Читать книгу A Girl Like You - Gemma Burgess - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Two hours later, I crash through the front door, staggering a little to take my heels off. My flatmate, Robert, is stretched out on the couch, legs up on the coffee table, watching TV.

‘Honey, I’m home!’ I say.

‘Hey,’ he replies, glancing at me and back at the TV.

I shuffle into the living room, carrying my shoes, and plop down on the other couch.

‘I just had my first date, ever, in my whole entire life,’ I say chattily. I close one eye to focus on the TV. It’s an old The Simpsons, the episode with the monorail. ‘They use the M as an anchor to get the doughnut and then there’s an escalator to nowhere,’ I say helpfully.

‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ Robert runs his hands through his hair absent-mindedly. It’s longish and dark, and sticks up in the most gravity-defying way I’ve ever seen. I wonder if he uses product and if so, which one. ‘Beer?’

I look down and see a small bucket next to the couch, filled with ice and beer. The fridge is exactly nine feet away.

‘That is supremely lazy.’

Robert glances over again and grins. ‘Well, aren’t you chatty tonight?’

‘I’m a little drunk,’ I confess, sliding down the couch and manoeuvring my foot to pinch a beer bottle between my toes. Those last two martinis were goooood. We finished the wine, and Paulie switched to beer, and I thought hell, why not?

‘Good date?’ he asks, not taking his eyes off the TV.

‘Yeah,’ I say, moving my foot to bring the bottle up to my hand. Good eye-foot coordination. ‘He seems really nice. A bit reserved. He’s getting up early for a conference call so we called it a night after dinner.’

‘Oh, so it was a bad date,’ Robert says decisively, throwing me the bottle opener. I catch it perfectly and smile to myself. I cannot play any sports, at all. In fact, team sports make me panic – what if I let people down? (The pressure!) Yet I can always catch anything thrown at me. If only I could market this talent in some way, I’d never have to analyse results again. I could work in a bar, like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, and just throw bottles all – wait. I focus on what Robert just said.

‘Bad? No!’ I say. ‘It was fine. I was a little, uh, nervous, but then the conversation was easy. I found out lots about him, he seems very nice.’

‘Did you ask him lots of questions?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he ask you any questions?’

Pause. ‘No . . .’

‘Did you laugh a lot?’

Even longer pause. ‘We had a few . . . light moments.’

‘Bad date,’ he says again. ‘No kiss, right?’

I admit, that part confused me. When the hell are you meant to kiss? How can you tell if they want to? I tried to look at Paulie meaningfully, but I couldn’t catch his eye, and then he opened the cab door and kind of stood behind it, so I just got in and waved goodbye.

God. That is a disaster, now that I think about it.

‘How did you know that?’ I ask.

‘Lip gloss,’ he replies.

‘Well, aren’t you Sherlock fucking Holmes?’ I say. I feel a bit deflated. ‘I think he’ll call me, anyway.’

‘Right,’ says Robert flatly.

‘He could be my soulmate,’ I say lightly.

‘He isn’t,’ he says. ‘I promise.’

‘Oh, poo on you,’ I say, taking a sip of my beer.

‘Nice comeback,’ he says.

Luke, my sister’s fiancé mentioned that people sometimes find Robert a bit moody. He should know: Robert is one of his best friends. Robert and I haven’t spoken much until now. I’m probably out of practice at making new friends, and sometimes I think I wouldn’t know small talk if it hit me in the face. But tonight, the booze is helping.

I close one eye and gaze over at Robert. His legs are so long that he can easily reach the coffee table. I try to reach my toes out to it and fail. Robert notices and reaches forward to pull it towards my hopeful toes.

‘Thanks.’ Maybe I should say what’s on my mind. ‘It’s not my fault that I don’t know this dating stuff, you know. I’m a dating virgin. I’d never gone on a proper date before tonight.’

‘Mmm,’ says Robert, which I take as further encouragement.

‘I mean, I went to the movies and things with Peter at the start, obviously. But we’d been friends for so long that it felt natural . . . and we didn’t even go on an official first date. I mean, it was university. We were drunk at a party and snogged and voilà, instant boyfriendage. And now it’s seven years later and I’ve forgotten how to be single. What can I do about it?!’

Robert doesn’t respond.

‘I was just being polite by asking Paulie all those questions. What else could I talk about? He’s a total stranger! Better than awkward silence,’ I pause, thinking of more reasons. ‘And I was trying to be nice, and, um, and interested in his life. It’s good manners.’

‘I’m sure he appreciated your good manners,’ says Robert.

This is not the type of cosy flatmate chat I used to enjoy with Plum and Henry and everyone at university, I must say. Perhaps he’s never lived with a girl before. Luke shared a flat with him until he met Sophie and kicked Robert out, which is when he bought this place. It’s a funny little place over three stories, with bare floorboards and very masculine furniture. Leather couches and a couple of low wood tables. I described it to Plum as ‘butch chic’.

He’s obviously not keen on becoming best friends, I muse. He probably only needs a flatmate to help pay the mortgage. He must be old. Luke’s 30, but Robert looks older. He seems to permanently need a shave.

‘How old are you?’ I ask.

‘Old enough to know not to talk to a man during The Simpsons,’ he replies.

We watch The Simpsons episode till it ends, and then Robert starts flicking the TV channels. We go past an episode of Family Guy.

‘Oohh! Family Guy. Yes please,’ I say. Robert flicks back.

I’m starting to sober up.

‘After martinis, beer is like bread, I swear,’ I comment during the ads. ‘It really soaks up the alcohol.’

Robert doesn’t respond.

Family Guy starts again. My mind is racing. Was that a bad date? What a lot of effort and excitement and outfit-planning and grooming and anticipation . . . all for one hour and 45 minutes of shit conversation and good food.

Perhaps I haven’t missed out on that much after all. Perhaps this dating and being single malarkey is just a lot of fuss about nothing.

But that can’t be right. Plum loves being single and meeting men and going on dates and you know, all that shit. It’s like the entire focus of her life. And my sister Sophie loved being a single gal about town (as my dad says), that’s how she met Luke, and now they’re getting married.

And it’s the whole point of everything, isn’t it? To find someone to love and laugh with. A (whisper it) soulmate. And not settle with someone that you love like a brother and don’t ever really laugh with. Like Peter. I left him because I knew there was something wrong, something missing. But there was something missing tonight, too. I – oh, I need to pee.

‘I’m just going to the, uh, euphemism,’ I say.

‘Good to know,’ he replies.

Perhaps Robert is wrong I think, as I sit back down on the couch a few minutes later. Paulie will call and we’ll go out again and it will be better. Perhaps it will be a date we’ll laugh about for the rest of our lives (‘I was so nervous!’, ‘No, I was nervous!’). I mean, he must have liked me enough to ask me out, so wouldn’t he like me enough to ask me out again? I don’t—

‘Don’t think about it anymore,’ says Robert to the TV. Wait, is he talking to me?

‘Huh?’

‘You’re very easy to read,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘It was one night. Just learn from it and move on. Singledom is brutal. You need to be brutal too.’

‘Learn what? I don’t know what I did wrong . . .’ I say, quickly adding, ‘If I did anything wrong, if you’re even right about it being a bad date, which you might not be. I like him . . . I might like him,’ I caveat. Do I like Paulie? God, I don’t know. I was too busy keeping the conversation going to figure that out. ‘The last thing I said was “will you call me?” and he said “yes”.’

‘Never ask a guy to call you,’ says Robert, opening another beer.

‘Then I’ll call him,’ I say crossly.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

‘I’m a feminist. I can call a man,’ I’m defensive now. ‘Or I’ll just text.’ Robert shakes his head slowly. Cripes, maybe I should flatshare with girls. I like a bit more compassion in my pep talks, thank you very much. ‘Or email. I have his email address. Or I’ll casually Facebook him.’

‘I’m a feminist too,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘But no. Not after the first date. Be elusive. And there is nothing casual about Facebook.’

‘I just don’t understand why you think it went so badly,’ I say again.

‘What gave it away was the questions thing,’ he says, more gently. ‘Too many personal questions and it becomes an interview.’

‘That’s just what it felt like!’ Maybe he does know what he’s talking about. ‘This is good. Tell me more. I need baby steps.’

He grins at me. ‘Play it cool. You need to be detached from the situation. It’s the only way.’

‘Wait!’ I take out my notebook. I’m never without it: it’s the repository of my to-do lists and the only way I can keep track of everything.

‘Give me one sec,’ I squint, close one eye, pick up my pen and start writing. What was it he just said again? Oh yeah.

Be cool

Be detached

That seems simple.

‘That doesn’t mean you should be a mute. Making him laugh is crucial.’

‘I need to be funny, too?’ I say in dismay. Robert looks amused by this. ‘What makes you the expert? Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘Not exactly. I’m just very good at being single.’

Ah, a player. On cue, his phone buzzes with a text that I can immediately tell, by the disinterested way he reads it, raises his eyebrows slightly, and then taps out a reply, is a girl.

‘Cool, detached . . .’ I muse, watching him. ‘Do I have to do this forever? Some day I’ll fall in love again, I hope, and then I won’t have to think about this . . . Right? Like, on my wedding day, do I have to think about acting cool and detached?’

His phone buzzes again. Another text. He reads it and raises an eyebrow, before looking up at me and computing my last statement.

‘Don’t think about falling in love. Don’t even say the word. Love has nothing to do with dating. And don’t think about your wedding day. Ever,’ he says, picking up his wallet and keys from the coffee table. He throws me the remote control and I catch it perfectly. Yes! Two out of two. ‘I’m off. Meeting a friend.’

‘I figured,’ I say. ‘Does that mean my how-to-date tutorial is over?’

‘Going on a date is just something to do for a few hours.’ Robert takes his coat from the hall cupboard. ‘It’s no big deal, so don’t build it up to be something more in your head.’

‘But what if I don’t feel detached? Or cool?’

Robert pauses as he reaches the door, looks over at me, and grins. ‘Fake it.’