A Girl Like You (21 page)

‘Ah! Abigail. Your secretary was very slow to answer the phone. You should fire her.’

‘I shall,’ I say. ‘I shall beat her thoroughly first, obviously.’ My eyes flick up to Robert, who looks like he’s checking texts. I wonder if he’s listening. ‘How may I be of service to you this evening, good sir?’

‘It is I who would like to service you, my girl. Very slowly and thoroughly.’

‘Everyone’s got a dream,’ I say.

‘Cheeky bitch. Right, my house. Twenty minutes.’

I look out the window. ‘It’s raining. Can’t you come here?’

‘Don’t go,’ says Robert in a low voice. ‘Don’t let him boss you around.’

‘Is that Grandpa Robbie?’ says Dave. ‘Fine, I’ll come there.’

‘No, don’t,’ I say quickly. I suddenly have no desire to see Robert and Dave indulge in their competitive put-downs, or for that matter, to take Dave up to my bedroom when Robert’s here. I don’t know why, but it would be weird. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Hurry,’ says Dave, and hangs up.

The Christmas music has stopped, and I sit back on the sofa next to Robert and smile at him. He grins back, but he’s not quite meeting my eyes. The room seems incredibly silent. I take a deep breath.

‘Look, I get the picture. You don’t like me seeing Dave,’ I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth nervously. ‘But it’s only casual, you know, and I promise not to steal him away from you, and I know you don’t get involved in each other’s, um, love lives, but I was your friend before I even met Dave, and I still want to be your friend. I also know you guys have a complicated friendship, and I don’t want to, um, become a pawn in your stupid macho chess game.’ Robert grins at this, which I take as a positive sign. ‘So, please, don’t be annoyed with me for seeing him. I am having fun. Which is the point, remember?’

Robert nods slowly, drains the last of his Jack Daniel’s and Coke, and gets up off the couch. ‘Absolutely. Shall I call us a cab to share? Lady Caroline needs me.’

Chapter Twenty Six

The next Sunday evening, when I’m in bed with Dave, something unexpected happens.

‘This is nice,’ he says, nuzzling me in the darkness.

‘Nice?’ I say. ‘That’s the best you can do?’

‘This is lovely,’ he murmurs, pulling me closer to him. ‘You’re lovely. I’ve had the best time this weekend.’

That’s because we spent the last two days in and out of bars and bed. And the entire time I had to keep up my slightly tiring sassy-comeback routine. But moments like this, when his barriers are down and it’s just us whispering in the darkness, make everything worthwhile.

I sigh happily in the dark and fight the urge to kiss his shoulder.

‘I don’t think we should give Christmas presents,’ I say. I’ve been wanting to bring this up, mostly because well, I don’t think he has any intention of getting me anything, and I don’t want him or anyone else to think that disappoints me. I’m totally cool with it. ‘To each other, I mean.’

‘Is this a trick? This feels like a trick . . .’ he says.

‘No,’ I say, laughing. ‘I mean, I know that you’ve been planning a Christmas extravaganza for me, and everything, but well, I think it’ll be easier,’ I pause, and add in my faux-sparky-banter way, ‘Anyway, more importantly, I don’t have anything for you and I simply don’t have the time or inclination to battle Christmas crowds.’

‘You’re so cute,’ he says, and we start kissing again. ‘You and me,’ he says, after a few minutes. ‘We should do this. Let’s just do it, fuck it, let’s do it.’

‘Right,’ I say, barely breathing in the darkness. What exactly does ‘let’s just do it’ mean, do you think? ‘How, uh . . . do you mean?’

‘You are a tough little thing, aren’t you?’ he says. I’m not tough at all, I think, I’m just pretending. ‘We make it official,’ Dave says, pulling my leg up and around his body. He likes to arrange me like this, pulling and prodding me around him for the perfect cuddle. ‘We tell everyone we’re together,’ he continues, his lips on my throat, kissing and nibbling in between words. ‘I’ve always wanted to be with a girl like you.’

I think I might pass out from elation, but I manage to keep my voice steady. ‘I think that can be arranged. I’ll have my people call your people . . .’

‘She damns me with her faint affection! So elusive. The elusive Miss Wood . . .’

‘Sorry,’ I say, and pause, staring in the darkness. Can I let my guard down? Can I take a risk? ‘I’d love that.’ My voice breaks on ‘love’. Bugger.

‘Good girl,’ he says. I wish I could see his face, to see if he looks as happy as I am that we’re having this conversation. But I can’t. Then he kisses me and as usual, my brain short-circuits.

The next morning, the alarm goes off at 6 am to get us up in time for work. Since it’s the week before Christmas, you’d think my office would become a little more festive and relaxed, but no. My entire floor will be at their desks by 7.15 am, latest.

‘Do you want a lift home today?’ asks Dave, getting out of bed a few minutes later. He’s never offered this before, and I’ve never asked.

‘Yes, please,’ I say. I can’t help but smile from ear-to-ear.

‘You do have a sexy little grin, don’t you?’ he asks, jumping back on the bed and making a grab for me. ‘Look at you, with your bird-nest hair. I love it. It makes you even more fuckable.’

‘Off! Go and shower and then drive me home or I’ll be late for work,’ I say, trying to sound cool and tough instead of giddy with elation.

Dave saunters, naked, to his bathroom, and a moment later I hear him singing ‘I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch Of Coconuts’. I snigger to myself. He’s so damn adorable.

Except when he takes 30 minutes to dress and do his hair.

By the time I’m home, it’s almost 20 to seven and I’m late. I run into the house. Robert is sitting by himself at the kitchen bench, eating porridge and drinking coffee.

‘Fuck!’ I shout at him, throwing my coat, scarf, hat and gloves on the couch.

‘You’re late!’ he replies.

‘Dave’s fault!’ I yell back down the stairs. I’m feeling tense: we almost bickered in the car. Dave doesn’t like other people being irritated with him. Even when he’s about to make them seriously late for work. But that’s okay. Because he and I are really, officially, seriously-for-serious together.

I shower as quickly as I can, going through my now-regular combing-out-the-bedhair-with-conditioner motion. I dress hurriedly in black trousers and a black turtleneck, frantically blow-dry my hair, tie it up in a very high chignon, and then calm down for a few minutes so that I can apply my make-up properly. (Make-up in a hurry never works out, like eating when running or reading when drunk.)

‘It’s almost five past seven, what are you still doing here?’ I gasp, when I run back into the kitchen. He always leaves by 6.45 am.

‘I thought you might need an emergency lift,’ he says. ‘It’s Christmas Eve in four days. No company expects people at work on time.’

‘Mine does,’ I say. ‘A lift would be wonderful, lovely Roberto.’

Robert hands me a coffee and a bowl of porridge and heads up to his room, calling over his shoulder: ‘Eat and drink. We’ll leave in five.’

Gulping my thanks through coffee, I sit down. The porridge is just how I like it: made with water not milk, plus blueberries and almonds chopped into thirds (not halves! thirds!) sprinkled on top. He returns a few minutes later and hands me a large bag. ‘Cold weather kit for the moped. You’ll freeze without it.’

‘You have spare cold weather kit?’ I say in surprise.

He shakes his head. ‘I picked it up for you ages ago, but then we haven’t been going to work together . . .’

‘Thank you!’ I exclaim, reaching up to give him a hug. ‘That’s so thoughtful of you. And practical. How much do I owe you for it?’ He leans forward and hugs me awkwardly with one hand, the other still carrying the bag.

‘Nothing. It’s my treat . . . Try them on.’ Robert watches me as I wriggle into the clothes and stifles a grin.

‘Am I both warm AND sexy?’ I ask. I’m wearing waterproof elasticised black trousers and a matching zip-up coat. ‘God! I look like one of those fat cops in
The Fifth Element
.’

‘I was thinking more of a giant dung beetle,’ says Robert.

I shrug, and waddle noisily towards the front door. ‘Let’s go.’

I cling like a heavily-padded barnacle to Robert all the way to work, and jump off with a shout of thanks. He nods and speeds away.

Walking through the reception area to the lifts dressed like this is mildly embarrassing, so I just keep my head held high and pretend it’s totally normal to look like a giant dung beetle shuffling through the lobby of a large investment bank.

‘Looking good, Abigail!’ says the security guard, Steve, as I pass him.

‘Feeling good, Steve!’ I reply, taking out my security pass from my bag to swipe. It’s our standard
Trading Places
greeting since we started chatting when I forgot my pass a few months ago. Today he starts laughing at me, clearly tickled by my outfit. I poke my tongue out.

‘
Salut
, Abigail,’ says a voice as I get into the lift. I knew I’d run into someone. I meet the warm brown-eyed gaze of Andre, the French guy. He hasn’t been working in the London office much lately. How typical that I’d see him when I look like this.

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘Excellent,’ I say, flashing a grin at him. ‘Please excuse my clothes, I was on a moped . . .’

‘Not at all,’ he says, making a flicking motion with his hand. ‘You always look lovely.’

There is a pause. Thank God no one else is in the lift. I smile without looking at him and keep my eyes fixed on the climbing numbers. He’s been sitting near Charlotte and me, and I often catch him looking at me. Third floor . . . fourth floor . . .

‘I’m going up to eighth, but . . . will you have lunch with me today?’ Andre asks. ‘I want to discuss a project with you,’ he adds quickly.

‘Uh, sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll meet you at 1 pm in the lobby.’

‘It’s a date!’ he says, grinning.

It’s not a date, I think to myself. I don’t date anymore, because I have Dave. And I really, really do have him.

I grin to myself and fight the urge to do a nimble-footed-mountain-goat leap as I swishswishswish to the ladies’ bathrooms, take off all my protective moped gear, and carry it back to my desk.

I take a quick look at my emails and Bloomberg with the front 20% of my brain. The back 80% is thinking about Dave. I am so happy I could burst. I was right!

I knew that if I just stayed in control, and played the cool/ detached hand perfectly, that I could win him over. I really am bulletproof.

‘Do you have any painkillers?’ whispers a voice, and I turn to see Charlotte walking, or rather, stumbling, to her seat. Her hair is in some kind of messy platinum beehive, her skin is blotchy-but-glowing and she’s got a guilty grin on her face. ‘Henry and I went out for a bottle of wine last night and next thing I knew, it was midnight and we were in some Spanish bar behind Tottenham Court Road dancing to Mental As Anything,’ she says.

‘You look fantastic!’ I exclaim. She does. She looks sex-sozzled and very, very happy.

‘Are you drunk? I look like a furball. Have you seen my pash rash?’ she grins, giggling helplessly. Her smile is so sweet, even through the stubble rash, and so much nicer than the pale, moochy expression that I knew all those months ago, that I can’t help smiling back.

I reach into my second drawer for the morning-after kit I’ve used regularly since I started seeing Dave. ‘Solpadeine, Berocca, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, face powder, moisturiser, lip balm,’ I whisper. ‘Knock yourself out. And you should ask Henry to shave.’

‘I know! But he’s so cute when he’s stubbly . . .’ she says.

‘I should have introduced you two months ago.’

‘Yeah, what the fuck took you so long?’ she says with a grin, before dashing off towards the bathrooms. I guess she’s not rebounding with Henry: no one looks that ecstatically happy with a short-term investment.

The morning goes fast, and it’s not until ten to 1 pm that I remember my lunch/date with Andre. Bugger. He’s waiting for me in the lobby when I get down there.

‘No moped suit?’ he enquires, grinning at me. He really is a good-looking man, if you like that olive-skinned chocolate-eyed handsome French thing. But this isn’t a date so it doesn’t matter what I think of him. I’m sure we’ll just grab a coffee and a sandwich from the Italian place, have a quick chat and get back to work.

‘Uh, no, no moped suits at lunch’ I say. ‘So, where are we going?’

‘Marco Pierre White,’ he says.

Shit.

Chapter Twenty Seven

I can’t wait to tell Robert about this. I’m on an accidental lunch date with Andre.

We’re only halfway through our main course at the Marco Pierre White Steak & Alehouse (a restaurant that, from the name, you’d think would have sawdust on the floor, but looks more like a wedding reception, with immaculate all-white decor and mirrors reflecting all the smug diners around us). Already Andre has told me all about his ex-wife, how he misses Paris, his loves (football, Danish design, the Maldives) and hates (the Catholic church, the European Union, Belgians). I definitely have the feeling that this isn’t entirely business.

What can I do? I can’t ask ‘What are your intentions, young man?’ I could be wrong, and either way, the ensuing awkwardness would be so awful. So instead, I’m trying to keep my end of the conversation professional-but-charming. It’s not easy. He insisted on my trying one of his oysters (‘oy-
stares
!’) directly from the shell in his hand, and then asked if he might taste my potted shrimps. (I dumped a spoonful straight onto his plate.) Thank God we’re both having steak for main course.

He hasn’t asked if I’m seeing anyone, and I can’t think of a conversation topic that starts ‘so my boyfriend Dave and I’ without being obvious.

The restaurant is tinkling with the sweet, festive sound of people dying to get plastered. The rest of the diners are 80% male finance types, all on let’s-expense-this-fucker lunches who are laughing loudly and tucking in to the food and particularly the wine with gusto. I feel very out of place.

‘This is an exceptional restaurant,’ says Andre, sipping his wine thoughtfully and maintaining eye contact with me. ‘Elegant. Welcoming. Warm.’

‘It is,’ I agree. Is it just the accent that makes everything Andre says seem romantic? I’ve waited for almost an hour for him to bring up the work subject that was ostensibly the reason for today’s lunch. But I don’t want to be rude. And considering he’s French he probably regards food with a practically sexual adoration and doesn’t want to sully the meal with work-related talk.

Ah, fuck it. ‘So, Andre, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Hong Kong,’ he says. ‘Come to Hong Kong with me.’

I am speechless. Is he propositioning me?

‘As you know, I’m moving there to start a new regional retail analyst centre. I want you to be vice president of retail research.’

I stare at him for a few seconds. A promotion? In Hong Kong? ‘I, um . . . does Suzanne know you are speaking to me about this?’

‘No, and I don’t want her to,’ he says smoothly. He goes on to talk about the team he wants to start, and the role I’d be playing.

I can’t think what to say. I have nothing in my brain.

Almost nothing.

Because I hate –
hate
– to admit this, but after six years of working, six years of 7 am starts and late nights and deferred bonuses and anxious presentations and endless hard fucking work, the first person I think of when I’m offered a career-making promotion is Dave.

‘What’s your, how do you say, stomach tell you?’

‘You mean my gut?’ I say.

‘
Exactement
,’ he says.

‘That I need time to think about it,’ I lie. I hadn’t even consulted my gut, I was just picturing myself telling Dave about it, and him asking me – maybe even begging me – not to go, telling me that he needed me and couldn’t live without me, that I was the only woman he’d ever – ahem.
God
. Get a grip, Abigail. ‘And I’d need to check it all out,’ I say, taking out my notebook. Yes. Act positive and rational. You’re an analyst. Analyse it. ‘If you tell me more, I’ll do some research of my own . . .’

‘OK. Let’s meet again in January and discuss it.’ He looks a bit disappointed.

‘I’m really honoured, Andre, thrilled, amazing.’ Someone hand me an adjective. ‘Thank you. It sounds incredible, incredibly interesting, uh, incredible.’ Nice one.

Andre goes on to tell me more about the history of the office, and the people currently working there, and their major clients. I make a note of everything, trying to keep my facial expression set to ‘interested’.

‘I hope it will be motivating for both of us. I have been watching you over the past two months. Suzanne, well, she is . . .’ he clears his throat. ‘I think you need more authority and freedom to really thrive. I’d like to give you total autonomy.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ I say. And it does.

The question I should be asking myself, of course, is the question I never, ever answer: do I even
want
to do this job anymore? I don’t know. What do I want? Urgh. Don’t think about it . . .

Suddenly my attention is drawn by two familiar figures coming in to the restaurant, and for a second, I think I’m hallucinating. I glance quickly into the mirrors to try to see their faces and gasp.

They walk away from us, right down to the other end of the restaurant, and sit at a table almost entirely obscured from my view. But I get a good look before they sit down. And there’s no mistaking who it is.

Dave and Bella.

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest. I can’t breathe. What is he doing here with her? Are they friends now? I didn’t think they even got on, did you?

‘Abigail? Are you alright?’ says Andre. He puts his knife and fork down and looks over at me in concern.

‘Fine, I’m fine,’ I say, putting my hand to my forehead in an attempt to slow down my thoughts. The initial pain has turned into an icy feeling that is washing through my body. They can’t see me, but I want to run away – from them, from my thoughts, from work, from everything. I mean, what the hell are they doing here together? They’re not friends, they barely spoke to each other in France! What should I do? Confront them? That would be a bit dramatic, wouldn’t it? I mean it’s just lunch! Then Dave might think I’m overreacting, or being unnaturally jealous. He does hate jealousy, he told me that once, he finds it boring. I don’t want to spoil anything just when things are finally good between us . . .

My heart is hammering painfully, oh God, I feel sick.

Let’s be positive: they’re having lunch, not dinner, right? Lunch is nothing, right? I’m at lunch with Andre! But in that case, why didn’t Dave tell me he was meeting Bella today? Then again, he never tells me who he’s seeing for lunch. Perhaps he’s giving her advice on Ollie. No, that’s not likely either. If I walked up to them and said ‘fancy seeing you here!’, would it be awkward? It totally would. Bella was, frankly, a bit of a bitch in France. And I thought she lived in fucking Bath! God! Brain, slow down! I put both hands to my temples and take a deep breath.

‘You are very pale,’ says Andre. ‘Do you need some air?’

I meet his eyes. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I need to get out of here. Do you mind if we leave? I will wait for you outside.’

‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the bill.’

I run-walk to the door, my head down so that Dave and Bella don’t notice me. Not that they’re looking around, mind you, from what I can see in nervous, flicky little glances, they’re deep in conversation. They look intensely together. Like a couple. An impossibly beautiful, sexy couple.

I think I’m going to throw up.

I get my coat and hurry outside to the street, taking deep breaths as I go.

Breathe, Abigail. Think. What would Robert say about this? Should I call him? No. Of course not. He’s all weird about Dave as it is. But if I did, he’d say I was overreacting.

And he’d be right. It’s just lunch with an old friend. A family friend! It’s nothing. Last night Dave said he wanted to be with me, that he wanted to tell everyone we were together. He said he wanted a girl like me.

Remembering this, my anxiety loosens its stranglehold on my chest just slightly. Enough so I don’t think I’m about to keel over.

Calm down. He can have lunch with an old family friend who happens to be a woman. After all, I’m having lunch with Andre, aren’t I? And Dave isn’t the kind of guy who would cheat, is he?

Actually, he’s exactly the kind of guy I’d previously have imagined as a cheater – confident, slick, flirty, with a short attention span . . . but that’s a stupid thing to think. What do I know about the kind of man who cheats? Peter – pause to spit – cheated on me! And I was absolutely fucking clueless about it. God, oh God why is this happening. Brain, please stop.

Anyway. She has a boyfriend, Ollie, and yes, they were fighting in France but I don’t think they’ve broken up, have they? So why am I jumping to conclusions?

‘Abigail, I am so sorry, perhaps it was the oy-
stare
?’ says Andre, coming outside. His face is all worried concern.

‘Uh, perhaps it was,’ I agree. ‘Let’s go back to the office.’

The rest of the afternoon is agony. My standard uneasy Daveticipation was nothing compared to this.

I can’t help it: I’m in hell. I can’t even distract myself: there’s nothing happening in the markets. I can’t hold a phone conversation. I can’t read to the end of a sentence without thinking about what I saw, and I’m obsessively checking my phone. I even take my phone to the toilet with me in case he calls, which is hard, as it’s one of those office loos with no cistern so there’s nowhere to balance it, so I have to put it in my mouth while I pee. That’s probably really unhygienic.

I’m desperate to call Plum or Sophie for reassurance. But their inevitable advice will be to simply ask him what he was doing. I know that’s what you’re probably thinking too. But I can’t. I can’t confront him about having lunch with his ex-fling (ex-girlfriend? No, it was just a fling, right? That’s what Robert said, wasn’t it?). It sounds like I was stalking him, and he’ll ask why I didn’t come up and say hi right then and there instead of creeping away. If I bring it up now, I’m going to look like a fool.

Oh God. I want to cry.

I head home from work at 6 pm.

I go straight upstairs. Robert’s not home. Every step is difficult, and the house feels unusually cold. I have no energy. Angst is so draining.

I lie on my bed in the dark, fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling.

Worst case scenario: it will all end. I’ll go back to being single.

That wouldn’t be so bad, right? I started this thing with Dave knowing that it could end, that I had to stay in control and not become too smitten, too fast, that I had to be bulletproof . . .

But I’m not. I took a risk. I told him I wanted to be with him last night. I have to see this out.

Anyway, everything else in my world has changed. Everyone else is in love now. Robert is single, but as he said once, he’s multiple. Being the only single person in the group would not be fun. I’d be alone every night, with no wingwomen to go out with.

And anyway, I don’t want to be single. I want Dave.

I think I must be falling in love with him. This sick, nervous feeling can’t be anything else.

My phone rings from deep in the depths of my bag. Moving faster than I ever have before, I sit up and grab the flashing light in the darkness.

It’s Dave. ‘Hello?’ I say, answering too quickly.

‘I need you. Naked. My house, 20 minutes.’

‘Aren’t you going to feed me first?’ I say, on auto-witter whilst my mind races. He sounds totally normal. Not like he had an illicit lunch today or has anything to hide.

‘I’ve got something delicious for you to munch on,’ he says. ‘It’s very high in protein. Good for the skin, too.’

I pause. That’s normally the kind of absurdly obscene comment that would make me giggle. But I can’t. Fear has sucked the giggles out of me.

‘Oh, alright, I suppose we should eat before we eat,’ he grumbles. ‘See you at Odette’s in half an hour?’

‘Make it an hour,’ I say. I need time to prepare, physically and mentally.

‘Ah, the elusive Miss Wood. It’s a deal,’ he says, and hangs up.

I can hardly eat at dinner, or speak, but Dave doesn’t seem to notice. He goes on and on about his day, and his latest deal, and tells me I look gorgeous. I’m trying to keep my end of the conversation up, but I feel like a moth pinned to one of those Victorian wall-hangings. Fluttering with panic and unable to move.

‘I saw Bella today,’ he says, towards the end of our meal, as he pours me another glass of wine. At least I can still drink.

‘Really?’ I choke out, staring into my glass so I can avoid eye contact. ‘How is she?’

‘Great, fine,’ he says. ‘She was in London for a work thing, wanted to catch up. After a free lunch, I expect. She’s a bit embarrassed about being such a bitch in France, wanted to apologise. She and Ollie were having problems.’

‘Are she and Ollie OK now?’ I ask.

‘Fine,’ says Dave dismissively. He’s not interested in other people’s relationships, he’s told me that before. ‘If you’ll excuse me, angel, I have to use the – what is it you always say?’

‘The euphemism,’ I murmur.

‘And then I’m taking you home and I want you naked within minutes, if not seconds. Got that? You’re looking ridiculously delectable tonight.’

The moment he’s gone I nearly collapse with relief. They really were just having lunch! Nothing more! And he told me about it! He wouldn’t do that if he had anything to hide! Thank fuck.

I’m overwhelmed with adoration and relief. He is honest. He adores me and wants me. Not Bella.

Dave’s iPhone is, as ever, face-up on the table, and it buzzes with a text.

I glance down at it.

You can read texts on iPhones without opening them, and I can’t help that I can read upside down from years of sitting across from people in meetings. So I’m really not snooping. The second I read it, I wish I hadn’t. The text is from Bella.

Ha, enjoy. Am home safe. B

I’m frozen, staring at the text, till it disappears from the screen. It’s obviously a response to a text he sent her. Enjoy? Enjoy what? Dinner with me? Why the ‘ha’? It sounds sarcastic, doesn’t it?

Stop thinking about it, Abigail, goddammit, you crazy fool. You’re overreacting again.

A little wispy curl of insecurity winds itself around my chest and settles.

Dave returns and, before sitting down, leans over to kiss me. Our eyes meet as he pulls away and with a little grin, he puts his hand out to tweak my ear. I smile at him and remind myself that he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be with me. He wants me, not Bella. Me.