A Girl Like You (8 page)

‘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.

Chapter Eleven

‘No milk, no eggs, no bacon, nothing,’ says Robert, leaning into the fridge. ‘Fuck this. We’re going out.’

It’s Saturday morning, a week after the The Pantechnicon Rooms evening, and I’ve just returned from spending the night at Harry The Tick Boxer’s house. Robert’s just returned from a night with – actually, I don’t know. (I’ve stopped asking their names.) I’m mildly stubble-rashed, a little tired, and, after a shower and new clothes, feeling rather pleased with myself.

‘Look at you, practically skipping around the house,’ says Robert, grinning.

‘Thank you so much for your advice,’ I say happily. ‘I think it’s made all the difference with Adam The Tick Boxer. I’ve been cool. Detached. Funny. Ended dates first. And he likes me and I like him! It really worked!’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat.’

We walk down to The Engineer and enjoy a lovely, almost completely silent breakfast (eggs Benedict for him, pancakes with bacon and maple syrup for me), reading newspapers someone else has left behind. Neither of us is feeling chatty, which suits me fine. I’d rather be alone with my thoughts. Which are mostly about Adam The Tick Boxer.

As mentioned, he’s lovely. And smart and genuine and funny. He works for an IT company. He rock-climbs. He has a movie poster of The Fifth Element on his bedroom wall. He lives with his brother in a flat in Ealing, which, let me tell you, was a bitch to get home from this morning. And he likes me. Me!

I’ve seen him three times since we met in The Pantechnicon Rooms last Friday. Three! In a week! And this morning I even felt comfortable enough to invite him to Henry’s brother’s goodbye party tonight. He has other plans, but he is going to meet me quickly beforehand. Isn’t that nice?

‘I feel like shopping,’ I say absently. The pancakes are all gone now, even the syrup-soaked crumbs. ‘The girls are all busy though, and I can’t shop alone with a slight hangover. I’m just a bit . . . meh.’

Robert’s amused eyes meet mine, and he pretends to sniff the air. ‘Is that . . . apathy I smell?’

‘Yes!’ I exclaim, pretending to smell my wrists. ‘It smells like British trains.’

‘I’ll go shopping with you,’ he says.

‘Wowsers, that’s verbal Rohypnol,’ I say. ‘Seriously. It’s the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.’

‘Right then, funny girl, let’s go,’ he says, standing up.

We head to Westbourne Grove and windowshop, spending an inordinate amount of time in Reiss – it seems to be Robert’s sartorial homeland – then eat some absolutely delectable Ottolenghi cupcakes that we nickname ‘Heaven for babies’.

‘Because what’s better than heaven? Heaven for babies,’ nods Robert sagely. I pause. ‘So, this is like – a dead baby cake?’

Robert immediately spits the bit of cake in his mouth onto the ground.

Then we walk to Portobello market. It’s October, so it’s not prime tourist time, and we don’t have to fight the crowds.

‘I can honestly say I will die without ever a) buying or b) wearing cowboy boots,’ I say thoughtfully as we pass a boot shop.

‘Gosh, you’re so interesting. Do go on,’ says Robert.

I convince him to buy a second-hand tweed blazer with patches on the elbows.

‘I look like a prat,’ he murmurs under his breath, as he tries to see himself in the cracked mirror hanging on the back of the stall.

‘It’s ace,’ I say firmly, with all the confidence of someone who discovered how to speak style about eight days ago. ‘It works. Buy it.’

We start walking back up Portobello Road towards Notting Hill Gate. Robert’s fielding text messages, as usual. I’ve only had one from Plum saying ‘
I’m taking a vote. Dress vs sexy jeans?
’ I replied ‘
Dress. Obv.’
I do speak style! Even Plum trusts me.

I smile to myself. I just remembered something about Adam: when we had that drink last Friday, he leaned in and said, ‘I don’t normally do that sort of thing . . . I just felt like I had to talk to you. I couldn’t approach your table or just send over my number. That would be weird.’

‘Yeah,
that
would be weird,’ I agreed. ‘Whereas, the check-abox note is totally normal. Predictable, even.’

See? Me! Acting cool! And I like him. Have I mentioned that?

The best thing about dating Adam The Tick Boxer is that it distracts me from work. The past week has been pretty ghastly: I’ve diligently obeyed the face time rule (part of the culture in my office – i.e., when your boss is in, you’re at your desk, sending emails and visibly being a hard worker. Obviously it’s bullshit as half the floor goes to the gym at 6.30 pm and comes back at 8 pm to write a few emails, eat dinner on the company and then get a taxi home on the company account, but never mind). I suggested three more reports (the luxury booze market! The luxury car market! The effect of sales on luxury stocks!) and generally, have been a good little associate. I really am trying.

Charlotte and I have met up for coffee almost every day. She’s actually very funny, underneath the timid exterior. She spent the weekend moving out of the flat she shared with Phil and in with her brother, and seems impossibly cheerful about the whole thing. She said yesterday that every time she starts feeling sad, she just remembers all the things that she doesn’t like about him, and feels sure that breaking up was the best possible thing that could have happened to her. Isn’t that incredible?

Still, every day this week I’ve been looking forward to the second I can leave work. I’m ignoring the fact that I shouldn’t think this way about my job, particularly not when I have a reasonably serious one that ought to take up more of my attention. I guess if I was ambitious, it would. But – and this is a newsflash, since I’ve worked 12-hours a day, every day, since the day I started – I’m starting to think that I’m not ambitious – at least, not for anything that’s on offer for me here. Which I suppose means I’ll be an associate forever.

What a fucking awful thought.

‘Distract me,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking about work.’

‘On a weekend?’ gasps Robert in mock-horror.

‘Any funny stories for me?’ I say.

‘Nope,’ he says. ‘Bowler-hat girl has gone travelling. Lady Caroline continues to use me when she’s bored. Miss Felicity is seeing someone else but calls me now and again. Nothing very funny there.’

‘It’s bizarre, more than funny,’ I agree. ‘Let’s talk about your best man speech for Luke and Sophie’s wedding. Any ideas? Thoughts? Themes?’

‘No,’ says Robert, his face creasing with stress. ‘I’m considering curling up in the foetal position and whimpering.’

I pause. ‘That could work.’

At about 3 pm, we head home, as Robert has the all-important job of sitting on the balcony in the sunshine, reading the papers. This is one of Robert’s rituals. He hates the idea of missing something interesting, so he buys every broadsheet and reads them cover to cover. It’s like a news binge. I sit next to him, alternating between skimming the business section and staring into space, daydreaming.

‘How excessive,’ I comment, looking at the floor. We’re practically drowning in newspapers. ‘At least you recycle.’

‘Mmm,’ says Robert, folding the paper over expertly. I find it so hard to fold broadsheet newspapers backwards like that, I think. Sometimes it’s enough to put me off reading an article I know I’d probably enjoy.

You know, I’m still mortified about my drunken behaviour on the Skinny Jeans guy date the week before last. I’ve swept it under a carpet in my mind – yes, the same place you’ll find work, and the place that up until a few months ago, you could find Peter. Ahem.

Am I meant to not reply to Josh From HR’s texts, do you think? Hell, maybe I am. Maybe he liked me the way I like Adam The Tick Boxer. Maybe every single person in London is hoping for a text from someone else, and we’re all connected in a chain of waiting. I wonder who’s at the top of the chain?

Robert’s phone beeps. He picks it up, reads the text, makes a derisive little snorting sound and puts it back on the table without replying.

That answers that question, then.

I sit back and study Robert thoughtfully. All 6'4" of him is leaning right back, legs stretched over the side of the balcony, taking up every bit of available space around him. As usual, he’s frowning, giving him a serious look that I think is actually just a squint. He probably needs glasses. Adam The Tick Boxer wears glasses for work, they’re adorable, and –

‘Stop it,’ Robert says to the back of the Sports section. ‘Read something else, or drink your coffee, or something. But don’t stare at me and don’t think about Adam The Tick Boxer.’

‘But he’s so gorgeous. He goes to the gym every day, did I tell you that?’

‘You did. I bet he looks at himself in the mirror as he’s working out, too.’

I narrow my gaze. ‘Do you do any exercise? Your body won’t stay so fit forever if you don’t.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah, I’m going to start playing croquet.’

Robert laughs, as I wanted him to, and folds down the newspaper to smirk at me. ‘You don’t seem like the croquet type, Abby, darling.’

‘I think I need a party nap,’ I say. ‘Me too,’ Robert says, cricking his neck.

But I can’t be bothered to get up just yet. I think I’ll just sit here and daydream about Adam The Tick Boxer some more.

‘What should I wear tonight?’ I ask Robert.

‘Are you going to ask me that every night?’ he says. ‘Because it’s been coming up a lot.’

‘It’s rhetorical,’ I say. ‘I’m saying it aloud to prompt myself to think about it. I’m going to Henry’s brother’s goodbye party. I’m meeting Adam The Tick Boxer first, so I want to look sexy, and tall, and—’

‘What happened to the nice shy Abby I met all those months ago?’ he says to himself. ‘She was great. Practically a mute. This Abby never shuts up.’

I give him the finger as I leave the balcony.

‘That’s very childish, Abby,’ he calls after me. ‘I expect more of you.’

I don’t really need his sartorial advice, of course. I speak style pretty well these days. I’m going to wear my nude pencil dress and my grass-green, very high heels, and my hair parted on the side and tied in a low, chignon thing . . . Pretty With A Punch.

I lie on my bed for a while and try to nap, but my mind keeps drifting to Adam The Tick Boxer. I think I’ll take him as my date to Sophie’s wedding next year! Do you think it’s too early to ask him? I wonder what his plans are for New Year’s Eve. It’s my birthday on January 1. Maybe we could go away for the night . . .

I take a long shower, and enjoy a surprisingly successful blow-drying-and-straightening session. Then I get dressed. Some natural-ish makeup, with brown smoky eyes, and voilà! All done.

I stalk out of my room, picking up my white wrappy coat on the way and stomp down the stairs (you have to stomp or stride in heels this high; at least until your second drink, when you can strut or slink). I catch Robert coming out of his room with wet hair pulling a T-shirt down over jeans. He makes a whistling sound at me.

‘Sexy outfit.’

‘Sexual harassment in the home environment,’ I say sniffily.

‘Sorry. You look like shit. Go have some fun.’

‘I intend to,’ I grin. Adam The Tick Boxer, here I come.