A Girl Like You (14 page)

Chapter Eighteen

‘Fuckety fuck, fuck, fuck it,’ I say. I’m saying it to no one, because the minute I clocked the three of them, I ran straight for the bathrooms. Now I’m locked in a cubicle, having what I sup pose is a very mild version of a panic attack: I’m looking at my shoes and saying ‘fuck’ a lot.

What do I do now? I have to leave, right? I cannot brazen my way out of this, no matter how detached and cool I pretend to be. I’ll text Plum and ask her to come in here, perhaps we can fashion a burkha of some kind out of her scarf, and I can escape without them seeing me—

‘Abigail?’ says a voice. It’s Plum. ‘Why did you just do a pirouet te and leap for the ladies?’

I open the toilet door and walk out just as Charlotte bursts into the bathroom.

‘What’s going on?’ she says. ‘You left me with Henry!’ she stops short. ‘Not that I mind . . .’

‘I have to leave,’ I say, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. ‘The dweeb is here and the guy that I, you know, was a drunken slutty nightmare with, and Peter’s brother, Joe, who hates me and called me a selfish bitch. What are the odds? I can’t possibly stay and sit face-to-face with them for three minutes each!’

‘You can’t leave!’ they say in unison.

‘I need you here,’ says Plum. ‘And if you leave, you’ll fuck up the guys-to-girls ratio.’

‘I only came because of you!’ says Charlotte nervously.

Fuck. It’s true, I really can’t leave Charlotte since I invited her. Plum was practically hysterical on the street just now, I mean, she seems stable since Dan rang but God knows what might happen if something went wrong. And it really would be difficult to hold a speed dating night with too many guys.

‘Oh God, I’m having a hot flush from nerves, this may have brought on The Change,’ I say, leaning over the sink and running my wrists under the cold water.

‘I find it unlikely that you’re going through menopause at 27,’ retorts Plum.

‘When were you a drunken slutty nightmare, by the way?’ says Charlotte. Ah yes, I pretended I was sick. Oh well, we’re friends now. I give her a quick rundown on the Skinny Jeans date, and she laughs so hard I think she might be ill.

Then we’re all silent for a second. ‘There’s what, seven million people in London? What are the odds?’

‘I thought it was eight million,’ says Charlotte.

‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I need some thinking time. What time is it starting? We’re just butterflying now, right?’

‘We’re supposed to go to the private room upstairs by 9 pm,’ says Plum, glancing at her phone. ‘You have half an hour.’

‘I’ll tell Henry what’s going on,’ says Charlotte, dashing back out. ‘He’ll be worried.’

‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ says Plum. ‘Then we can figure out what to do.’

And I’m alone again. I feel sick, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t . . . I never responded to any of the texts from Josh From HR or Skinny Jeans. Perhaps this is my comeuppance for being so arrogant. Karma is a bitch. Should I say I lost my phone? Or that I just never got their texts? Perhaps I could pretend to have amnesia. Like Guy Pearce in
Memento
.

Fuck it, I’m calling Robert.

‘Why are my spidey senses telling me that you need advice?’ he says, instead of hello.

‘Total fucking meltdown. Can you talk?’

‘I learned to talk when I was a year old, but I was advanced for my age. What’s up?’

‘I’m at speed dating, you know, and Skinny Jeans the one night stand guy is here, and Josh From HR, remember that bad date at the Albannach? And Peter’s brother Joe who hates me, and called me a stupid bitch, and I’m going to have to talk to them all for three minutes each, and I can’t leave or the girls will kill me.’

There’s a pause.

‘You’d better not be laughing!’ I say.

‘Sorry,’ he says. I can tell by his voice that he’s smiling.

‘Why is it echoing?’

‘I’m hiding in the, uh, euphemism.’

‘Right . . . So, who cares? Three minutes. You can do anything for three minutes.’

‘No! I need help!’ I am overreacting, but I can’t help it. ‘Joe was so horrible to me the last time I saw him, and I couldn’t even say anything back, I just clammed up and ran away and cried. And last time I saw Skinny Jeans guy, he was passed out in bed and I was crawling around his room looking for my knickers. I will die of mortification when I have to face him.’

‘If you die, text me.’

‘I don’t think that the state of deadness – or the speed dating environment, for that matter – is conducive to texting.’

‘Drinks!’ says Plum, bursting back in with two very large vodkas.

‘Is that Robert? Hi, Robert!’

‘Is that Plum?’ he says. ‘Christ, she’s cheerful.’

‘I’m putting you on speaker,’ I say, and press loudspeaker. ‘Robert is my scriptwriter.’

‘Right then. To to the Josh guy, you say that you lost your phone,’ he says, his voice sounding all tinny over the loudspeaker.

‘Roger that,’ I nod. ‘But he might ask me out again.’

‘Then say that you’re, God, I don’t know . . . working through a few issues with a recent break-up,’ he says.

‘So she’s allegedly working through break-up issues by going to a speed dating night?’ says Plum dubiously.

There’s a pause. Plum and I stare hopefully at my mobile.

Robert clears his throat. ‘Let’s move on. Skinny Jeans. Just act like you’re mildly amused to see him again.’

‘That’s no help!’ I exclaim. ‘I need a script, Robert. What if he asks me why I left before he woke up? Or why I ignored his texts? I’m too embarrassed to tell him that I was too embarrassed.’

‘What?’ Robert starts laughing again. ‘Why do you care what he thinks?’

‘And what if Joe picks a fight again? I’m not good with people being mean! What if – I mean, what if—’

‘I can’t script non-specific “what if” situations, Abigail,’ says Robert. ‘You can handle this. Come on. Be a man. Pull yourself together.’

‘I’ve got an idea!’ exclaims Plum. ‘My earpiece. The Bluetooth thing on my phone. We can arrange your hair to hide it, and Robert can call my phone and listen in and suggest things to say.’

I gaze at Plum for a second. It’s the perfect solution.

‘Yes! Awesome idea!’ I say. Plum starts high-fiving me and jumping gleefully around the bathroom. I turn back to the phone. ‘Robert! Will you do it?’

‘Um . . . OK,’ says Robert slowly. ‘Can you really hide it, though? And I need to be able to hear what he’s saying, too.’

Plum brandishes a hairclip. ‘Side part, so all your hair is over your ear. Voilà.’

‘Got it,’ I say. ‘In that case I need another double vodka, please. My shout. Take my card. You know my pincode. Robert, I will call you back in a few minutes.’

‘Roger that,’ says Plum, and runs out of the bathroom. I get my make-up out of my bag and start reapplying. I need more warpaint for this battle.

Twenty minutes later, my hair is now in a (rather becoming, actually) bouffy side-swooped ponytail, entirely covering my right ear. Plum’s phone earpiece is tucked safely behind said side-swoop, and Robert is sitting on the couch at home with a bottle of wine, his voice beaming into my ear via the magic of Bluetooth. Or wireless. Or whatever it is.

‘Can you hear me? Testing, testing.’

‘Affirmative,’ I say into the bathroom mirror.

‘You can’t see a thing,’ says Plum admiringly. ‘God, I am brilliant.’

She’s bursting with sunny positivity. What a difference a date makes. I also notice that she’s backcombed her hair and done a sex-kitten-swish with her eye make-up. ‘Miaow,’ I say. ‘I know,’ she beams. ‘I’m seeing Dan tomorrow. But the admiring male gaze is good for the soul.’

‘Amen to that, sister,’ I say, and we clink glasses. ‘Robert, can you hear us talking?’

‘
Loud and clear
,’ says Robert. ‘
And heavy on the oestrogen
.’

‘OK,’ I say. My nerves have solidified into a tiny fist in the pit of my stomach. I can handle anything tonight throws at me . . . with Robert’s help. ‘Robert, thank you so much for doing this,’ I say. ‘I mean really. I owe you.’

‘
Add it to my tab
,’ says the little Robert voice in my ear. ‘OK, team,’ I say, as a bell rings outside. ‘Let’s go.’

We walk outside and upstairs to a private room, where Charlotte, Henry and the rest of the speed-daters have already congregated. Forty of London’s young singles, all in the one room. I can practically smell the hormones.

Keeping my head down, I take a seat at a table for two with a bottle of wine and two glasses. How thoughtful to provide a conversational lubricant, I think, pouring myself an extremely large glass, drinking half of it and then refilling it. There’s also a pencil and a sheet of paper with 20 numbered lines on. I’m supposed to make notes? Fuck that.

A girl at the front is calling out instructions to people, but I’m having trouble paying attention. I look around and see Charlotte and Plum at their own little tables, and give them little thumbs up and nods. The rest of the speed daters are all in different stages of nervousness and excitement. I can’t see any particularly good-looking guys, by the way. Which is good: the next hour is about surviving, not flirting.

‘You OK, Abby, darling?’
says Robert.

‘Smashing!’ I exclaim brightly, scaring a guy walking past who thinks I’m talking to him. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ If I’m not careful, I’m going to look absolutely cuckoo. Thinking this, I say ‘cuckoo!’ aloud, and I hear Robert laughing.

‘Hi, I’m Christopher,’ says a shaven-headed man in a suit, shaking my hand. ‘I think I’m your first victim.’

‘
Tell him you’ll take it easy on him, but you like to draw first blood,
’ says Robert. I crack up and Christopher looks at me oddly. ‘If you find that amusing, we’re going to have a great time.’ he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. Two can play the arrogance card, my friend.

Then a bell rings again, and the speed date has officially started.

‘So, what brings you here tonight, Christopher?’ I say.

‘I’m a journalist. I’m reviewing this for
Time Out
,’ he says.

‘
He’s lying,’
says Robert in my ear. ‘
He’s trying to look cool.
’

‘Really,’ I say. ‘Do you work with Kristina O’Shaunnessy?’

‘Yeah, I think she’s on another floor,’ he says smoothly. He is lying. I totally made that name up.

‘Do you live, um, in London?’ I say.

‘
Oh God, I’m so bored already,
’ says Robert.

‘Shut up,’ I say. Christopher looks at me oddly. ‘I mean . . . don’t shut up! Talk! Talk!’

Robert starts laughing in my ear and I’m having trouble holding it together. The rest of the speed date is a complete catastrophe, as all I can hear in one ear is Robert laughing, and Christopher, clearly thinking I’m mad, in the other.

Then the bell rings again. Christopher can’t wait to get away.

‘Listen, dammit, I need you to be serious,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘I’ll be sectioned if it continues like this.’

‘Sorry,
’ Robert says. ‘
OK, OK, I will be serious now.
’

Then the bell rings again, and I look up, and it’s Josh From HR.

‘Abigail,’ he says awkwardly, sitting down.

‘Josh!’ I say loudly.

‘
Who
?’

‘From HR,’ I add quickly.

‘Got it.
’

‘How’ve you been? What have you been up to?’ I gabble. Ah, job interview mode. We meet again.

‘Great,’ he says, and pauses. ‘Look, I don’t want to make this awkward . . .’ he trails off, clearly trying to think of how to ask me why I ignored him. I clear my throat, hoping Robert will take that as a cue to talk. He does.

‘I’ve been meaning to text you,
’ says Robert.

‘I’ve been meaning to text you,’ I say.

‘
I just think I’m not ready. Uh, to date. I was in a very serious relationship and meeting someone straight away wasn’t part of the plan.
’

‘I just think I’m not ready to date. I was in a very serious relationship and meeting someone straight away wasn’t part of the plan.’

‘I totally get it,’ says Josh. ‘And actually, I wanted to ask you about the girl I just met. I think she’s a friend of yours. Plum? . . . She’s amazing! Tell me everything about her!’

Robert starts laughing again.

‘Plum!’ I say brightly, trying to ignore Robert. ‘Of course. She’s one of my best friends. What do you want to know?’

‘Where does she live? I want to meet someone who’s also south of the river,’ he says.

The rest of the three minutes is filled by telling Josh all about Plum. Hopefully she won’t get annoyed.

By the time Josh leaves, I’m sweating lightly.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ I hiss into my earpiece.

‘
And you thought it was going to be all about you
.
Serves you right for being arrogant.
’

‘I thought arrogance was good.’

‘
Only if it’s funny.
’

The next dates are easier: perfectly nice guys, none of them particularly interesting, funny or good-looking. I’m not feeling with it enough to apply myself to the task of conversing, so each speed date drifts pointlessly through predictable questions and answers. All of them probably think I’m strange, as I keep grinning when Robert makes little comments about them into my ear.

‘I’m an entrepreneur,’ says one.

‘
Pimp
,’ says Robert.

‘I love travelling,’ says another.

‘
Sex tourist
.’

‘Have you been to Canada?’ says the smoothest of the bunch.

‘
Serial killer
.’

And then Skinny Jeans sits down.

‘Abigail,’ he says. ‘I thought it was you.’

‘Hi!’ I say loudly. ‘Mark!’

‘
Who?
’ says Robert. Fuck, he doesn’t know his real name. Why do I give everyone stupid nicknames?

‘I almost don’t recognise you out of your SKINNY JEANS,’ I enunciate carefully. He’s wearing grey flannel trousers and a pink T-Shirt with leather Converses. He speaks clothes exceptionally confidently for a straight man. I wonder if he’d take me shopping.