A Girl Like You (19 page)

‘I’m going to beat you like a Mormon wife,’ retorts Dave.

‘Ha! You’re such an idiot,’ she replies.

‘You can’t resist me, Bells,’ says Dave, reaching out to pull her hair as she walks away.

My hackles are raised. What the devil is this? Last night it looked like they couldn’t stand each other. Now they’re flirting. ‘OK,’ says Robert, interrupting them. ‘Let’s toss the coin and find out who’s doing the circle.’

Boules
is a gentle, slow game, or at least it is the way we play it. There’s just the occasional cry of ‘oops!’ and ‘sorry!’ from the girls, and ‘fuck!’ and ‘you distracted me, you penis’ from the boys.

After we’ve played a few rounds, the teams are neck to neck. Bella – having clearly decided to behave – is being very chatty and playful, and she and Sophie and I have forged a surprisingly strong camaraderie. I’m glad that they’re getting on, but I wish my sister wasn’t quite such a pushover. I want to be a little cold to Bella, to show that even if Sophie has forgiven her, I haven’t, but it’s hard in the face of her charm offensive.

Luke’s his usual jovial self, and Robert’s granite face is barely moving, while Dave is keeping up a hilarious and irritating running commentary. However – and this is not just because I shagged him all night, I swear – he’s so charismatic that even when being deliberately annoying, he’s irresistible.

‘Right. Bella, Bella. Beautiful girl, ugly underhand bowl. It lands next to Robert’s last throw, which I understand he aimed for Paris . . . And here’s Robert again, he takes his shot, now he’s leaving the grounds, I’d say he’s probably going for a pee, are you going for a pee, Robert? And he’s ignoring me. Right. So and now we have Luke, who lives up to his nickname “The Fluke” and oh, lands just inches away from the jack, sadly a good inch and a half behind my last throw which is by far the best of the round so far.’

‘Wanker,’ says Luke to Dave. The rest of us are in fits of giggles.

‘Penny in the swear jar for you. Right! Next up is Abigail, approaching with the delicate baby foal wobble she’s perfected over the last few rounds, and oh dear, she lifted a foot. Disqualified.’

‘What?’ I gasp. ‘I didn’t!’

‘You did,’ says Dave patronisingly. ‘Left foot came up and off the ground.’

‘It did fucking not!’ I exclaim, annoyed now.

‘Vote!’ says Dave.

‘Safe,’ says Sophie loyally.

‘Out,’ says Bella. Typical.

‘Safe,’ says Luke.

‘Out,’ says JimmyJames. ‘I didn’t see it, but fuck it, let’s create another drama.’

‘Safe,’ says Vix, raising her glass of wine to me.

‘Looks like we have an impasse,’ says Dave.

‘It was safe,’ says Robert, striding back into the ring.

‘You were having a slash, you didn’t see it,’ snaps Dave.

‘I was getting a bottle of water. My eyes were on the game the whole time.’

‘She was fucking out,’ insists Dave.

‘She was in,’ says Robert.

‘I was in,’ I echo. ‘And the vote reflects it. So bite me.’

Dave gazes at me delightedly. Suddenly I realise that he wants a sparring partner. He likes the attention and frisson that arguing gives him, no matter who it’s with – Robert, Bella, or me. That’s why he’s always stirring.

Well, I can do that.

‘Chalk it the fuck up, Dave,’ I say. ‘Robert. Your ball.’

Robert hits my ball out of the circle. Dave whoops in delight. ‘The flatmates! Drawn together, yet always apart.’

Robert and I both narrow our eyes at Dave.

‘Try to shut up, David my boy, or we’ll put you on the naughty step,’ I say. He grins, kicking some gravel onto my shoes as he passes me. Yep. Definitely likes a sparring partner.

Dave bowls, hitting Robert’s ball away from the jack.

‘We’d get two points if you’d aim near the jack,’ says Luke irritably.

‘I want to deny Robert the pleasure of scoring,’ says Dave, batting his eyes innocently.

‘
Plus ça change
,’ says Luke.

I glance at Robert, who is really overdoing it on the grumpiness front today. I wonder if he can read me. I hope not as I keep replaying some of the more R-rated activities from last night over and over in my head . . .

After an hour of playing, the entire game falls apart. We keep arguing, and though Dave announces himself victor, Bella and Sophie and I agree that we won. Vix and JimmyJames start cheerleading, and everyone joins in. It’s one of the few genuinely successful, light moments of the weekend, and Sophie looks thrilled. Bridal party bonding at last.

Dave also spars with me for the rest of the
boules
game, the more I push him away and play it tough, the more he loves it. It’s exhilarating.

But he hasn’t asked for my number.

Of course I’ll see him at the wedding next year, he’s a groomsman. And I could probably organise a night out with him, with Robert and Luke’s help . . . but I want him to just ask me out. I really do.

If he doesn’t, then I just had another one-night-stand. Oh, God, what the fuck was I thinking?

‘Time to go,’ says Luke, looking at his watch. ‘Everyone in the cars.’

I hate flying, I reflect, as we make our way to the airport. It was alright yesterday morning, as I was kind of on early-morning autopilot, plus Robert, who knows I hate flying, distracted me by talking the whole time. I don’t think he’ll be as chatty today. He’s so grumpy that he hasn’t even taken his sunglasses off, and when I offer to get him a Coca-Cola and a baguette to help with his hangover, he just grunts ‘I’m fine’. So moody.

We get to the airport, check in, and go through the security.

‘I should pee,’ I say to no one in particular. The group has gone very silent, as hungover groups tend to.

‘Thanks for sharing,’ says Vix. ‘Have fun.’

I always go to the bathroom before I get on a flight, even if I don’t actually
have
to go, as otherwise I’ll have to go in the air and I’m scared of the sound of the toilet flush in planes. (Yes, it’s a completely rational fear.)

I wash my hands, and take a dismayed look at myself in the skewed mirror above the airport sink. No wonder Dave doesn’t fancy me. My lack of sleep, stubble rash and mild hangover have combined to make my face eat my make-up. I slap on some more and head back out to the boarding lounge, sighing deeply.

‘Hello, angel,’ says a voice. It’s Dave, leaning against the wall, waiting for . . . me? The others are all sitting down on the other side of the lounge.

‘Well, hello,’ I say.

‘You and me. Tonight. My house. I’m not quite done with you yet.’

I start laughing despite myself. ‘Oh . . . Dave. What an invitation.’

Dave leans forward and looks me in the eye, and despite my laughter at his terrible line, I feel my chest contract with the familiar nervous, squirmy heat. ‘It’s not an invitation. It’s a fact. I stole your number from Sophie’s phone. I’ll text you my address.’

‘Um . . .’

Then Dave leans forward and kisses me, and I swear to you right now my ovaries actually twist. The kiss, like the first kiss last night, is just soft lip-on-lip pressure for five seconds, but I almost collapse.
God
. The sparks. I’m actually tingling.

‘Coming to my place later?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I’m helpless.

‘Don’t look so serious, darling,’ he says. ‘We’re going to have some fun.’

Chapter Twenty Four

Oh God, I adore him.

In the 27 nights since the weekend in Autignac, my entire world has turned – upside down isn’t quite right, it’s more like inside-out. I’m starry-eyed, bow-legged, mushy-headed, chafe-chinned and swollen-lipped. I’m constantly tingling with adrenaline, post-coital euphoria and an awful lot of caffeine.

My high starts at 6 am. Dave rolls over, smiles his sexy lazy smile, and reaches out for me. I fit into him almost perfectly, one leg draped over his waist, my head on his shoulder, and my lips against his. We snog lazily for a few seconds until he wakes up properly, and then . . . well, you know.

Then I hurry home, change and go to work.

My next favourite part of the day, seeing him for the first time every night. I dash home to shower and dress before hurrying off to meet him. (Kind of a date pit stop.) I walk up to him, our eyes meet, he stares at me intensely for a second, and then we kiss and my brain short-circuits. Sparky McSparkerson.

‘Got what you came for?’ he always murmurs, and I nod and pretend to pick up my coat and head for the door. He grabs me and pulls me back towards him, kissing me again. ‘I’m not quite done with you yet,’ he says.

Then we drink mulled wine next to the badly-decorated Christmas tree in his local pub, grab a very quick dinner, and go to bed. That’s the average school night. On the weekends we go out to dinner or parties with Sophie and Luke. Robert hasn’t been around much, I think he has a few new ladyfriends who are taking up his time and attention.

My discovery that Dave loves friction with his flirting means I spend a lot of time lining up ingenious put-downs. It is, I admit, slightly exhausting. I love verbal thrust and parry as much as the next girl, but straightforward conversation wouldn’t go astray now and again. And any real intimacy is so rare, it’s practically endangered. Those chats always take place in bed, in the dark. He never reveals much, but when he’s giving me all his attention like that, I feel so close to him that it’s worth waiting for.

And he’s so gorgeous. I mean really, phenomenally, stupidly good-looking. I almost can’t believe that someone like him could be attracted to me. I love his total self-assurance, his blasé attitude to everyone and everything and his ridiculous charisma.

I know his confidence borders on arrogance, but I find even that kind of attractive. And he can be a tiny bit selfish sometimes, but I don’t mind that either, really. In an ideal world, your boyfri— sorry, the guy you’re seeing would offer you coffee in the morning when he makes himself one, right? Maybe give you a towel if you shower at his place on the weekend? I made a sarcastic comment about that last week, and Dave said ‘I’m not the cosseting type, angel. You need to tell me what you want. I can’t guess your every wish.’ Which, I guess, is fair enough.

A couple of times, he’s also been a little distant, and it makes me feel sick all day, thinking that he’s about to end – uh, whatever this is. But he hasn’t. Anyway, I can be distant too. Detached! In control!

Sort of.

The truth is: all of my newfound dating confidence and singledom tactics went out the window the moment we kissed. I’m sure that’s normal for the start of any relationsh— I mean, the start of anything.

At least I’m not as nervous around him anymore. I actually feel more nervous when I’m not with him, if that makes sense. When he hasn’t got in touch, or when his last text or email was a bit cold or rushed, it’s all I can think about. I wait and worry and ugh, it’s awful. It’s been pretty bad today, in fact.

Dave is drinking in a City pub with his work buddies. He has been doing that a lot recently, unsurprising given it’s December, which is a month-long booze-soaked celebration in London. Not me, of course. I’m staying at work late to impress Suzanne. I wonder if I should just go home. But what if he invites me to join? He could be just around the corner . . .

I won’t let myself text him first, as per Dave’s speech about hating ‘text-terrogations’ in France. There is an art to being elusive through the medium of text, there truly is. Though it’s fucking difficult to practise that art when he’s not texting at all. And I’ve learned that he doesn’t like direct questions; if I’d asked ‘where are you going tonight?’ he simply wouldn’t have answered. It’s just one of his little quirks.

Mind you, it’s always like this. When I think I can’t bear to wait any longer, that’s when he contacts me. It’s like he knows. I just need to be patient and confident and everything will be fine.

I’ve never had to wait this long, though. I haven’t heard anything from him since I left his house this morning.

I stare at my computer screen so long that the words start bending, and I shake my head to force my eyes to focus. I think I’ll call Plum.

‘Abigay!’ she exclaims when she answers the phone. ‘How are you, honeytits?’

‘Good, fine, good. What are you doing?’

‘I’m currently fake-tanning, so you are speaking to me naked.’

‘Charming. How’s work?’

‘Who cares? All I do all day is pretend to be happy and excited about things I hate.’

‘Well, that’s PR,’ I say absently. ‘That’s why they’re paying you the big bucks.’

‘I wish,’ she snorts. ‘I am already in my overdraft. At least having no money will make it easier to diet in January.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ I say. I pick up my mobile phone and gaze at it. Text me, Dave, goddammit.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she says. ‘Something’s wrong. Everything alright with Dave?’

‘Fantastic!’ I say, trying to sound as bright and positive as I can. ‘I’ll see him later. I’ve seen him almost every night since France . . . not, um, dinner every night, I just mean, he calls me, and—’

‘I get it,’ says Plum. ‘You’re having a lot of sex. But it’s natural to feel a bit insecure. Have you had the where-is-this-going discussion yet?’

‘Hell, no,’ I say, aghast at the idea. ‘This is just casual. I’m not insecure.’ This is so not true. But I can hardly admit that to myself, let alone to Plum.

‘Well, I was totally open with Dan,’ says Plum. ‘On our fifth date I just said, look, I’ve been screwed around. I want a real relationship, so if you don’t, let’s forget about it now. And he loved that and said he did too.’ She pauses. ‘Sometimes you just have to take a risk.’

‘Are you fucking serious?’ I exclaim, before I can help myself. That’s the absolute opposite of everything Robert’s taught me, and the opposite of how I’m trying to act with Dave.

‘I like him,’ she says simply. ‘I really, really like him and I didn’t want to fuck around. I used to see getting a boyfriend as the holy grail to escape the sweaty moshpit of singledom – but that’s not how it works. You have to wait for the right guy. I met Dan and thought, oh
there
you are. It was different. I can’t explain it. . . .’

My instant reaction to this is:
for fuck’s sake
. But then I pause and reflect for a second. Did I think ‘oh
there
you are’? Not really. Could I say that stuff to Dave? No way.

‘Kittenpants? Are you there?’ says Plum.

‘I’ve been single for like, five months after seven years of a relationshit. I want to keep this casual.’

‘You’re lying,’ she says. Marvellously direct, these Yorkshire girls. And perceptive.

I pause. Then the words tumble out in a rush. ‘I’m scared it’s all going to go wrong. I can’t be like you. Oh Plummy, I hope it’s not a fling, I like him, I do – but pretending to be a bullet-proof bastardette is the only way I know to stay in control, or pretend to stay in control, my stomach is in knots all the time, and—’

‘Breathe,’ instructs Plum.

But my brain goes racing on. I don’t know what I mean to him. Am I his girlfriend? Can a relationship happen without us talking about it? Are there stages? Is there an established time schedule I should know about, like after three months you’re properly together? Does it all depend on those three goddamn little words? Why is it so confusing? Why don’t I know where I stand? I am insecure! Why am I insecure? ‘Are you there?’ she says. ‘Yes,’ I reply, taking a deep, shaky breath. ‘If it ends, I’ll be fine. I’ll get over feeling like I’ve been plugged into an electrical socket every time I’m within a ten-metre radius of him, and you know, continue with my happy single life. I could do that. I could!’

‘Are you sure you’re not just addicted to the sex?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not. It’s more than that. He’s so funny and confident, I love that about him. And when he lets his guard down I just . . .’ I trail off.

‘Oh, it’s the emotional chase, then,’ says Plum knowingly. ‘Thomasina always says that a self-contained, seemingly un obtainable man who withholds his emotions, or affections, is twice as attractive . . . it’s like a game, and every time he reveals something about himself, you feel like you’re winning.’

‘No,’ I say waveringly. Though that sounds scarily accurate. ‘What did you think? Do you think he’s serious about me?’ No answer. ‘Do you like him?’ Plum and Dan met him last week when we had dinner at Lemonia.

‘I’d like to get to know him better,’ she says, after a pause. Which means, of course, that she doesn’t like him. ‘I can’t believe you’re still at work, by the way.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, gazing around the half-full, fluorescent-lit office. ‘I’m still, you know, over delivering, just like Suzanne told me to. Step. It. Up. Those were her exact words. Step it up, Abigail.’

‘What a wanker,’ comments Plum.

‘Yeah,’ I say automatically. I’ve never thought of Suzanne as a wanker before. A cold slave driver, yes, but I accepted that she was someone who knew how to get the best out of us all.

‘How’s beautiful Robert the fuckmerchant?’ asks Plum. ‘I haven’t seen him in ages. He must be happy you’re seeing one of his best friends.’

‘He doesn’t seem that impressed, actually. He hasn’t been quite himself around me since that weekend in France.’

‘Jealous that you’re taking his friend away,’ says Plum knowingly. ‘Such a typical guy thing.’

‘They seem to have a complicated friendship . . . highly competitive. They go out of their way to irritate each other.’

‘Alphas,’ sniffs Plum.

Actually, I assumed the relationship deteriorated when Dave’s sister Louisa trampled on Robert’s heart, but perhaps Plum’s right: they’re alpha males who’ve been pecking around the same field for too long. ‘Whatever the reason, Robert and I haven’t had much quality flatmate time recently. I miss his grumpiness.’

‘I’m sure you’ll work it out,’ says Plum. ‘You get along so well. Why not ask him out for a drink?’

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Making it a formal drink would be weird. We only ever hung out by accident – because we were both, you know, at home at the same time.’

‘You hung out by accident every night and weekend?’ says Plum.

‘Perhaps our friendship would never last past one of us getting into a relationship. Perhaps we were always going to drift apart,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ agrees Plum. ‘You know, I’ve slept with all of my male friends. Except Henry.’

‘Poor Henry,’ I say. ‘My mum’s dying for me to marry him.’

‘Yeah but come on . . . it’s
Henry
,’ says Plum. ‘Anyway, he’s in love with Charlotte. Dan and I met them for brunch on Sunday. They’re such good fun. Do you think she’s smarter than him?’

‘I haven’t thought about it,’ I say, trying to ignore the stab of jealousy I feel: I got the text about brunch, but when I suggested to Dave that we join them, he said ‘I already did the friend thing, and anyway, there’s only one thing I’m interested in eating this morning, and that’s’ – well, anyway. He wasn’t interested.

‘Hmm. Dan’s probably smarter than me, but I’m funnier,’ she says. ‘Abigail! Are you listening?’

‘I am!’ I say. ‘I am so glad things are going so well for you.’

‘So am I,’ she says. ‘All those idiots were turning me into a basketcase. And crazy is so not a good look for me.’

I press ‘refresh’ on my computer for the eighteenth time since we started talking, and glance at my phone. Nope, nothing.

Plum clears her throat. ‘I have to go, my fake tan is dry and my eyebrows aren’t going to pluck themselves.’

We hang up, and I go back to staring at my screen again. It’s 8.22 pm. Time to go home and wait.