A Girl Like You (25 page)
Authors: Gemma Burgess
It’s about halfway through dinner that things hit a real low-point.
‘Dave, I can’t
believe
you never even
mentioned
Gail to me!’ says Dave’s mother. She raises a glass of wine to her lips. ‘I really
don’t
know
what
I’ll do with you, darling.’
I think about correcting her to say ‘Abigail’, but since I’ve done that six times in the past hour, there’s really no point. So instead, I smile and wait for Dave to reply.
‘It’s ABI-gail, Dottie,’ he says. He calls his mother by her first name. ‘And well, I don’t discuss my personal life with you.’
‘You wouldn’t have a life
at all
if it wasn’t for me! Me and my
wonderful womb
,’ she says. She turns to me and winks. ‘Am I right?’
‘Dottie . . .’ says Dave warningly.
‘He hates the word “womb”,’ she says to me confidingly, yet loudly. ‘Womb, David!
Vagina
!’
Dave’s mother is, shall we say, surprising. I’d expected a sophisticated older lady. Very slim, with tennis-playing arms, a blonde bob and a calm, brittle exterior. In other words, a peroxide Anna Wintour.
I got the blonde bob bit right, but the rest very, very wrong.
Dottie is a Rubenesque, heavily made-up woman, poured and tweaked into a very tight dress. Since her fourth glass of wine, her conversation has pinballed all over the place. We’ve heard about the contractor renovating her house (‘That dreadful man! His eyes! On my pins!’), the difficulties of dating for the over 50s (‘I never thought I’d say it, but bald men really do try harder’) and the love woes of her
bichon-frise
, Mr Mitzy (‘Retarded detumescence, the vet called it. I said I don’t care, make it go away!’). She’s also on first name terms with all the waiters.
‘This restaurant does
not know
how to make a decent risotto,’ she says, pushing her plate away and taking out a packet of Silk Cut. She speaks in
very clear italics
for dramatic emphasis and, I think, to escape any enunciation problems caused by excess wine. ‘Raymond! Take it away! I’m going outside. For
a fag
. Abigail?’
‘Uh – I don’t –’ Actually, I’m in the kind of stressed mildly-drunk mood where a cigarette would be great, but I’m on auto-lie, programmed to not smoke in front of the mythical-disapproving-mother-in-law. Plus, the idea of being alone with her is scary.
‘Yes, you fucking do,’ says Dave irritably. ‘Take her outside, please.’
Once outside, in the freezing January air, Dottie breaks into a gusty rendition of ‘It’s Harry I’m Plannin’ To Marry’. I smile awkwardly. What the devil do I do now? Join in?
‘Well,
cheeky
David to surprise me with you like this,’ she then says to me through a haze of smoke. ‘I had no idea he was even
seeing
anyone! He’s
such
a bachelor. Don’t you think he’s
extraordinarily
handsome? I tell you, if I was 15 years younger . . .’
Creepy. I know boys’ mothers always adore their little princes, but Peter’s mother never acted like this. And surely she means 30 years younger?
‘Yes, he’s lovely,’ I say eventually.
‘I said to him recently: you’ll end up
old
and
alone
like me if you’re not careful!’ she exclaims joyfully. ‘But it’s different for men!’
I nod. She’s scaring me.
‘I’ve been seeing this
fabulous
gent who lives in Marbella most of the time.
Wonderful
lifestyle out there. Wants me to move in with him,’ she says, dragging quickly and repetitively on her cigarette so it burns down to halfway in seconds. ‘Ever since David’s father—’ she pauses, and suddenly her eyes are filled with tears. I put my hand on her arm instinctively.
‘Oh – God, Dottie, I’m so—’
‘
Sorry
? Why would you be sorry, it wasn’t
your
fault, was it?’ she snaps. ‘Let’s go!’
I stub out my cigarette in the little bin left for smokers, and then pick up Dottie’s cigarette butt from the ground and put it in there, too, and follow her inside.
‘I took the liberty of ordering coffees,’ says Dave pointedly.
‘I’d
love
a little nibble on something sweet,’ says Dottie, taking another slug of wine. She looks completely normal now, no sign of the recent near-hysteria. (Me? I’m shell-shocked.)
‘I’ll get you a Wagon Wheel on the way to your hotel,’ snaps Dave.
‘I’m
so sad
Louisa couldn’t join us,’ says Dottie petulantly. So am I, I think. I’m dying to meet the bitch that broke Robert’s heart. I asked Dave a few times, till he said ‘what’s with the Louisa obsession?’ so I stopped.
‘I’m not,’ says Dave. ‘I’ve had enough Louisa to last me till next Christmas.’
‘
You
picked those fights, David.’
Dave ignores his mother, and thankfully, the coffees arrive. I’m so nervous that I’ve been totally silent most of dinner, unable to think of anything to say and, when I do, unable to say it out loud. But I can’t just sit here mute, either.
‘Coffee! I love coffee!’ I blurt out, apropos nothing.
Oh, Abigail. Why don’t you just read the fucking menu aloud?
When dinner is finally over, we drop Dottie off at her hotel, and continue in the taxi back to Dave’s house. We haven’t spoken to each other since we left the restaurant. I clear my throat, but he doesn’t even turn away from the window. There’s a gulf between us. There always is.
I don’t know what’s going through his head, just that he’s in a bad mood. Or maybe he’s tired. I can’t tell the difference. Perhaps he’s regretting asking me along tonight, I think glumly. Probably thinking how much he wishes he wasn’t with me. Oh God, this isn’t right. Something is wrong, something is missing . . .
And then Dave turns to me.
‘Abigail, angel, I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I thought she’d be better than that.’
‘She was lovely,’ I say untruthfully. What does he mean, ‘better’? Less drunk? Less prone to singing/crying fits and professions of motherly lust? ‘She got a little upset outside. About your Dad.’
He sighs, and then leans over and takes my hand. It’s the first non-sexual physical affection I’ve ever had from Dave. ‘Thanks for coming with me,’ he says, holding my hand up to his lips and kissing it. ‘I needed you.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I say. I think I already know the answer, but I’m so thrilled to have him be even a tiny bit open with me that I can’t help myself.
‘No. Now come here.’
He pulls me over to his side of the taxi and kisses me. For the first time ever, it’s tender, and I actually feel close to him. I don’t know why his mother was crying, or why tonight was as difficult for him as it clearly was, but I don’t care. All I need is Dave to be near me, and to want me as much as I want him. Everything must be OK if he’s being like this, right? That uneasy feeling I had that something is wrong . . . it’s nothing. It must be nothing.
‘You’re delightful,’ he murmurs, in between kisses. ‘It’s always good to see you, always.’
My heart leaps with joy. Everything
is
fine! I knew it was.
By the time we get home (I mean, to his place), he’s cheered up considerably. Dave doesn’t enjoy introspection; his moods are unnaturally buoyant. It’s infectious to be around: when he’s happy, I’m happy.
I now feel open enough to tell him about what I’m doing this weekend, rather than sneaking them in around his plans as I discover them on the fly, the way I usually do.
‘A tasting at Luke’s wedding venue?’ he responds at one point. ‘They should do a marriage tasting . . . you could get the cold shoulder, a long-term huff, a touch of a temper tantrum, and endless arguments about whose turn it is to spend Christmas with whose family.’
‘Cynic,’ I say. I’m lying in his bed, as he puts away washing and hangs up his laundered shirts.
‘Well, I’m not sure what I’m doing. JimmyJames wants to go to some party in Islington.’
‘That sounds fun,’ I say, as coolly as I can. (He’s discussing plans! In advance!)
‘Shall we do it? OK, I’ll tell him we’re in,’ he stands in front of his open sock drawer and sighs. ‘I am thirty fucking years old. I should be able to find a matching pair of socks.’
Encouraged by this new perfect-boyfriend side of Dave, and anxious not to lose his attention, I lean back and sigh deeply. ‘I’m having a work crisis, Dave,’ I say. It’s time to tell him about the job offer in Hong Kong.
‘Really, angel? Do tell . . .’ he says, peering into the sock drawer. ‘I’ve never even fucking owned a pink sock. Where did you come from?’ He holds the pink sock up to the ceiling. ‘I shall call you Bethany. Bethany, the mysterious pink sock.’
I giggle. Dave picks up a stray white sock, folds them together and starts singing ‘Bethany and Ivory’. ‘Um, well, I don’t love my job. And I don’t know if it’s my team, or the job, or the industry . . .’
‘No one loves their job,’ he says, walking into his bathroom and coming back with a toothbrush in his mouth. ‘That’s a fact.’
‘Don’t you think I should care about what I do between 7 am and 7 pm every day?’
‘You don’t have any other interests, do you?’ says Dave, around his toothbrushing. ‘It’s not like you love photography, or interior design, or flower arranging . . . so what the fuck else would you do?’
‘Um . . .’ I can’t think what to say. He’s absolutely right.
‘You’re not going to magically discover some perfect career that’ll make you dribblingly happy for the rest of your life. Just accept that you’re like everybody else, angel.’
I feel hurt by this, but I can’t think why. He’s not being mean exactly. Just truthful.
‘I was offered a—’
Dave holds a hand up to interrupt me, goes back to his bathroom, spits out the toothpaste, rinses and pads back into the room. ‘Enough job talk! It just reminds me of my own career dissatisfaction. My bonus had better be the size of Birmingham this year or I’m going to crack skulls. Those people don’t appreciate me.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s bonus is going to be good this year,’ I say. Dave’s bonuses, past, present and future, are one of his favourite subjects, I’ve noticed. ‘Well then, let’s not talk about it again, hmm?’ Dave looks over at me and smiles lasciviously. ‘Are you naked, young lady?’
I nod my head coyly. In this conversation, at least, I know just what to do.
‘Shocking,’ he says. ‘I’ll need to see that for myself.’
I still haven’t brought up the whole Hong Kong thing. And it’s been almost a month.
I keep telling myself I’ll do it tonight, and then . . . I never do. If I tell Dave about the trip I’m supposedly taking (this week!, oh God) to go to the Luxury In Asia conference in Hong Kong, then I’d have to tell him about the job offer, and I’ll be forcing a conversation titled Where Is This Relationship Going. I don’t feel quite, um, confident enough to do that yet. So the flights are booked, the hotel is booked . . . but in my head, I’m not even sure if I’m going.There hasn’t been a good time to tell Dave, anyway. He’s been more distracted than usual lately. I think his work is making him very stressed – he often works so late that we don’t even see each other for days. But one thing hasn’t changed: whenever I’m about to see him, my stomach churns with nerves.
I’ll bring it up with Dave tonight, I will. I will. And I’ll email Andre to confirm it. He and I have been emailing a lot – work stuff, but a bit of banter, too. Maybe working with him would be different from here, maybe I’d like it. Oh God. I have to make a decision soon.
I look around at the frenzied boredom that characterises 4 pm on a Monday in my office, press ‘refresh’ on my email, and sigh.
I mentioned the job offer to Sophie and Plum over our Sunday night supper at Sophie’s house last night. Their shocked reaction quickly convinced me that mentioning the trip wouldn’t be a good idea.
‘You’re moving . . . to Hong fucking Kong?’ said Plum in disbelief.
‘No, no, I don’t know, maybe,’ I said, stumbling over my words. ‘I don’t think . . . I don’t know. I was offered a job, that’s all.’
‘I thought that you weren’t sure about your job.’
‘That it doesn’t make you happy.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I said, adding more grated cheese to my baked beans and buttering another slice of toast. Sophie doesn’t make a huge effort for these Sunday suppers, but they’re very comforting. I always think that toast smells like a hug. ‘I’m not, I mean . . . I don’t know. Yet. But it’s good, right?’
‘It’s fantastic! I mean, congratulations! As long as it’s what you want,’ said Sophie.
‘What does Dave think?’ asked Plum.
‘Nothing, I haven’t told him,’ I replied, frowning to myself. ‘No need . . . to . . . for that.’
Sophie and Plum exchanged a glance. Wait a fucking minute, I thought, I’m not the one who has a glanced exchanged about her. If anything, I am the one exchanging said glances, dash it. But I didn’t feel up to confronting them.
‘Not yet,’ I continued hurriedly, biting into my toast. ‘What’s the point? Since, as you say I’m still, uh, working things out. It’s my decision. Enough about me, anyway. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘How’s dishy old Roberto, my favourite fuckmerchant?’ said Plum.
‘Something apart from him,’ I said. They both looked at me. ‘Robert and I . . . well, we’ve grown apart.’
It’s undeniable. We don’t email or text the way we used to. I rarely see him, and when I hear him and walk downstairs to say hi, the front door bangs and I can hear his footsteps hurrying away. He’s avoiding me.
I can’t exactly talk to him about it. What would I say? ‘Oh, Robert, by the way. Kissing you was a huge mistake and I regret it. I can’t bear the thought that I cheated on Dave with you. I know you regret it, I also know you disapprove of me and Dave for some mysterious stupid macho reason, but come on, let’s be buddies?’
No. That’s not what grown-ups do. Grown-ups just pretend everything is fine and get on with life. Even though I miss him. And I wish everything could just go back to the way it was.
Sophie and Plum looked at me sympathetically, and I suddenly felt like crying. Instead I tried to act philosophical.
‘Perhaps you can’t have a best male friend and a boyfriend.’
‘What about Henry?’ said Sophie.
‘Doesn’t count. We’ve known him way too long.’
‘You can’t get rid of long-term friends without something viciously spiteful happening, like someone deleting you on Facebook,’ added Plum.
‘Why isn’t Henry here, anyway?’
‘He’s cooking dinner for Charlotte.’
‘He’ll make a fabulous wife one day.’
Then Plum dropped a bombshell.
‘I’ve quit my job. I’m starting a graduate diploma in Fashion Media Styling at the London College of Fashion.’
Sophie and I immediately started whooping our excitement and congratulations.
‘When did you decide this?’ I asked. Plum looked absurdly happy.
‘Remember that day you asked me if I loved my job? That started it . . . I’ve always wanted to work in fashion. I was just too fucking scared to admit it because then I’d have to actually do something about it.’
I felt a lump in my throat. Why do I want to cry, I wondered – jealousy? No. Worry about my own lack of career focus? No, not that either.
Then I realised that it was because that’s what Robert said to me on New Year’s Eve. Back when we were still best friends and everything was so warm and easy. He said that I was too scared . . .
The friendship is over. I need to just accept that.
With steadfast effort, I blinked back the tears and grinned at Plum, and luckily she and Sophie had moved on to talking about Sophie and Luke’s pre-wedding trip to Chicago this week.
Now, sighing deeply, I look around the office again. It’s a real London February day: the sun has called in sick. It’s bitingly cold outside yet the office air-conditioning is still on ‘high’. The fluorescent lighting, the grey carpets, the airlessness . . . Oh God.
I fight the urge to bang my head against my keyboard. Instead, I press ‘refresh’ again. Email from Dave!
Can you meet for a quick drink tonight? Need to talk.
My stomach feels like someone’s kicked it. ‘Need to talk’? Does that sound bad to you? No flirtiness, no ‘x’ at the end? I reply:
Of course. Everything alright? x
He replies almost immediately, and I’m seized by a fearful sick feeling.
Meet me at The Magpie at 6 pm.
Something is wrong. He was fine when I saw him yesterday. It was Sunday morning, so we slept in, I made us coffee, then later on I went home to change and met the girls for dinner. He spent last night with his sister Louisa, so I didn’t see him . . . Perhaps they had a fight, and his digital coldness has nothing to do with me. The insecurity curl around my chest flickers, but doesn’t go away. 6 pm? I can’t wait that long! This is Daveticipation on steroids.
I gaze at my computer screen, watching the clock in the bottom right corner move. 4.41 pm.
My phone rings. It’s my boss.
‘Suzanne,’ I say quickly, trying to sound as confident and busy as I can.
‘Abigail, come in here please,’ she says.
‘Of course,’ I say brightly. I walk over, fighting the urge to run. Why does she scare me so much? I miss my old boss. He just left me alone.
‘The last six weeks have been abominable,’ she barks, without any kind of prelude, the moment I step into her office. ‘The only reason we’re still breathing is because of Charlotte. Your sales calls have dropped to an all-time low. You haven’t done anything proactive—’
‘I finished the Brazil project,’ I interject feebly.
‘And did fuck-all with it,’ she snaps. ‘I thought we had an understanding, and at the end of last year, I saw a real change in you. Now it’s like you
want
to be fired. You haven’t taken your eye off the ball, you’ve put the fucking ball down and walked away from it entirely.’
‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll . . . I’ll fix it, I’ll step it up. I’ve had personal—’
‘I don’t care,’ she says. ‘Fix it. Go to the conference in Hong Kong. When you’re back next week, I want to see a difference.’
I haven’t had personal problems, I think to myself as I walk out of her office. I’ve just been preoccupied.
Maybe I do want to be fired.
I head straight to the bathrooms, lock myself in a cubicle, and sit on the closed seat. I want to cry, but I can’t find the tears. All I have is a huge, thudding sense of foreboding. Dave . . . work . . . Dave . . . work.
I lean forward on the seat, looking down at my shoes and try to line them up perfectly against the tiles. It’s impossible; the tiles are made of unevenly overlapping linoleum. It bothers me every time I pee.
Just a few months ago, I felt like everything was perfect! I remember thinking that I was invincible.
Bulletproof
.
Where did that
go
?
I count to 100, wash my hands and walk back to my desk. Charlotte’s away skiing with Henry, so it’s even quieter than usual. It’s now 5.21 pm, and the sky is almost dark. I go to work in the dark, I come home from work in the dark. Oh God, I hate winter. I hate this office. I hate everything.
I’ll tell Dave about Hong Kong tonight. Dave, tonight . . . ugh . . . The minutes creep by until finally, finally, it’s time to go.
When I get to the pub, Dave is leaning on a stool against the wall, texting someone. He glances up and immediately assumes a blank look that’s clearly intended to give nothing away. Oh God. My nervousness has never felt like this. I think my hands are shaking. I’m too scared to check.
I walk up, smiling twitchily, but he doesn’t smile like he usually does, just leans over, very quickly kisses me hello on the lips and takes my coat off.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say. The insecurity curl around my chest has become a boa constrictor. I try to smile and play the cocky card. ‘Red, I think, if you’re amenable.’
Dave smiles tightly, through pursed lips. ‘I’ll get you a glass, not a bottle. I can’t stay long.’ He heads to the bar.
He’s totally about to dump me.
Breathe, Abigail. Breathe.
I sit down and gaze around, hyperventilating through the knotty fear-pain. I feel flushed, though I don’t know if that’s from emotion or because it’s so hot in here.
‘Here you go,’ he says, coming back with a small glass of red.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a huge gulp.
‘Abigail,’ he starts, then looks at me and smiles as though seeing me for the first time. ‘You have a red wine smile, angel.’
He called me angel, I think, the knotty-pain easing for a second. Maybe he’s not about to dump me.
He takes a sip of his beer and pauses for a second, looking at me. ‘I’m going away. For work.’
‘Oh, great!’ I say in relief. He’s not dumping me! ‘I mean, oh, well, that’s a bummer. Where are you going? When?’
I see annoyance flicker across his face. Shit, he’s in one of those moods where he hates questions. Or talking.
‘Asia, mostly,’ he says abruptly. ‘Singapore first, then from Friday afternoon I’ll be in Hong Kong for the weekend . . . Then Beijing, then Shanghai, then Tokyo.’
‘I – I—,’ I say faintly. I want to tell him I’m going to be in Hong Kong too, and make him say that it’s hilarious that we’ll be there at the same time, but I don’t know how. I’m too scared it will annoy him more. (And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.)
‘Hong Kong will be,’ he agrees, taking out his phone and glancing at it. ‘It’s my favourite city after London.’
There’s a pause. I try to think of something to say. ‘Well, I just got a text from Sophie, she and Luke are heading to Chicago for a pre-wedding break, he got a trip with his work, so she’s joined him out there—’ Stop gabbling Abigail, you tool.
He finishes the rest of his beer in one gulp. ‘Right. I have to go. I’m taking the early flight tomorrow, so have to sort some things out. I’ll be in touch, OK?’
‘Cool,’ I say. What I want to say is: I’ll miss you, will you miss me, is everything alright, why do I still feel sick, I’ll be in Hong Kong too, please don’t leave . . .
He grins briefly, puts his coat on and checks his phone again. ‘Take care.’ Then he kisses me very quickly again and walks out of the pub without looking back.
I pick up my bag shakily. There’s a text from Suzanne.
Where are you? Come to my office immediately. Urgent project.
