A Girl Like You (16 page)

‘He’s not,’ I say defensively, though actually, if Robert wasn’t such a good friend of mine, I’d probably think he was a big fucking slut, too. ‘He’s a great guy to have as a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s just not looking for a relationship.’

‘He told me that, too, but it’s like part of the attraction!’ she says hysterically. ‘He’s unobtainable. You must be the only female friend he’s ever had that he hasn’t slept with. And I bet he will,’ she spits bitterly. ‘I bet he sleeps with you. And then you’ll know.’

‘Well, thanks for the heads up,’ I say. This conversation isn’t going anywhere. ‘Lovely talking to you.’

I turn around and leave the kitchen and run straight into Robert. ‘I wouldn’t go in there,’ I say. ‘Emma’s waiting for you.’

‘Fuck, thanks,’ says Robert, doing a 180 and walking back quickly towards the living room.

‘You know, you should stop having sex with girls and then dumping them. It’s just not nice,’ I say.

‘The sex is very nice, actually,’ he says.

‘That’s not what I mean. That girl is miserable and it’s your fault.’

‘I never lied to her. I never pretended it was going to be anything more than it was,’ he replies easily. ‘I always say “I am not looking for a relationship, this is just casual”. It’s perfectly clear.’

‘You may think that, but they don’t,’ I say, frowning at him. ‘I guarantee it. Girls get involved . . .’

‘You slept with Skinny Jeans and didn’t get involved,’ says Robert, raising his eyebrows at me.

I grimace at the memory. ‘That was a mistake. And an aberration. I had to leave when he was still asleep so as to avoid the morning-after awkwardness . . . Anyway, I’m talking about your so-called casual relationships, not one-night-stands,’ I pause, thinking. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so kind to them.’

‘I admit, Emma wasn’t my best idea ever,’ he admits. ‘Too sweet. I’ve since moved on to tougher girls who will love it when I avoid morning-after awkwardness.’

‘Like Olivia?’ I say. The Siamese-cat-eyed girl from earlier is now sitting on some guy’s lap on the sofa a few feet away, but staring at Robert.

‘Olivia, if you must know, uses me whenever she’s between boyfriends,’ he says in a low voice, running his hands through his gravity-defying hair so it’s almost completely upright. He grins wolfishly, showing his very white, straight teeth. ‘See? Victim.
Moi
.’

‘My heart bleeds,’ I say, looking up at him with a frown on my face. ‘You should tell Emma you’re sorry, or something.’

‘Never apologise, never—’

‘Explain,’ I interrupt, finishing the sentence for him. ‘You told me that one already . . . Shit. Hang on. Where is Dave?’

I suddenly realise that my Dave-o-meter has lost track of where he is. I scan the room and can’t see him, then scurry to the corridor and poke my head around the corner. Dave! Leaving! With sequinned Emma! He doesn’t even turn around to say goodbye. He just puts his hand on her back and shepherds her out. Argh!

‘He’s leaving! With Emma!’ I hiss at Robert.

Robert mutters something about a death wish, but I can’t catch it.

‘Sorry?’ I say. ‘Dave has a death wish? Emma didn’t strike me as a genuine bunny boiler . . .’

‘No . . .’ he sighs. ‘Don’t worry about Dave. Trust me, that won’t be anything serious.’

‘Really?’ I say. ‘Why did you tell me to ignore him, you doofus?’

‘You’ll see him soon. We’re all going to your folks’ house in France in two weeks, remember? Bridal party get-together.’

‘Yes!’ I say, punching the air in delight. ‘OK, between now and then, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about him. I need a game plan.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, swigging his beer.

Luke comes up, half-carrying Sophie. ‘She’s toast. We’re heading.’

‘It’s because I ran a marathon!’ exclaims Sophie, slurring slightly. ‘Alcohol hits the system fast when you run fast. That’s a biological fact.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Plum, bounding up. ‘I’ve got a hot date with Dan tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep.’

‘I’m ready to go too,’ I say. ‘Robert? Or do you have things to see, people to do?’

‘Ha,’ he replies. ‘Well, Felicity has requested my presence. But I’ll see you home safely first, of course.’

‘You’re such a gent,’ I say.

We find two black cabs within minutes of standing on Westbourne Grove. Sophie, Plum and Luke take the first one, and Robert and I jump in the second.

‘That was fun,’ I say, turning to him.

‘It was,’ he agrees, looking over at me.

We smile at each other in the silent darkness for a few seconds.

‘You look nice tonight,’ he says. ‘I like your shoes.’

‘Thanks. I like yours too.’ I lean my head back and close my eyes. ‘Thank you for everything tonight,’ I murmur. ‘You’re the best.’

‘That’s what they tell me.’

‘You’re my Cyrano de Bergerac,’ I mumble.

‘Does that make you Roxane?’

‘No . . . Christian. The guy he helped was Christian de Neuvillette.’

I’m so tired. Such a long night. Between counselling Plum, the speed dating car crash, the shock of Peter’s affair, and finally the stomach-thumping discovery of Dave, I am absolutely exhausted. Thank God it’s only Friday. I’m going to have the laziest Saturday morning ever. I might even cook. No, who am I kidding? I won’t cook. I’ll pick us up something at Melrose and Morgan. Or, ooh yes. I’ll have crumpets with peanut butter. I wish we had one of those foursome toasters. Sometimes two crumpets just isn’t enough . . .

‘Abby, darling, wake up, we’re home,’ whispers a voice, and I open my eyes. I’m lying down in the cab, my head on Robert’s thigh, his big hand on my arm. I am unbelievably warm and sleepy and comfortable. My hair falls over my face and Robert smooths it back.

‘But I’m so cosy,’ I murmur.

‘Come on,’ he says, and takes me by the hand. I slowly get out of the cab. There’s a big jacket around my shoulders. It must be Robert’s. He pays the driver through the front window and takes me by the hand. I am so sleepy, I can’t open my eyes. My brain feels like it’s made of warm honey. I follow Robert up the stairs and wait for him to open the front door, and then he takes my hand again and leads me inside and up the stairs towards my room.

‘What big hands you have, grandmamma,’ I say, half to myself.

‘Shh,’ says Robert.

‘Shh,’ I repeat.

We stop on the landing outside my bedroom door and I lean over to take my heels off. It’s difficult with my eyes nearly closed. Robert crouches down and helps me, and I fall against him slightly.

Then we’re in my room, and I can’t even be bothered to take off my make-up or get undressed. So I let go of Robert’s hand, shuffle across the room and flop down on top of my bed. I sense him leaning over me and for a frightening second, think he’s going to kiss me, but then he just pulls half of the duvet over me and tucks it over my clothes.

‘Night night,’ I whisper, letting my brain relax completely into warm sleepiness.

‘Night night,’ whispers Robert, closing the door. I hear his footsteps going down the corridor, and then his phone ringing.

‘Ah, Miss Felicity,’ I hear him saying. ‘Now what is a girl like you doing awake at a time like this?’

And then I’m asleep.

Chapter Twenty

You won’t believe what happened at the airport this morning. We got to Gatwick at an ungodly o’clock, for the 7.05 am flight to Montpellier. It was just the four of us – Luke and Sophie, Robert and me. Luke and Sophie were zombies after a late night with too much wine. But Robert and I watched 30 Rock, ate takeaway Thai and went to sleep early, so the 4.45 am wake-up call wasn’t difficult at all. (We were ever-so-slightly smug about it.)

So there we were, in early-morning airport hell, slumped against each other with bad coffees and unopened papers, when a shrill voice screamed ‘Robbie!’

We all turned at once. The voice belonged to Antonia, the impossibly beautiful Italian girl I saw Robert breaking up with that night at The Engineer.

‘Antonia!’ he said in surprise.

He walked over to her and kissed her on both cheeks. She was wearing – and I’m sorry, but this is worth relating, because no one should look this good at 6 am – white jeans that made her legs look endless, a white skinny knit top and a white furry gilet, with huge white-rimmed sunglasses pushing her long shiny hair back. Add tanned skin and a little Louis Vuitton bag in the crook of one arm, and the overall look was unquestionably Eurotrash, but on someone so beautiful, it worked. Sophie and I exchanged glances and scowled: we looked like scruffs.

‘Who the fuck is that?’ said Luke.

‘Robert’s ex,’ I said.

‘Fucking hell,’ he said.

‘Do you want a smack?’ said Sophie, and he started to laugh and grabbed her hand to kiss it.

Robert and Antonia were too far away for us to hear anything, but after a minute or two of smiley-chats, the conversation clearly became more intense. Antonia seemed to be giving a little speech. She took her sunglasses off her head and put them on her face, then alternated between crossing her arms and using them to gesticulate wildly.

No one was even pretending to doze. We were too mesmerised by Robert and Antonia.

‘Such a glamorous couple,’ I murmured.

‘I thought you didn’t fancy him?’ said Sophie.

Then Robert started talking, and Antonia listened intently. Over the course of a minute, she took off her sunglasses, smoothed out her hair and even smiled. Then – surprise of surprises – they hugged.

And a minute later, after another hug and a kiss on the cheek, Robert turned and walked back to us.

‘Are we ready?’ he said, as though nothing happened.

‘What the fuck was that?’ said Luke.

‘That,’ he said, picking up his overnight bag, ‘was Antonia.’

‘I meant, what happened?’ said Luke.

‘Nothing,’ he replied, walking off towards the gate. ‘Our flight is boarding. Come on.’

The rest of the journey has passed without incident. We all fell asleep on the plane and woke up in sunny Montpellier, and if there is a better way to re-start a Saturday in November than speeding through the French countryside towards Autignac in a hire car that goes at – max – 60 km an hour, then I don’t know it.

I’m dying to know what Robert and Antonia were talking about. Is that nosy of me?

It’s only 10 am, and the whole weekend is stretching out in front of us in all its French deliciousness. Work troubles? What work troubles?

Dave (Dave!) lands at midday, so my excitement is just about under control right now. Is it immature to have a crush like this? Fuck it, I’ve got one.

I haven’t seen him since the speed dating/housewarming night two weeks ago, but his group emails – short, sarcastic, amusing – have made my crush even more, uh, crushing. I’ve Facebook stalked him, Googled him, and most of all, interrogated Robert about him. And he really does seem perfect. Sporty, does some charity stuff, works in finance, loves music festivals, took his mother to a holiday safari in Kenya for her 60th. You know: perfect.

Luke’s sister Bella, and her boyfriend Ollie, JimmyJames and Sophie’s best friend Vix are also on the later flight.

‘We’re here!’ crows Sophie, as we turn off the motorway and along a little road surrounded by vineyards. Autignac is a very small village in the Languedoc region. My parents retired here three years ago, but they’re away this weekend.

Their house is lovely: quite narrow, with peeling green shuttered windows and a big courtyard where they eat every day and night, unless it’s raining. My parents spent an age renovating the rather poky interior. It now has a big eat-in kitchen and a sofa-strewn living area, which opens up onto the large courtyard with a long wooden dining table. Stairs in the front hall lead up to two more floors with various bedrooms and a study. It’s still odd seeing all the family furniture from our old house in Surrey here; familiar and strange all at once.

There’s a note on the kitchen table.

Hello, my little darlings. Milk in the fridge! Ham, olives, cheese, crisps etc help yourself. Call us if any problems. LOL Maman et Papa.

‘I must tell Mum that LOL doesn’t stand for lots of love,’ I say thoughtfully.

‘I’m going to bed for a few hours,’ says Luke. ‘Sophie, I need you to help me sleep.’

Sophie raises an eyebrow at him, and follows him out of the kitchen with a little grin on her face.

I turn to Robert. ‘Ew.’

‘I know,’ he says.

‘Nearly time for Daaaaaaave,’ I singsong, bounding into the kitchen joyfully.

‘Why are you leaping like that?

‘It’s my nimble-footed mountain goat leap!’ I call back. ‘I was watching a David Attenborough documentary the other night, and these little goats were leaping and I thought, that looks like fun.’

‘And it does,’ he agrees. He attempts a manly leap and crashes into the wall.

‘You are not a nimble-footed mountain goat,’ I say sadly. ‘You are more like a bear . . . big and grumpy. Now that we’re alone, will you tell me about Antonia?’

‘Nope,’ he grins at me.

‘Fine,’ I say, exasperated. Why is he so private? What’s the point of having a male best friend if he won’t tell you gory ex-girlfriend details, or what he does for a living, for that matter? ‘Well, will you at least help me unleash my fiendish plan to make Dave my lov-ah?’

‘I don’t think you need my help, Abby,’ he says shortly. God, he’s moody. He was fine earlier. We shared coffees and papers before we slept on the plane. He did his gentlemanly folding-over-the-paper-for-me thing, as he always does these days. I shouldn’t have brought up Antonia.

‘You’re right. I am going to make this weekend, and Dave, my bitch.’ Robert doesn’t even react. ‘Gee whiz, tiger, you’re on great form today. Want to see your room?’

‘“
Gee whiz
”?’ he repeats incredulously.

As we start walking up the stairs, we pass family photographs of Sophie and me as children. Robert pauses and stares at each one.

‘Childhood was difficult for you, wasn’t it,’ he says. ‘Ages, say, two through 14.’

‘Charming,’ I say, looking at photos of myself. ‘I was a late bloomer.’

‘You bloomed?’ he says in mock surprise, and I hit him on the arm. ‘Look at this one!’ He stops at my seventh birthday party. ‘You look like Grayson Perry. You know, the cross-dresser . . .’

‘I know who Grayson Perry is, thank you,’ I say, and lean over. ‘I remember that dress. It was my party dress. So much easier when you only had one.’

Robert keeps walking. ‘Uh-oh! Nude shot. On the beach. Wearing nothing but . . . Elton John sunglasses?’

‘I was two. My parents thought that was hilarious,’ I say. ‘The bastards.’

‘Look at the tummy on you,’ he says, grinning. ‘And your legs! Seriously. Like John Candy.’

‘Right, that’s enough family history,’ I say, pushing him to the top of the stairs. ‘This is my bedroom. You’re across the hall.’

Robert doesn’t even bother to look at his room, and just walks straight into mine. It’s pretty bare, with not much more than a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a bookshelf stacked with all my favourite childhood books. My parents have been meaning to hang pictures for the past three years, but I think my dad is saving it as a daddy-daughter activity for when I’m back at Christmas. The shutters are open on the large windows, showing the pale blue sky outside.

‘Hmm,’ says Robert, walking over to the bookshelf. ‘
Milly Molly Mandy
. All the Famous Fives, in order, of course. All the Roald Dahls, including
Kiss Kiss
? That’s a bit racy. Oh, smashing! I love Malory Towers.’

He lies down on the bed and starts reading
In The Fifth At Malory Towers
in a posh 1950s-English-schoolgirl voice.

I try to look disapproving but fail (it was my favourite! After
Anne of Green Gables
, anyway) – and keep giggling. After a few minutes he stops reading, and we lie side by side on my bed with our eyes closed.

I feel deliciously relaxed, and after about 20 minutes of hearing nothing but the occasional twitter of birds and the deep, even breathing of Robert next to me, I’m about to drop off to sleep when—

‘Did you hear that?’ whispers Robert, sitting bolt upright and looking at me in alarm.

I shake my head, and, staring at each other, we both listen to the silence in the house. Then I hear it. From the bedroom above our head is the distinct sound of Luke and Sophie either playing vigorous tennis or—

‘RUN!’ I hiss at Robert, who’s already halfway out the door. ‘Let us never speak of that again,’ says Robert approximately 15 seconds later, when we’re safely out of the house.

‘Deal,’ I say. I link my arm through his and we walk up through the village. ‘Let’s have a cafe crème,’ I say. ‘Ooh! And a brioche.’

‘Ooh,’ echoes Robert.

The first walk through Autignac is always slightly surreal. After the noise of London, the silence of a tiny French town is almost scary. The streets are slightly wonky, the houses a little higgledypiggledy, and the effect – though charming – is like being in a fairytale.

We can’t hear anything except the birds, and very occasionally the sound of French radio or TV comes floating down from open shutters. And we don’t see anyone on the walk to the
boulangerie
, except two old ladies in black who are gossiping on a corner. Both have walking sticks and scrappy little dogs, and stop talking as we approach to take a good hard stare.

‘
Bonjour
!’ I say cheerfully. Don’t you think French sounds like a pretend language when you just drop into it like that? I do.

‘
Bonjour
,’ they both mutter suspiciously.

I shoot a look at Robert as we pass them. ‘Such friendly locals.’

‘I wouldn’t like us either, if I was them,’ he says. ‘This is a beautiful town. How did your folks find it?’

‘A lot of holidays in France,’ I say. ‘They’re dedicated researchers.’

‘So that’s where you get it,’ he says.

I grimace. I don’t want to think about work. It’s been stressful recently: a lot of projects and meetings with people asking questions to which I’m meant to know the answers. Plus, Andre’s been sitting with us and is very chatty. He’s always asking me about projects and clients as well as non-work things, like travel and my social life. I’m not sure if he’s flirting: he’s professional, but the intense eye contact is verging on ridiculous.

Charlotte and I have escaped for a couple of lunches. She works harder than anyone I know. She told me that a horrible teacher in Birmingham once said she shouldn’t even try to do A-levels, so she always thinks of her when she’s tired of working. She also said she never felt pretty because she’d been chubby as a teenager, and her ex was the only guy who’d ever asked her out so that was probably why she stayed with him for so long.

I wonder why I lived with Peter for so long. I don’t think it was a confidence problem. I’m just
un peu
lazy and
très
indecisive.

Ooh, pastries.

With warm brioches in hand, and a pocketful of Carambars for Robert (‘I just love them so much,’ he says), we walk across the little sun-drenched square and sit at a table outside the Bar du Sports.

‘Man of few words,’ comments Robert, when the owner and bartender Frank accepts our request for two coffees with a curt nod.

‘When he speaks, it’s worth it,’ I say. ‘I wish I could be like that.’

‘I wish you could be like that, too,’ says Robert. I throw a bit of brioche at him, and he catches and eats it. I narrow my eyes at him and pretend to frown, and he smiles smugly at me.

‘Dave is here in . . . one hour!’ I say, making a manic-happy face. ‘He’s so pretty, Robert. He’s like that guy from
The Fast and the Furious
.’

‘Vin Diesel?’ says Robert, taking out his phone.

‘No, the other one . . . You know, you’re not being very helpful. Are you in love with Dave, or something?’ I say.

Robert puts his phone back in his pocket, and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Look, Abby, about Dave . . . he had a fling with Luke’s sister,’ he says. ‘When we were younger.’

‘So?’ I say. ‘And how much younger?’

‘Uh, five or six years ago . . . So, I’m just saying . . . it could be awkward. If you were to, you know, hook up with him tonight. In front of her.’

‘Hook up with him? What are you, a cheerleader?’ I say. ‘And it was six years ago! Why would she care? She’s got a serious boyfriend now. Ollie, isn’t it? He’s coming along this weekend.’

‘I know, but . . . Look, I feel awkward, and Dave and Luke and I have an unspoken agreement not to . . . get involved in each other’s, uh . . .’

‘Love lives? Sex lives? Fuck ups?’ I suggest, realising we’re not just talking about Bella and Dave. I always wondered how Dave handled it when his sister Louisa dumped Robert and broke his heart. Apparently he ignored it.

‘Exactly,’ he says, unwrapping a Carambar and taking a big chewy bite. ‘I feel weird even saying this stuff to you. Just be careful. OK?’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ I say. ‘And he’s definitely not seeing that girl in sequins that he left the party with?’

‘Emma? Definitely not,’ he says, through a mouthful of Carambar. ‘I met her for coffee yesterday, actually. She works near me and I wanted to explain to her why I didn’t want, uh, a relationship.’

‘I’ve never seen a man eat five Carambars at once. You’re so butch,’ I say. ‘Hang on. I thought your policy was “never apologise, never explain”,’