A Girl Like You (26 page)
Authors: Gemma Burgess
Just over 48 hours later, I’m on a plane to Hong Kong.
This is my plan: I’ll land at 5 pm Thursday afternoon, Hong Kong time. I’ve got a meeting with Andre on Friday morning, and then I’ll call Dave and say ‘Guess where I am?’ And then we’ll be in Hong Kong together for the weekend! I’ll pop over to the Luxury In Asia conference at some point so Suzanne doesn’t suspect anything, but mostly I plan to be in bed with Dave.
And everything will be fine.
Why am I doing this? For the job? To escape Suzanne for a week? So Dave will want to move to Hong Kong with me – after all, he did say he loved it? Or so he’ll decide that he can’t live without me in London and beg me to stay? Or am I actually only flying because he’s here and I have a horrible sinking feeling something is wrong? I don’t know. But I can’t stop myself.
Anyway, looking at this another way makes me feel kind of empowered. As Plum said, sometimes you just have to take a risk. No one can accuse me of being too passive now.
I am shattered, by the way. That ‘urgent project’ that Suzanne needed me for was a non-stop nightmare. I got four hours’ sleep on Monday and Tuesday night, worked all the way through till 8 pm Wednesday night, then went straight to the airport. I haven’t even had time to call Sophie or Plum all week. I’ve survived entirely on chocolate, stale sandwiches and coffee. In the back of my head I’ve been constantly running over the conversation with Dave in the pub. What did it mean? Why was he so odd? So now here I am, strapped uncomfortably into my economy seat, hurtling towards Hong Kong.
I tried to eat, couldn’t, tried to read one of the trashy novels I bought at the airport, couldn’t. I tried watching old romantic movies but cried so much during
When Harry Met Sally
that the guy next to me offered me his hanky. So embarrassing.
All I want to do is sleep. When I try, questions – worries – flash through my head.
Why won’t the knot of panic and fear in my stomach go away? Why do I feel like I’m chasing him? Why do I feel sick, all the time?
God! I need to calm down. Caaaalm. Too much caffeine not so good for Abigail.
I’m overthinking it. He was probably just stressed on Monday night. That’s all. He hasn’t texted since he left London, but he did reply ‘thanks . . . I’ll try’ when I texted him ‘have a good flight’. He must be really busy.
And this Hong Kong job has been on the cards for ages, the fact that he’s here this weekend is just serendipitous. It’s not like I’m, you know, following him. Not really.
I take out
Vogue
, but am unable to read to the end of a sentence. So I start watching
High Society
. God I love this film. I detest most musicals as much as the next girl, but this one is special. Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Grace Kelly, beautiful mansions and clothes and songs and everyone gets tipsy and behaves inappropriately . . . I mean, what’s not to love?
It strikes me for the first time, however, that the plot is pretty spurious. She’s marrying a pompous bore called George, but flirting outrageously with Frank’s Mike and is secretly still in love with her ex-husband, Bing’s Dex the whole time. Why wouldn’t she admit that she’s in love with Dex? Don’t you think she’d figure it out before the very end? Why is she making life so deliberately difficult for herself?
My mind wanders exhaustingly like this for the entire flight. I’m physically exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep. So I drink coffee to keep me going, and pace up and down the aisles. I can’t eat anything. The knot in my stomach doesn’t leave much room.
Eventually we start our descent. All I can see out the window is light grey clouds and dark grey hills and a grey tarmac. This is like a dream.
The company has corporate rates at the Mandarin Oriental, so waiting for me on the other side of baggage claim is a driver in a red-and-black uniform holding up a sign with ABIGAIL WOOD written on it. He escorts me to a waiting Mercedes Benz, with bottles of water and wet towels in the back.
I take my phone out of my bag. It’s out of battery. Shit. No charger, either. Never mind. I know Dave’s number off by heart if I have to call him . . . He’s not landing till tomorrow, so I wasn’t going to call him till then, but God, I don’t know if I can wait that long.
The drive from Chep Lap Kok airport to Hong Kong Island is surreal. February is winter here, too, but it’s humid and only slightly chilly: completely different to London. The sun sets – or rather, as I can’t see any sun, it gets darker and darker – as we drive over enormous bridges linking islands covered in low grey mountains, and past huge estates with 50-storey apartment blocks lined up next to each other.
Then Hong Kong city finally appears in an explosion of light. It reminds me of
Blade Runner
: futuristic and strange and beautiful. Hundreds of skyscrapers of all sizes and angles are lit up in front of a grey mountain. It’s like a different planet, I keep thinking. Another world.
I’m so tired.
We drive through a long tunnel that I assume must be underneath the Harbour, and emerge on Hong Kong Island, on a motorway that snakes above the ground. First, we pass apartment buildings, but they’re quickly replaced by office blocks with shiny, reflective windows, reaching up farther than I can see. It’s beautiful, I think absently. So beautiful. I wonder where Dave is. I blink, and it takes a long time to open my eyes again.
After a few more minutes, we turn into a driveway. Another red-and-black uniformed man opens the car door, and I walk into the marble lobby of the Mandarin Oriental.
As I wait to check in, I gaze around. Everyone else in this lobby looks rested and well-dressed. I look like a piece of used chewing gum in comparison. I can feel how dry my skin is from the flight and the lack of sleep. I really need a shower and my teeth feel fuzzy – oh, my turn to check in.
‘Do you have a Nokia charger?’ I say, after they hand me my roomcard.
‘Certainly, Miss Wood,’ says the concierge. ‘We’ll find one and send it right up.’
God bless company expense accounts, I muse, as the bellboy shows me my hotel room. It really is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen. It reeks of expensive masculinity, with a huge walk-in shower, separate bath and a mirrored vanity area with sink. The thought pops into my head: Robert would love this room. Oh God, Robert. I haven’t seen him in days.
I tip the bellboy and collapse straight onto the bed.
I need sleep, I need it like oxygen, but my body is buzzing with caffeine and worry.
Opening my laptop, I quickly check my emails, just in case Dave has been in touch . . . Nothing. I can’t be bothered to open any other emails. You know, I still have an acidy ache in my stomach, no matter how much I try to deep breathe it away.
The concierge calls. They’re having trouble finding an old Nokia charger. God, why didn’t I bring one?
Then, finally, eking out the pleasure of waiting to do it, because once it’s done I can’t do it again, I pick up the hotel phone and dial Dave’s number. He’s still in Singapore, but I can’t wait till tomorrow. I need to know everything is OK, then I can sleep.
Please pick up, please pick up . . . God, my heart is thumping. Straight to voicemail.
I leave the following message: ‘Hi! It’s me . . . Just, uh, calling . . . send me an email when you can. My phone’s out of battery, but I have something, uh, exciting to tell you . . . bye.’
Yep, a pretty shit message.
I hang up, the insecurity curl tightening around my chest. Deep breath, Abigail. Take a shower, go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be fine. Dave will turn up, he always does.
After asking the concierge to hold all calls (it’s only midday in London and Suzanne will probably try to track me down), ‘unless you find the phone charger,’ I say as clearly as I can, I get into bed and close my eyes.
What follows is a 12-hour nightmare.
My brain won’t stop racing, I’m hot and cold by turn, tossing and turning, in and out of shallow sleep. I don’t know if it’s tiredness or the insecurity curl just making its presence even more keenly felt, but my stomach is a bubbling, churning mass of nerves. My brain darts between work and Dave, work and Dave, neither thought giving me any rest or relief, just worry, worry, worry . . .
I beg the universe to let me sleep, then, since the universe isn’t answering, I call reception about the phone charger.
At 7 am, unable to stop myself, I dial his number again. Straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message, and instead dial room service to get a bucket of coffee. I need to be on form for my 9 am office-tour-and-brunch meeting with Andre, and my eyes feel so tiny and heavy I can hardly see.
The coffee doesn’t help. I’m a total zombie.
‘Are you hungry?’ asks Andre, when we’re finally sitting down to eat in the hotel coffee shop.
‘Starving,’ I lie.
I’m too exhausted to be hungry. I look down at the pancakes set in front of me, and suddenly can’t remember the last time I ate. We’re having brunch in the hotel coffee shop, and all I can think about is bed. This is hell. I am in hell.
‘So! Tell me what you think,’ says Andre.
He means about the office. We just saw it: the 67th floor of a building on Queens Road. It’s raining today. I think the greyness of the Hong Kong day is made darker by the skyscrapers, too. There’s no sunshine here.
‘Great! Beautiful office. Really. Beautiful.’
I’m not lying: the office is stunning, as offices go. Expensive, and slick . . . and just the same as London.
That was my first thought. The shades of grey, the rows of desks, the fluorescent lighting, everyone in suits, all busy and stressed . . . It felt horribly familiar. Apart from getting away from Suzanne, what’s the point in moving, when the office and the job fills me with the same tired ennui as London does? When I think about it, I want to lie down, close my eyes and wail.
I’m just overtired, I remind myself, trying to chew a bite of pancake, as I watch Andre’s mouth moving, talking endlessly about his plans for me and the team. And I need to see Dave. As soon as I do, everything will be fine.
I feel like I have no saliva in my mouth.
I take a sip of orange juice to force the pancake down, and almost gag. I meet Andre’s eyes, which are so brown and warm. I feel odd and removed from everything. Whenever I blink, my eyes burn.
Somehow, I get through brunch and promise to meet Andre at 3 pm to go to the Luxury In Asia conference. I’ll check my emails, and fuck it, I’ll try to call Dave again. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It’s 3 am London time and I haven’t slept in . . . I don’t know how long.
I walk slowly into the hotel lobby, and stop at the concierge to ask if they’ve had any luck finding an old Nokia phone charger. Why, oh why didn’t I get a BlackBerry or an iPhone like everyone else?
As I’m standing at the desk waiting, I hear a ping, and automatically glance behind me. It’s the lifts. And that’s when I see them. For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, because this can’t be real. This can’t possibly be real.
It’s Dave and Bella.
They step into the lobby and he turns, looks at her and murmurs something, and she grins blissfully and reaches up to put her arms around him. They start kissing, right there, just 20 metres away from me.
I draw in a sharp breath, a bursting shocked feeling in my chest. This can’t be happening, no, no . . . They’re still kissing, they’re still kissing!
Any second they’re going to see me, they’re going to turn around and see me, but I can’t move. Dave’s hands are in her hair, her arms are around his back. It’s like something out of a fucking movie. They look so happy, so completely together, oh God, I can’t bear this. I am going to scream.
‘Miss Wood? Ma’am, we have your phone charger—’
I ignore the concierge, my eyes still glued to Dave and Bella, wave after wave of freezing cold horror washing through my body. I clutch the desk behind me for support. I feel sick, I think I’m going to vomit. They’re kissing so passionately that I feel like I’m intruding by watching. But he’s my boyfriend, he was, he is . . .
Dave pulls away and gazes into her eyes for a few seconds, and murmurs something. I’ve never seen him look that tender, that happy. He’s never,
ever
smiled at me like that. Bella smiles back and murmurs something, her eyes never leaving his. Then Dave leans over to press the lift button, and as a ping sounds again, walks her backwards, still kissing her, back into the lift. She’s giggling into his lips as they go.
The lift door closes.
I turn back to the concierge, my breath coming out in jagged gasps. My face is hot and tingly. My eyes are losing focus. Where did the sound go?
The next thing I feel is the floor hitting my face.
I fainted. Obviously. Which caused a nice amount of drama.
The hotel staff were wonderful. They carried me to a private office, gave me tea, mopped up the bloody cut on my cheekbone, put ice on the swelling on my eye socket and asked me a hundred times if I wanted a doctor. When I finally convinced them I was fine, and just needed sleep, they helped me to my hotel room.
As soon as I was alone, I collapsed in a hysterical heap.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t want to call any of my friends or my parents or my sister. I suddenly realised that flying to Hong Kong without telling them looked not just rash, but actually crazy.
So I sobbed on the floor of my hotel room.
Question after question zipped through my head, each worse than the last. Should I have known when I saw them having lunch alone? Am I incapable of having a faithful boyfriend? What the fuck is wrong with me? I cried and cried and cried.
Then I started to wonder if they were still in the hotel, and my imagination went wild. Were they having sex right now, just a few floors away . . .? Were they talking about me or – oh God, laughing at me! Would Dave feel bad if he knew that I was here? Would he beg me to forgive him? I tried to plan horrible things to say to him if I could. And I cried some more.
Then my tears stung the cut on my cheekbone. And I cried some more.
Like an emotional masochist, I searched for sad thoughts that would upset me more. I thought about how everyone has found love except me. Even Peter, horrible Peter who also cheated on me, is in love with someone else. I am the only single person I know, apart from Robert, and my friendship with him is over. I miss Robert, I thought pitifully. And I cried some more.
I thought about all my dates. About all the sweet, kind men who’d asked me out, and I’d heartlessly ignored, ensconced in my little arrogant bubble that I’d thought was so funny and cool. I am a horrible person and I don’t deserve to be happy, I thought. Karma really is a bitch. And I cried some more.
I thought about flying home to London. I thought about walking back into the office, knowing that I was Suzanne’s bitch for the rest of my life. And then I just didn’t think I could physically get off the floor of my hotel room. I didn’t want to be here, but I didn’t want to be there either. I didn’t want to be anywhere.
I was hysterical with sadness and self-pity. Whenever I almost felt better, I’d remember Bella and Dave in the lobby, looking like the happiest people in the world, and I’d find fresh tears again.
And then, after about seven hours of non-stop crying, there was a knock at the hotel door. And well, you know what happened then . . .
It was the wrong man on the other side.
It was Robert. He looked like shit: almost grey with tiredness, his suit all crumpled, no tie, hair even more unkempt than usual. He charged in, shouting at me. I screamed at him, collapsed on the bed and cried myself to sleep as he stroked my hair. All I kept thinking was, thank God, thank God he found me.
When I wake up, it’s the next morning.
The sun has finally appeared, shining brightly through the windows, and Robert is sitting at the desk, working on his laptop. My hysterical, horrified feeling has lifted, but just slightly.
‘How did you . . . why are you here?’ I croak. ‘How did you find me?’
Robert turns and grins at me. He looks tired. ‘Good morning to you, too. On Wednesday, I knew Dave was away, but I hadn’t heard you in the house. Dave wasn’t answering, so I rang Sophie, who rang Plum, who rang Henry. Charlotte said you might be in Hong Kong at some conference. Then I rang Dave again. Bella answered by mistake.’
‘They’re here together, Robert,’ I say, little tears running down my face.
‘Yes, they are . . .’ he says, more gently. ‘And when I realised that you were in Hong Kong, and so were Dave and Bella, and you wouldn’t answer your phone or emails . . . well, I figured something like this must have happened. It’s pretty fucking hard to go accidentally missing in this day and age, Abigail, well done.’
‘Sorry . . .’ I murmur, feeling the cut on my right cheekbone gingerly. All the flesh around my right eye is throbbing.
‘And your parents were hysterical by that point, so I decided to come out and find you myself,’ he said.
‘Oh God. My poor parents. I really . . . I really fucked up. Should I call them?’
‘I already have. I didn’t sleep much last night. Jetlag.’
‘You’re so good to me,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’d alerted everyone that you were missing. It was my fault that everyone was panicked. I felt responsible.’
‘I should have told someone . . .’
‘It’s fine. I called everyone the minute you fell asleep, everyone knows you’re here.’
‘I’m sorry I called you a stalker.’
He smiles. ‘That’s alright. I know you didn’t mean it.’
I shuffle to the bathroom and start crying, yet again, when I see my face. My eye is bruised and swollen, and the cut on my face is a bloody scar.
‘My outsides match my insides,’ I say, through my tears, as I get back into bed. ‘I fainted, Robert, when I saw them I fainted . . .’
‘I know, the room service guy told me when he brought dinner last night,’ he says gently. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re a fast healer . . .’
‘At least I fainted properly. Unlike some people, who just collapse.’ I smile at him, a tiny grin that almost hurts my face. How long has it been since I smiled? My smile muscles must have atrophied.
‘Are you actually being competitive about fainting?’ he says, laughing. ‘I think I’m coming down with something,’ I say. My throat burns when I swallow. ‘Everything in my body hurts.’ When I close my eyes they ache, and I feel exhausted despite just having slept for hours. I wonder if this is what heartbreak feels like. Thinking this, yet more tears run out of my eyes.
‘Cry all you want,’ he replies, and his matter-of-fact tone makes me stop. ‘I’m ordering breakfast. And you’re eating everything.’
Over toast and scrambled eggs, I tell Robert a little about how I’d been feeling about Dave, and how the other night I knew something wasn’t quite right.
‘Do you think he was cheating on me the whole time?’ I ask Robert in a tiny voice.
‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘I had my suspicions in Autignac that weekend.
I think Ollie did too. That’s why he left.’ I think back to the funny atmosphere over the weekend in France. Dave ended it by going to bed with me, though. That must have driven Bella crazy. Perhaps that’s why he did it, I think, and feel a clawing pain in my chest.
Robert sighs. ‘I blame myself. I should have said something about it. But I didn’t want to cause trouble if there was no reason . . .’ He rubs his eyes with his hands. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s my oldest friend, but . . . I thought it was best not to get involved.’
‘I think you’re pretty involved now,’ I comment. ‘What did you say, by the way, when Bella answered Dave’s phone?’
‘I said, “you fucking idiots”, and hung up.’ He grins.
I smile back, my insides twisting at the thought of Bella with Dave, Bella answering his phone, Bella in Hong Kong with him, Bella in bed with him . . .
‘But why cheat on me with her? Why not just go out with her again?’
Robert shakes his head. ‘That’s a long story.’
‘Tell me,’ I say.
‘Well . . . Dave and Bella went out, as you know, about six years ago. It had been coming on for years, they’ve always gravitated towards each other at our yearly family holidays . . .’
I grimace, remembering the first kiss story.
‘But then Dave would bring a girlfriend one year, and she’d bring a boyfriend the year after, and it set up a sort of mutual antagonism. They were constantly snapping at each other.’
‘Dave loves that sort of thing.’
‘Right. So they finally got together one summer. It started in June, and went on for a year. It was very intense. We’d never seen either of them so happy.’
I wince slightly at this.
‘Sorry, Abby, darling, are you sure you want to hear this? Right, now you can have pancakes because you ate all your eggs like a good girl.’
‘Finish the story,’ I croak, pouring maple syrup over my pancakes. I’m really not hungry but I know that eating will make Robert happy. Right now, I’d do anything to make him happy, I’m so grateful to him for rescuing me.
‘Well, the following summer, Dave and his mum Dottie were walking on the beach and discovered his dad, Angus. Kissing – more than kissing, I think – Luke and Bella’s mum.’
I’m too stunned to speak.
‘Luke doesn’t know, neither does Bella. They never will, neither will their father. Their mother swore that it was nothing and begged them not to tell her family. But unfortunately it was the fifth time Dottie had discovered something similar . . . And she’d been best friends with Luke’s mum for years, too. So then Dave’s parents split up. Dave’s dad is now remarried and living in Monaco.’
‘Dave never talks about him,’ I murmur.
‘Dave has completely cut him out of his life. And he couldn’t bear keeping it all a secret from Bella. So he broke up with her.’
‘And I thought you and Louisa were the only big family holiday scandal,’ I comment.
Robert grins wryly. ‘It was the same year.’
‘How do you know all this? He told you?’ I can’t imagine Dave confiding in anyone.
‘No,’ says Robert. ‘I ran into him straight after he’d left the beach and knew something was wrong . . . I calmed him down. We never talk about it now. He said he never wanted to tell Bella about it, or remind his mother of it. The only way to do that was to break up with Bella.’
I sigh, and close my burning eyes.
The pancakes and eggs and toast are churning unhappily in my stomach. What a mess. What a horrible, horrible mess.
‘Why did you suspect something in France?’
‘When we were in the courtyard, Ollie and I walked in to the kitchen to get wine, or something, and saw Dave and Bella talking. He was holding her hand. It looked somehow . . . intense. They sprang apart when they saw us, and Bella and Ollie went to bed soon after that.’
‘I still don’t see why . . . why he had to pretend to want to be with me.’
‘I think he does . . . or did. I think he wanted it to work with you, it would have made life easier, particularly with the wedding coming up, where he knew Bella would be . . . But he’s still in love with her.’
‘Why did he bring her to Hong Kong?’ I say, in a little mewing voice. ‘Why did he lie to me?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Robert softly.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I say.
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ says Robert, rolling his eyes.
‘No, I mean, I really think I’m going to be sick.’
Robert just gets me to the bathroom before I start throwing up.