten minutes . . . I took a detour in Clapham Junction and it took an hour and a fucking half to get home.’
‘I had a window-jump of shame because the girl didn’t want her flatmates to know she’d pulled me,’ says Henry.
‘I’ve never had a walk of shame,’ says Sophie. ‘Because I have always been an angel.’
I raise an eyebrow at her doubtfully. That is so not true.
‘Except for the time at university that I went to a ball and wore my then-boyfriend’s tuxedo shirt and boxers back to halls the next day, still drunk, smoking a cigar then ran into Mum and Dad, who I’d forgotten were visiting,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘There was that time, I guess.’
‘And to think that you two look sweet and innocent,’ comments Robert.
‘We are sweet and innocent!’ exclaim Sophie and I at exactly the same time, with exactly the same intonation. We do that sometimes. I think it’s a sister thing.
‘They’re not,’ says Henry. ‘Sophie especially.’
Sophie punches him lightly and he grins at her. I think Henry had a crush on Sophie a few years ago, but never acted on it.
‘What are we eating, kids?’ says Luke.
‘Steak and chips,’ says Henry. ‘With extra chips.’
‘Abigail wants low-maintenance food,’ I say, scanning the menu. ‘Ooh! Risotto.’
‘Are you talking about yourself in the third person?’ says Robert.
‘Abigail likes it,’ I nod. ‘She thinks it’s funny.’
Luke laughs at this, nearly choking on his drink. ‘I would never have thought a girl like you would say things like that . . .’
‘Things like what?’ I say, frowning at him.
‘Just . . . your little comments. You used to seem kind of, um, subdued,’ he says, exchanging a quick glance with Sophie. ‘In a good way. Sweet, you know.’
‘Why are you exchanging looks?’
‘I’m telling him to shut up,’ says Sophie calmly. ‘He just means that you were a bit quieter before.’
‘Do you think I was quieter before?’ I ask Henry. He shrugs. Mr Observant.
I stare into space for a second, trying to remember. Have you noticed it’s impossible to look back and remember how you used to act? You can remember how you felt, that’s all. I remember letting Peter talk for us, as it made my life easier. And I remember feeling a bit, I don’t know, out of place sometimes. I don’t feel like that anymore. Despite today’s remorse-packed hangover. I just feel like myself.
The waiter comes over to take our order. Sophie, as always, agrees to everything he suggests, so we end up with every side dish on the menu.
‘Why did you order honeyed carrots?’ says Luke.
‘I feel bad saying no!!’ she exclaims. ‘He put so much effort into telling us the specials . . .’
‘I’ll eat them,’ says Henry.
‘I will too, of course,’ says Luke quickly. Nothing like com petition to make a man loving.
Robert changes the subject. ‘So, Abigail tells me you play for Richmond, Henry?’
Henry goes into a long diatribe about his team’s strengths and weaknesses. I’ve heard it before, and start gazing around the room. A few after-work drinkers, a romantic couple, another romantic couple, three guys at the bar . . . and one of them is looking right at me.
Zip. (That’s the record in my head.)
Guy. At bar. Looking right at me. And he’s good-looking. Short dark hair, slight stubble, wide smile that’s now grinning with just a hint of cheekiness . . . What the devil? Men never stare at me like that. I must have something on my face.
I turn back to our table, and quickly but casually, check my face and hair for problems. I seem clean enough . . . I glance back at him. He’s now talking to his friends, but a moment after I look over, we meet eyes again.
‘There’s a guy at the bar looking at me,’ I whisper across the table to Robert. ‘What do I do?’
‘Feign nonchalance,’ he replies straight away. ‘We’ll work out a game plan.’
‘Feign nonchalance?’ I reply. ‘What big words! I guess we can tell who went to Cambridge . . .’ Robert smirks. I lean back in my chair and pretend to yawn and stretch as nonchalantly as I can. I’m only doing it to make Robert laugh, and it works.
‘We are thinking about having a weekend in France in November,’ says Sophie, interrupting us. ‘Mum and Dad are visiting Aunty Peg and Aunty Pat for the weekend.’
‘Smashing, go for it,’ I nod. I haven’t spent a lot of time at the house in France; Peter and I didn’t do weekends away. I stopped booking longer holidays with him about six months ago. That’s a sign, by the way. You know you’re about to leave someone when you don’t want to plan holidays with them.
‘Actually, we were thinking it would be a get-to-know-you weekend for the wedding party,’ says Luke. ‘All the bridesmaids and all the groomsmen.’ He glances at Henry. ‘Um . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Henry. ‘I’ve got rugby anyway.’ He smears butter on his third bread roll and tips salt on it. I reach over and take the salt away from him.
‘And Robert,’ says Luke. ‘I’ve been waiting to ask you if you’d be my best man.’
Robert looks up in shock. ‘Mate! I’d be honoured!’ They stand up and hug as Sophie beams on adoringly and I – I admit it – take the opportunity to steal another look at the guy at the bar. Bar guy smiles openly at me. I smile back. Cripes, I am more confident than I used to be. This experience thing works.
‘I thought you’d ask Dave!’ says Robert, sitting down again. He’s beaming from ear to ear. ‘I was hoping for a groomsmanship and trying to be cool about it . . . This is fantastic, Lukey!’
‘Lukey?’ say Sophie and I in unison.
‘Dave is a groomsman, so is JimmyJames,’ says Luke. ‘But you’re the one who’s been with me through all the shit times . . . and you know Sophie better, too.’
‘I voted for you!’ said Sophie happily.
Our food arrives at this point, and Robert, Henry and Luke happily tuck into their identical dinners: steak for main, medium rare, with a side of chips. Men are so predictable.
Robert is smiling into the distance and sighing happily. ‘Best man! Tell the other bridesmaids to watch out.’
‘Oh, we will,’ I say. Sophie’s bridesmaids, apart from moi, are Vix, Sophie’s best friend who lives in Edinburgh, and Luke’s younger sister Bella, who I haven’t met yet as she lives in Bath and has somehow missed every post-engagement family get-together. Sophie has confided in me that she finds Bella ‘a bit tricky’. This is Sophie-speak for ‘a difficult and unpredictable bitch’.
‘Please don’t plunder and pillage the wedding party, Robert,’ says Sophie. ‘Really. I will go bridezilla on your arse.’
‘I might plunder the wedding party,’ pipes up Henry hopefully.
Sophie pats his arm condescendingly. ‘Sure you will.’
‘I promise to behave,’ says Robert. ‘I’ve known little Bella forever, anyway, so that would be disgusting.’ Then his face drops. ‘Shit. Does being best man require a speech?’
Luke and Sophie smile at him.
‘Is that a yes? That’s a yes, isn’t it . . . Oh, God.’ Robert pushes his chair away from the table and pretends to hyperventilate. I think he’s pretending, anyway. He puts his head between his knees, as Luke pats him on the back soothingly. ‘Public speaking. And talking about love. Both my fears. Together in one place. In black tie.’
‘You have like, six months to prepare . . .’ says Sophie hopefully.
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ says Robert. I’ve never seen him lose his cool before. Or be so silly. Whichever it is. I stifle a laugh. ‘Shut up, Abigail,’ he calls from between his knees. ‘You’ll be helping me write the speech in return for all the dating help I’ve been giving you.’
‘Lucky me,’ I say.
I steal a glance at the guy at the bar, and he makes a ‘what the fuck?!’ face at our table. It does look funny: four people eating calmly, one person having a panic attack. I shrug a ‘Search me’ face at him and turn back to the table. Cool and detached! And I’m drinking lemonade. I don’t need alcohol to be confident. Oh no.
The waitress comes over and puts a glass of champagne in front of me.
‘From the gentleman at the bar,’ she says.
Is this a set-up? I look suspiciously at the others, but they’ve all turned to stare at the bar, where the guy who’s been looking over all night is now deep in conversation with the guy next to him.
‘There’s a note!’ I exclaim. It’s a little folded sheet of paper. I pick it up and open it. On it is a list of questions with check boxes marked ‘yes’ or ‘no’ next to them.
Q1. Are you single?
Q2. May I buy you a drink later?
Q3. My name is Adam. (Dammit! That’s not a question.)
I snicker to myself. Funny and hot! I look up at the others. ‘Does anyone have a pen?’
‘Not the old “do you like me” note trick! God! I’ve been using that for years,’ groans Robert.
‘What a surprise,’ I say.
‘Does it work?’ says Henry.
‘It’s ballsy,’ comments Luke. ‘Chatting you up without talking face to face.’
‘We’ve been exchanging looks all night,’ I say pertly.
‘Do you want to meet him?’ asks Sophie.
I nod as timidly as a girl who woke up in someone else’s bed this morning can. (Don’t look at me like that! This is all so new and fun. Imagine, you just go out to dinner, and by the end of it, you could meet someone new! Someone who might be your soulmate! Singledom! Best thing in the world, seriously.) (Look, please forgive the ‘soulmate’ comment. I know I’m not supposed to think like that. But in a tiny corner of my mind, the thought is there.) So I tick ‘yes’ and ‘yes’ and write ‘Abigail’ on the note. I add ‘Thank you for the drink’.
‘Add “meet me at Motcombs in ten minutes”,’ suggests Robert. ‘It’s the bar a few doors down.’
‘I thought I was supposed to let him make that decision,’ I say.
‘No, in this instance, a little bull-by-the-horns is good.’
‘OK,’ I say. I wait for the waitress to come by, then give it back to her.
I take a calming breath. Henry is still eating, Sophie and Luke are nibbling and kissing each other, as they tend to do whenever they think they’re unwatched, and Robert is texting someone with a little half-smile on his face. He glances up at me, and presses ‘send’.
‘You alright? This is good. This is just what you need to get over last night. You know you can text me if you have any problems,’ he says.
‘Yes sir,’ I nod, taking a careful sip of my champagne and trying not to look around at the bar. I glance up and see Luke and Sophie staring at us. ‘What?’ I say.
‘What is going on here?’ asks Luke slowly, his eyes going from Robert to me. ‘I thought Robert was giving you advice. Not virtually dating for you.’
‘He’s not!’ I protest, at the same time as Robert says ‘I’m not!’
‘He’s more of a . . . singledom coach,’ I say. ‘Teaching me how to be like him.’
‘Right,’ says Sophie, looking from me to Robert suspiciously. Then she grins. ‘You know, I never even liked dating. It was like . . . I don’t know, performing, or something. Stressful.’
‘That’s because you didn’t have me to help you,’ says Robert.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ says Luke.
‘Could you be a singledom coach for guys?’ says Henry self-consciously. He clears his throat. ‘I’m shit at, uh, that whole thing.’
‘No, you’re not,’ chorus Sophie and I loyally.
‘I’ve been reading this book about being a pick-up artist,’ says Henry shyly. ‘It’s about playing the game. I’m sure you know it,’ he adds to Robert. ‘It gives you loads of techniques . . .’
‘Like what?’ say Sophie and I in unison. I’m shocked: I had no idea Henry felt he needed pulling help so badly.
‘Like, you should wear something to make you stand out. It’s called “peacocking”. Like my red belt, see? Or, there’s this thing called a “neg”. So I might say, “I love your hair, but you should wear it up more”. It’s a negative compliment – so it confuses the girl and makes her want to impress you.’
‘That is ridiculous,’ I say, at the same time that Luke says ‘I get it . . .’
Henry sighs. ‘It’s not working for me so far.’
‘“Confuses” the girl?’ Sophie repeats. ‘What, like we’re farm animals that need herding?’
‘Like drawing a circle in the ground and putting a chicken in it,’ I suggest. I’m trying not to look at the Tick Boxer guy to see if he’s reading my note.
Henry ignores us and looks at Robert for validation. ‘I bet you do that, right, Rob?’
‘Uh, no, I’m sure it’s a great book, but no,’ says Robert.
‘What do you do?’ Henry persists. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘No secret. I just ask questions, and listen to the answers,’ says Robert. ‘Conversation is pretty much all it takes.’
‘Well, I can’t do that,’ says Henry. ‘I can’t get past the asking-for-a-number stage. I need the girl to make the first move.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I comment drily. I cannot imagine ever making the first move.
‘Make eye contact and if she’s looking at you, go and talk to her,’ says Robert. ‘If she’s looking, she’s interested.’
‘Are you saying that girls need to be visibly available for dating, and guys need to be proactively ready?’ I say, trying to fit this into my working knowledge of Robert’s surviving singledom techniques. ‘That’s sort of primal, isn’t it?’
‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ Robert grins at me and shakes his head. ‘Don’t analyse everything so much.’ He turns to Henry. ‘You’ll be fine. Try it the next time you’re out.’
‘I’m not that guy,’ says Henry. I wonder if most men feel like Henry does. I can’t imagine it.
‘We’ll go to a bar after this,’ says Robert reassuringly.
‘You can be my wingman!’ says Henry excitedly.
‘Right. I need a make-up pit stop,’ I say, standing up and still not looking towards Tick Boxer at the bar. ‘Sophie?’
‘Roger that,’ she nods, and we get up to go to the bathroom together.
As we’re in the bathroom side-by-side, silently make-upping, Sophie turns to me. ‘Look, I’ve just got to ask. Do you fancy Robert?’
‘No!’ I say, surprised. ‘Not at all!’
‘Really?’ says Sophie.
‘He’s not my type. Far too . . . tall. And he’s a player, did you not hear the advice he was giving Henry? He’s only friend material.’
‘But you get along so well . . .’ says Sophie.
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘He doesn’t fancy me, I don’t fancy him. We’re just friends.’
‘Robert doesn’t have female friends,’ she says. ‘Luke told me. And everyone fancies him. Even me. A little.’
‘Well, not me,’ I say, zipping up my bag and taking one last look in the mirror. Dismissing the conversation, I head for the door. Come on, Adam The Tick Boxer guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.
