A Girl Like You (32 page)

‘Can you honestly tell me you don’t think he’s handsome? Just a teeny bit?’

I don’t say anything. I’m staring at the Travel By Proxy photo of us. He’s absurdly good-looking. ‘It doesn’t matter. Robert never saw me like that. He doesn’t find me attractive.’

‘You don’t know that. Perhaps he didn’t make a move earlier because you were his flatmate, or because you are my sister. Don’t shit on your doorstep, and all that. And then you were seeing Dave, anyway.’

‘Um,’ I say. I’m thinking. Robert paid me lots of compliments. Mostly under the influence of alcohol, admittedly. And in Hong Kong, when we were in bed, he said some very—

‘He’s been different, since he met you, you know,’ says Sophie, interrupting my reverie.

‘He has?’

‘He spent more time with you than he ever did with the boys, or with any of his ladyfriends, or whatever it is you used to call them. He used to spend a lot of time alone . . . he was a grouch.’

‘He did? He was?’ I don’t think he’s a grouch at all. I did, but only till I got to know him. Now I think he’s lovely. In every possible way.

‘Yes,’ she says impatiently. ‘You’re so blind, Abigail.’

‘I am?’

Sophie starts laughing at my parrot-questions. I don’t say anything, but start chewing my bottom lip, lost in thought.

‘I need to think.’

‘Yes, you do. Love you.’

‘Love you.’

I don’t want to think about Robert and whatever it is that Sophie’s suggesting. Because if he ever liked me like that . . .
if
he ever, ever did, and I never let myself even think about it because I assumed he wasn’t interested, and then
if
after we finally succumbed to the chemistry and affection between us and slept together, I discarded him like yesterday’s crumpets then . . . well, then that’s one almighty fuck-up.

I can’t bear the thought of being in bed tonight with just my brain for company. So I take an antihistamine, one of the drowsy ones, and am asleep in minutes.

I wake up at 3 am to the sound of shouting.

And giggling.

Then I hear Robert’s voice, and JimmyJames’ voice. And then more giggling. Not just giggling.
Girlish
giggling.

‘Fucking hell,’ I say aloud.

Then someone puts music on. I can hear JimmyJames shouting along to the lyrics.

That’s it. It’s the middle of the night. I’m not putting up with this. I have a new job, goddammit. I need sleep.

I get out of bed, still in my pyjamas, and start padding furiously down the stairs. I’m almost at the bottom when I hear Robert’s voice.

‘Turn that shit down,’ orders Robert. I can tell by his voice that he’s been drinking. It’s too loud, and he thinks he’s whispering. ‘My flatmate is sleeping.’

‘Your flatmate, hmm, is that what you call her these days?’ says JimmyJames, hiccupping. The music is instantly turned off.

‘That’s what she is,’ says Robert shortly.

‘Do you have any lemon for my vodka?’ says a girl’s voice.

‘Picky little thing, aren’t you?’ says JimmyJames.

‘I’ll have some lemon, too!’ says another girl’s voice. ‘Robbie, I love your place!’

Then I hear JimmyJames and the first girl in the kitchen, giggling and flirting as they get a lemon out and cut it. But it’s not them that I’m concerned about. It’s Robert and the second girl. I can’t see them, but I can hear them clearly. They can’t be more than eight feet away.

‘I think I’ve broken my toe,’ says the girl. ‘Robbie, would you come and look at it?’

‘Uh, of course,’ he says. I hear the couch squeak. They must be sitting on the couch nearest the hallway. ‘What nice toes you have . . .’

‘You should see my arse,’ she says, and laughs hysterically at her own joke.

In the dark, I make a how-disgusting face. What a tart. Robert wouldn’t go for that, would he? Suddenly there’s complete silence. JimmyJames must be kissing the first girl. Nothing else would shut him up for this long. Is Robert kissing the second girl? I hold my breath, willing one of them to talk.

‘It’s not broken,’ says Robert. I sigh with relief. He was just looking at her toes. ‘You’ll live to wear heels again.’

‘Oh thank you, Doctor Robbie,’ she says. ‘So . . . want to give me a tour of the house? I think we should give those two a little privacy . . .’

‘Uh, sure,’ says Robert. Another couch-squeak indicates he’s standing up, and I immediately lurch up and start creeping backwards up the stairs. I don’t want him to know that I’m here, don’t want him to know I’m listening, and don’t want him to see me in pyjamas when he’s with this girl with the incredible toes/arse. I get to Robert’s landing just as they come around the corner to the bottom of the stairs, and speed up the second set of stairs to my room as fast as I can. (Thank God for all that nimble-footed-mountain-goat practice.)

‘Ooh, three storeys, it’s huge!’ says the girl.

‘Uh, it’s just a funny-shaped little place, really, cut out of a big old house, you probably didn’t see the front entrance,’ says Robert. ‘My flatmate is asleep upstairs, so please be quiet . . .’

‘Oh, she won’t hear anything,’ she scoffs. ‘So what’s in here, then?’

I’m at the very top of the stairs, in the darkness, holding my breath as I look down on them. I can’t see their faces, just the bottom two-thirds of their bodies. Robert is wearing jeans and his khaki shirt. And the girl’s wearing a purple dress, black patterned tights and knee-high boots. She looks like a fucking go-go dancer, I think viciously. She’s quite tall and slim. Taller than me, I’d guess. The thought makes me narrow my eyes in dislike.

‘Well, that’s the bathroom, obviously,’ he says. ‘And that’s, uh, my bedroom.’

‘Will you show me?’ says the girl.

I roll my eyes to myself. Christ, Robert’s not going to fall for that, is he?

I peer down again, and fight the urge to gasp aloud: the girl is suddenly right in front of Robert, pressing herself against him . . . they must be kissing. Are they kissing? They are! I can hear a squelching sound.

‘Mmm, very nice,’ she says. I fucking hate this chick. I don’t even hate Bella but I really hate this go-go girl. ‘Come on then, show me your room.’

There’s a pause. Please say no, Robert, I think. Make up an excuse.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t,’ he says. ‘It’s a terrible mess . . .’

‘We can keep the lights off,’ she giggles.

Then the door to his bedroom shuts, and I’m left standing in the dark, panting in horror.

How could he do that? How could that have just happened? I turn around and head back into my room. I’m having trouble breathing properly, but I think that’s probably from holding my breath for much of the last five minutes. My heart is beating so loudly that my ears hurt. I get back into my cold bed and lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ache in my stomach get bigger and bigger. I press my fingers against my ears and try not to imagine what might be going on just one floor below me.

Just one thought keeps running through my brain.

This is wrong. This is all wrong.

Chapter Forty Six

There’s no point in thinking about it, you know. I can’t be angry with him for bringing home someone else. I left him in bed in Hong Kong. I walked out on whatever had just started between us. And even if I hadn’t, who’s to say that he wouldn’t have done the same to me? Just because I’ve realised whatever it is that I’ve realised about how I feel – or might feel – about him does not mean that he realises the same about how he feels – or might feel – about me.

If that makes sense.

So there’s just no point in thinking about it.

Thank God for work. It’s the only thing that gets me out of bed, the only thing that keeps me sane and smiling. When I’ve filled up my brain with facts and figures and stories and people and events and ideas, then there’s no room for any thoughts of Robert. Even when I’m not in the office, even when I’m with Sophie, or the girls, or Henry and Charlotte, I just witter away and try to focus on what I did today, what I’ll do tomorrow. Work.

Until the moment I get into bed. Then I close my eyes and am instantly transported back to Hong Kong. Back to the hotel room. Back to the moment after dinner when I walked out of the bathroom, grabbed his arm and – well, you know the rest. I replay it over and over again in my head, and then fall asleep and dream about him. It’s been three weeks since that 3 am shock realisation on the stairs. Three weeks since I finally became conscious that I – well, never mind. Let’s just say that the homesick feeling was just the start of it.

And this isn’t Lonely Single Girl Syndrome, or desperation, or anything else that I used to worry about when I was freshly single, either. This is just a sad, empty yearning that won’t go away. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

When Plum established that I wouldn’t even say Robert’s name out loud, she figured out what had happened, and after five hours of trying to convince me to tell Robert how I felt, suggested I date other men, just to see if it could help me ‘move on’. But I can’t even imagine dating anyone now. The thing I loved most about the dates I went on before was talking about them with Robert afterwards.

Every time I’ve seen Robert, I’ve been unable to even look at him. Fortunately, JimmyJames is still staying with us, so they seem to be on a permanent booze-bender, and only come home to sleep. And anyway, Robert doesn’t look at me either. It’s like he hates me.

Thinking about it makes me feel like lying on the floor. Even when I’ve just woken up in a suite at the Charlotte Street Hotel, as I have today.

It’s Sophie and Luke’s wedding day, and we’re all staying here as it’s just a few streets from the tiny Marylebone church where they are getting married. Sophie asked me to share her bedroom, and I agreed on the proviso that she doesn’t try to cuddle me. (From family holiday experience, I know that she’s like a little koala and I’ll wake up on the far corner with her hanging on to my back.)

I’ve been awake, thinking about work and trying not to think about Robert, for God knows how long. Sophie is still sleeping soundly, facing the other way, her breathing deep and even. When we were little, I was prone to nightmares – roosters, sausages, elves. You name it, I had nightmares about it. My parents – understandably – would get a bit grumpy after the sixth night in a row of me climbing in with them. So I would go and get into bed with Sophie, who was all warm and peachy and never stirred. She’s just the same now as she was then: kind and calm and generous. Tears prick my eyes as I think about it. Now she’s getting married, and hopefully going to have little warm peachy babies of her own. I hope she has two girls. Sisters are special.

I can’t imagine that the whole marriage-and-motherhood thing will be happening for me anytime soon.

Sophie answers the wake-up call from reception, and rolls over to face me. We meet eyes for a second and grin.

‘Happy wedding day!’ I shout. The tears threaten to spill, but I blink wildly at the ceiling and they recede.

Sophie sits up in bed and squeals.

I head into the bathroom, clean my teeth and splash some cold water on my face. Last night’s dream was eerily real. I dreamed that I stayed in the bed in Hong Kong, and Robert woke up and kissed me, and everything was different . . . I point at myself in the mirror. Just. Stop. It. Today is about Sophie, not you.

I bound back out and jump on the bed, shouting ‘mawwiage!’ I’m ready to go into a whole Princess Bride act, but—

‘You talked about Robert in your sleep last night,’ she interrupts.

‘I dreamed that we were burgled. I was probably saying “robbers, robbers,”’ I reply quickly.

‘No, you said “I’m so sorry, Robert. I’m so sorry.”’

‘Ha,’ I say.

Sophie looks at me and shakes her head. Thankfully, I’m saved by a knock at the door, and I race to answer it. It’s Vix, who looks, as usual, hung over.

‘Hotel bar. JimmyJames. Robert,’ is all she says, walking straight over to the bed and getting in next to Sophie.

We had a rehearsal dinner last night with the entire bridal party, did I mention that? Even Bella and Dave.

What does it say about my state of mind that I barely even noticed those two?

The entire bridal party, plus our parents, sat at a long table at Elena’s L’Etoile. Robert was right down the other end, laughing with JimmyJames and Vix all night. We didn’t speak, though he did say ‘hi, Abigail,’ when he first arrived. I said ‘hi, Robert’, back. (Ah, quite the conversationalists.) Fortunately, dinner started late, so at 11 pm when Sophie announced that the bride needed beauty sleep, I left with her. Bella tried to catch my eye twice – she was on the other side of the table and three down – but I ignored her. Dave was on the same side of the table as me, and very subdued. I barely noticed him. Once, his presence would have electrified me.

‘Was last night difficult?’ whispers Vix to me.

‘No, not at all,’ I assure her.

Sophie overhears. ‘Was it alright with Dave’ – she pauses, and we all pretend to spit over our shoulder, and then look back to her as though nothing had happened – ‘and Bella?’

‘It’s cool. They mean nothing to me.’

I can’t mention this in front of Sophie as we’ve all agreed to not rock the bridal boat: Vix cornered Dave before dinner last night and said, ‘Listen to me, you little fuckwipe. Tomorrow is about Luke and Sophie. Not you, and not Bella, and not Abigail. So behave, and be nice, and tell Bella to wipe that pout off her ugly mug, or I’ll stab her in the eye with my fag.’ Ah, Scottish girls. So direct.

‘Well, I’ve left Bella out of all the fun maid stuff, anyway,’ says Sophie. She’s started calling us maids, rather than bridesmaids. ‘I told her we’re getting dressed separately and I’ll send her the hair stylist later.’ Vix and I start to laugh: Sophie’s never been so vengeful in her life. Thanks to marriage, or maturity, or good ol’ filial loyalty, she’s finally able to get angry. ‘She can suck it. No one fucks with my sister.’

‘Yeah,’ echoes Vix. ‘I’m not even gonna talk to her. And I’m going to be an absolute bitch to Dave whenever I see him, forever. So there.’

‘You say the sweetest things. Beauty bomb!’ I say, emptying the bag on the bed. Out rolls Frederic Fekkai and Kérastase deep conditioner, REN face masks, Clarins Beauty Flash Balm – which Vix falls upon with little cries of joy – and a Philosophy Microdermabrasion kit. The girls immediately start noisily deciding which they’ll need, and I smile to myself. I knew they’d like this stuff.

‘I fucking wish you’d let us fake tan,’ says Vix petulantly, after she’s combed through the deep conditioner and is spackled with a face mask.

‘My wedding, my rules,’ says Sophie calmly. ‘Trust me. In 20 years, we’ll all be laughing at fake tan photos the way we now laugh at perm photos.’

Room service arrives with French toast and extra strong, extra-milky coffee, Sophie’s pre-chosen wedding day breakfast.

‘We’re having champagne, too, but not till later,’ she adds cheerfully.

‘I made some playlists for this bit,’ I say, slotting my iPod into the speakers next to the TV. ‘Going To The Chapel’ comes on.

Vix is increasingly hyper, dancing around while Sophie exhibits a strange bridal calm. I join in as best I can.

Another knock at the door indicates that the manicurist from Return to Glory is here. Then the hair and make-up people arrive, just as our mother comes in, enquiring how everyone slept, and fixes me with a stare from across the room. She was giving me the gimlet eye all last night too. To escape her, I run to the bathroom.

‘When did this wedding become a movie shoot?’ I hear Sophie saying in surprise. ‘There are more helpers than there are bridesmaids.’

‘I just wanted to make sure we weren’t rushed,’ says my mother.

I wash the mask out of my hair, shampoo, shave my legs and do all the requisite grooming rituals that a good maid should, and then, I stand for a long time under the boiling hot water of the shower. It reminds me of that hotel shower. When I lay on the floor for an hour and cried over Dave.

God, what a waste of tears.

I dry myself, fasten my hair in a towel turban, wrap a robe around my body and come out of the bathroom. Vix has gone to shower in her room.

‘What on earth is up with you, missy?’ asks my mother, who is sitting with the manicurist. I sit down on the opposite side of the room, and the hairstylist starts combing out my wet hair, a hairdryer tucked under her arm.

‘I can’t hear you,’ I mouth to Mum, pointing at the hairdryer.

‘It’s not even on!’ she exclaims.

At that moment, the stylist switches on the hairdryer. I beam at my mother and shrug, and she rolls her eyes and starts talking to Sophie. I meet eyes with the stylist in the mirror and she winks at me.

Continuing like this, I’m saved from talking about Robert or what on earth is up with me for hours. There’s always someone around, or something to do, and soon it’s time to get dressed, and then we open a bottle of champagne. And then, finally, we’re all ready.

‘Good luck today, darling,’ I say, leaning over to give Sophie a hug. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ she says, wrapping her arms around me tightly. ‘I want you to be happy. I really do.’

‘I will be. I mean . . . I am.’

She pulls back and looks me in the eye. I look away first.

‘Let’s go.’