A Girl Like You (4 page)

‘Will that really work?’ I ask, as Plum heads off.

‘No reason it shouldn’t. The first step to being chatted up is being visible,’ says Robert. ‘She’s a pretty girl and she swears exceptionally well . . . Of course, she’s also transparently high-maintenance, and that’s her Achilles’ heel.’

‘What’s mine? Achilles’ heel, I mean?’

‘Lack of confidence,’ says Robert instantly. Ouch.

‘I have confidence,’ I protest feebly. (This, of course, isn’t the correct response when someone accuses you of lacking confidence. The correct response is a derisive ‘blow me’.) ‘Dating is just out of my comfort zone.’

‘Well, you also often look preoccupied, like you’re arguing with yourself. It gives you a fuck-off aura.’

‘Suck my aura,’ I say sulkily.

Robert smirks.

‘It’s not my fault,’ I say, after a pause. ‘You need experience to be confident at anything. Driving. Putting on make up. Flipping pancakes. I have no experience at being single. How could I possibly be confident at it?’

‘We’re working on that,’ he says. ‘You’re next.’

I sigh. I really don’t want to set myself up for another terrible Paulie-date.

‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine. It won’t be like Paulie. Experience, remember?’

His mind-reading trick is getting really annoying.

‘There she is!’ exclaims Sophie a few minutes later. I look over. Plum is sauntering over the road towards us, an enormous grin on her face. She holds her fist in front of her chest and flips up her index and little finger in the heavy metal, devil sign.

‘Victory is mine, beetchez. First, a man at the bar gave me his card,’ she says, sitting down. ‘And I met two guys outside. One went to make a call, and the other asked for my number and asked if I would like to meet for a drink on Wednesday!’

Sophie and I reach over to give her surreptitious high-fives.

‘Ditch the card,’ says Robert. ‘It’s lazy. If he was really keen, he would have asked for your number.’ Plum obediently tears the business card in two and drops it in the ashtray.

Paulie gave me his card. No wonder the date sucked.

Plum sits back, smiling peacefully to herself. Funny how happiness is tied in to feeling wanted, isn’t it? Or not feeling unwanted, anyway.

‘Abigail, your turn,’ Plum grins at me.

Oh God no. I couldn’t bear to have everyone watch me fail.

‘No point,’ I say quickly. ‘The guys at The Westbourne have seen Plum do exactly the same three-drinks-lost thing. If I did it, it’d look weird.’

‘Forget The Westbourne. Try the bar here. Go in, order five drinks,’ says Robert. ‘Stand next to someone decent. When the drinks arrive, look perplexed. He’ll offer to help.’

‘I don’t want to,’ I say in a faux-whingey voice that I hope hides how nervous the idea makes me feel.

‘Go on, darling,’ says Sophie. ‘I need a drink, anyway.’

‘There’s nothing to be nervous about, Abigail,’ says Robert.

Sighing, I walk into The Cow, stepping over a couple of sprawling dogs and the long legs of a model on the way in.

I size up the bar. There are three guys standing together, all wearing knee-length khaki combats that remind me of Peter, so I dismiss them instantly. A curly-haired woman is next to them gossiping with the bartender. I decide to stand next to two guys studying a wine list down the other end of the bar. God, nerves suck.

‘Montepulciano,’ one is reading. He’s cute, wearing skinny jeans and a slightly too-tight T-shirt. ‘Or Valpolicella.’

‘You can’t choose a wine just because you like saying the name,’ says the other, who’s wearing just a waistcoat and shorts. He’s carrying it off, surprisingly.

‘I think I’ll call my first child Montepulciano,’ replies Skinny Jeans pensively. ‘Monty, for short, obviously.’

I grin to myself at this, and duck my head to hide that I’m eavesdropping.

‘See? The lady in red thinks it’s a good idea,’ says Skinny Jeans. I glance down. I’m wearing a loose red mini dress and Converses. He means me! I don’t know what to say, so – cool! detached! – rather than gabble, I look over and smile mutely. Skinny Jeans is cute in a skinny, media-boy kind of way.

‘She thinks you’re a drunk,’ replies Waistcoat.

OK, now I need to speak.

‘Actually, I’m thinking that I always wanted to name my first child Mascarpone, but I may have to rethink that now,’ I manage to say.

‘You choose, then,’ says Skinny Jeans. He hands me the wine list and I scan it slowly, trying to think of something to say.

‘Quite the wine buff,’ comments Waistcoat. I look at him and raise an eyebrow. To disagree would look falsely modest, to agree would be idiotic.

‘The Brunelli is nice, if you want Italian,’ I say calmly. ‘Personally, I like Malbec.’ Actually, it’s the only wine I remember drinking recently.

‘Malbec it is,’ replies Skinny Jeans. ‘Care to join us?’

‘Alas, I cannot,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve got to get a round . . .’ I turn to the bar and see the bartender looking at me expectantly, and quickly order. I ignore the guys while I wait. Nerves, my nemesis (nemeses? Nemesii?) have overcome me, and I don’t know what to say. I hand over my money, take the change, feeling painfully self-conscious the whole time . . .

‘Need a hand with those drinks?’ asks Skinny Jeans.

‘Uh, yes, please. Thanks,’ I say.

‘Alfie, order the Malbec,’ Skinny Jeans says over his shoulder as he nods to me to lead the way.

‘Thanks . . .’ I say again, as we’re walking outside.

We reach the table, and Sophie and Plum beam at Skinny Jeans. Could they be any more obvious?

‘Next time you need a drink, you should come and find me first,’ says Skinny Jeans to me, after he sets down the drinks. ‘It makes sense. Logistically.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I say. He walks back inside and I sit down nonchalantly.

Everyone makes an ‘oooooo’ sound.

‘Shut up,’ I say. I can’t help smiling. Confidence, engage! Experience, add one point!

‘Did he get your number?’ asks Plum.

‘No,’ I say. Everyone except Robert murmurs ‘oh’ disap-pointedly. Confidence, dash yourself against the nearest rock! Experience, minus two! See? I do suck at being single! ‘This is weird, guys. Stop it.’

‘Play a long game,’ says Robert. ‘He’ll be after you next time you’re inside.’

‘OK,’ I say glumly.

‘Why are you being so fucking helpful, Rob?’ says Luke suddenly. ‘This is completely unlike you.’

Everyone looks at Robert. He stares into space for a second and then frowns, ‘You’re right. I have no idea. Back later,’ and stalks off towards The Westbourne.

‘Have you spoken to the folks this weekend, Abs?’ asks Sophie. Our parents have retired to a little village in the south of France, which is just as idyllic as it sounds, and twice as boring. When they moved there six months ago, our mother rang us both once a day, sometimes twice. Then, thankfully, Sophie got engaged, and Mum threw herself into Mother Of The Bride work with fervour. She started a MOTB blog and even tweets about it, much to Sophie’s horror.

‘Yep, she’s organising an expat MOTB tweet-up,’ I say.

‘A what?’ say Luke and Plum in unison.

‘A meeting of Twitterers. Tweeters. Whatever,’ I say.

‘It’s her new career. She’ll be dying for you to get married next,’ says Sophie.

‘She’ll be waiting a while, at this rate . . . Oh my God, I’m the elder sister spinster,’ I realise. ‘How depressing.’

‘It’s not your fault Sophie is a child bride,’ says Plum.

‘And it’s not my fault that Luke is ancient and wants to settle down,’ replies Sophie.

‘I’m not that old,’ protests Luke half-heartedly. ‘But it is past my bedtime. Can we go home please? I need to tuck my hangover into bed.’

Plum and I decide to go home too. It’s nearly dark now, and getting that chilly September Sunday feeling.

‘Should I wait for Robert?’ I wonder aloud. We all look over. He’s pouring a bottle of wine for two uber-cool girls in jumpsuits, who are laughing at something he has just said. Wowsers, how does he do it?

‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ says Luke.

Before we leave, I walk back into The Cow to go to the bathroom in the basement. On my way back up the stairs, Skinny Jeans is coming down. We do a polite little side-step-side-step dance, and I smirk and head past him without saying anything.

‘What . . . that’s it? No conversation? After all we’ve been through?’ he says, and we pause on the same step.

‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? I am sorry,’ I say. ‘What would you like to discuss?’

He chuckles and looks me right in the eye. ‘Your phone number.’

High five! Robert really
is
good at this. Looks like someone isn’t failing at being single after all. (That someone is ME. In case you’re wondering.)

‘I’m Mark, by the way,’ he says. ‘Abigail,’ I nod. You don’t look like a Mark, I think. I’m going to call you Skinny Jeans.

At home, I potter around for a while, remembering to drink water and eat crumpets to soak up the booze. I try to read in bed, but almost immediately fall into a slumber with Jilly Cooper’s
Polo
open on my chest. When I wake up it is midnight, and I can hear voices downstairs. I wake up long enough to focus on them. It’s Robert and a girl. Good for him, I think to myself, then turn off my light and fall back to sleep.

Chapter Six

I’m finally embarking on my second-ever date. YES! I know. I’m happy for me, too. I’m not quite as nervous as I was last week. You can tell I’m not as nervous tonight, right? I had a mini confidence crash earlier, but I closed my eyes and took deep breaths till it passed. I just have to fake it, that’s what Robert said. Fake it till you feel it.

It’s Josh from HR, the guy I met when I was out with Henry and Plum on Saturday night. We’re meeting at the Albannach bar, just off Trafalgar Square, for a couple of drinks. Robert recommended I make it drinks, not dinner, as it saves time if you decide you don’t like them. If you like them, you can do dinner on date two. I shared that piece of genius with Plum.

‘But that makes the date so much shorter, so they have less time to get to know you and decide they like you!’ she exclaimed in dismay.

I thought for a second, and replied, ‘Shouldn’t you be deciding if
you
like
them
, not the other way around?’

Silence.

Perhaps I’m wrong. As previously established, I don’t have much ‘experience’ or ‘confidence’ in dating. (Harrumph.) Plum is seeing the guy she met at The Westbourne tomorrow night, by the way. And no, I haven’t heard from Skinny Jeans guy yet.

I’m early, so I sit in Trafalgar Square for a little while and text people. To Sophie:
Yes to shopping on Saturday. How was the wedding place?

To Henry:
Remember to chew.

To Plum:
Any news from Westbourne Guy? Thank you for clothes help.

Plum helped me work out what to wear tonight over a series of long, highly specific emails today. The result – a pretty, pale pink mini-dress with brown platform sandals – feels both comfortable and confidence-boosting. ‘Pretty with a punch, in the form of the unexpectedly chunky sandals,’ said Plum. I think that might be my special flavour. Pretty With A Punch. Hell yeah, I speak style.

I wait for a few minutes, but no one texts right back. I’ll take out my powder and check my make-up. Yes, good: smokey eye, nude lip gloss, check teeth, yes, good, fine. Right. Time to go . . .

Boom! In a split-second, my stomach goes from mild nerves to hyperactive butterflies – no, that’s far too pretty for how it actually feels. My stomach is moths. Flappy, molty-winged moths. Deep breaths, Abigail. You can do this. It’s just a date. You won’t mess it up this time.

Oh God, I think I’m sweating again.

Text! From . . . oh, Robert.

From Robert:
You left your keys here.

I check my bag to make sure. Yep. No keys. Shit.

To Robert:
Oops. Are you at home all night?

From Robert:
At The Engineer for a few drinks. Call in on your way home.

How does he know I won’t be on this date till past midnight, I think. Josh From HR could be my soulmate, for all he knows.

Ooh, another text.

From Robert:
Unless Josh From HR is your soulmate, of course.

Bastard.

To Robert:
OK. Thanks. I’ll call you later . . . ps any advice for me, o dating sage?

From Robert:
Act like you don’t care.

His tips are getting annoying. Isn’t that kind of the same as ‘act detached’, anyway? I check my watch. It’s 8 pm! I’m going to be a few minutes late. What a novelty. Time to go.

The Albannach is a dark, masculine bar, with deer antlers on the wall giving it a slightly creepy look, and it’s full of business types having a post-work drink. I hope Josh sees me before I see him. I was tipsy when I met him last weekend, and yes of course I remember what he looks like but, well, I don’t want to have to gaze into the face of every man between 25 and 40 to make sure . . .

‘Abigail,’ says a voice behind me, and I turn around with a smile. It’s Josh. Slim build, slightly oversized pink shirt that gapes around the collar, pukish-taupe tie, little wire-rimmed glasses.

‘Josh!’ I say, and we kiss hello. No aftershave. Cheeks very warm.

‘I got us seats over here,’ he says. Following him, I look down and see that his trousers are about three inches too short. ‘Want to look at the drinks menu?’ he says, handing it over. He’s drinking a pint of beer.

‘Sure thing,’ I reply easily.

My nerves disappeared the moment I saw him. I can’t believe I snogged him . . . He’s not quite how I remembered, ahem. I’m not sure he’s much more than 25 and he looks even younger. I study the cocktail menu for a few seconds, and automatically start reading the names aloud thoughtfully à la Bam-Bou.

‘Pea—’

I stop.

‘I’ll have a Pear Sour, I think,’ I say. He smiles back and I realise that he has no intention of going to the bar for me. Of course! HR. Equal opportunity. ‘Back in a sec,’ I say, and walk up to the bar. What an awkward start.

I get back to find him absent-mindedly squeezing something on the back of his neck.

‘I’m back,’ I say, slightly pointlessly.

‘Did you have any trouble getting here?’ he says quickly, taking a large sip of his beer and spilling a little on his tie.

‘Um, no,’ I say. ‘Did you?’

‘I did,’ he says earnestly. ‘I thought Trafalgar Square was near Leicester Square and, well, you can imagine!’

It is near Leicester Square, I think, but don’t say anything. It’s not nice to make someone feel stupid. Even if they might be stupid. (Is he stupid?) Instead I smile. ‘Central London is designed to confuse. Perhaps next time you should bring a compass and some sandwiches in case you get lost.’

Josh From HR continues, completely missing the compass/ sandwiches thing. ‘I know! I hate it! I never come here if I can help it. I never leave Wandsworth if I can help it, actually, except to go to work.’

‘Wandsworth is delightful,’ I agree, as it seems like something to say, though actually I have never been there. And why live in London if you hate the place? Move somewhere else. It’ll bring rent prices down for the rest of us. Gosh, I’ve got a feeling he’s a dweeb. I didn’t think I was
that
tipsy on Saturday. Perhaps I shouldn’t make dates after more than three drinks.

‘Isn’t it?!’ he exclaims, smiling and revealing a large piece of food lodged between his teeth.

Oh God, he
is
a dweeb.

For the next ten minutes, the conversation continues like this. Question, answer, comment. I realise I’m acting like Robert told me to – I’m cool, detached, offering a funny/teasing comment here and there (that he never picks up on), and generally acting friendly. It’s easy to act like I don’t care with Josh, because – yup – I really
don’t
care. At all.

Despite not caring, I discover that he works in Croydon for Nestlé, studied geography at university, grew up in East Anglia, loves his mum’s Sunday roast more than any restaurant meal and has every episode of
Little Britain
memorised. He, in turn, discovers that I studied Medieval French, work in a bank but find it boring, love reading, live in Primrose Hill and have never, ever, watched a single episode of
Little Britain
.

I finish my drink quite quickly, and though he’s finished his, he doesn’t offer to go to the bar. So I do instead.

As I stand waiting at the bar, it finally hits me: I don’t want to be here. And that sounds obvious, but really, it goes against every stick-it-out, wait-and-see, have-you-thought-this-through? instinct I’ve ever had. It’s a revefuckinglation.

I order our drinks, and get out my phone to text Robert. He’s the only person who seems to be able to provide textual healing tonight.

To Robert:
Please help. Give me an excuse to get out of here.

Robert replies:
He could be your soulmate.

I narrow my eyes at the phone. Nice one, smartarse. I reply:
Seriously. Should I fake a burst appendix?

From Robert:
I’ll call you in ten minutes. Have your phone out.

I head back with our drinks and sit down with a bright smile.

‘Saturday was fun, huh?’

‘I know! We got the overland to Victoria and then the train to South Kensington, and got off there by mistake instead of High Street Kensington, and—’

Hurry up, Robert, I think. Please hurry up. I’m trying to engage Josh on the marvellous subject of Wandsworth (‘When the shopping centre was opened, it was the largest indoor shopping centre in Europe! That was 1971, of course . . . but it has all the shops I need now: Burtons, JD Sports, Primark . . .’ ‘Oh, I adore Primark!’ I say, grateful to finally have something to say about Wandsworth), when my phone rings.

‘It’s my flatmate, I’m so sorry, I must get this,’ I gabble. ‘Hello?’

‘Abigail, I’ve locked myself out of the flat,’ says Robert.

‘You’ve locked yourself out of the flat?’ I repeat, very loudly and clearly.

‘Yes, I have. And I need you to come and let me in.’

‘You need me to come and let you in?’

‘Yes. Fast. I’ll be in the pub.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can!’ I say, and turn apologetically to Josh. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go . . .’

‘I had a great time,’ Josh says. ‘I’d love to see you again,’ he stands up awkwardly and moves towards me. Cripes, he’s not going to try and kiss me at 8.20 pm in a Central London bar, is he? I make myself all elbows putting on my jacket, and turn away whilst picking up my bag.

‘That’d be great,’ I lie, and smile at him. ‘Don’t worry about walking me to the tube. I’ll be fine. No, no. Bye!’

Walk fast, woman, and don’t look back.

Why bother to make dates when they’re going to be that boring? Was I that boring when I was with Paulie? No, perish the thought.

Seriously, though: is dating always this difficult and/or dull? Why is everyone always talking about dating if it’s this turgid? Life with Peter was a non-stop rave in comparison.

Do you think I’m being terribly mean? Look, I can’t help it. Josh is a dweeb. He wasn’t funny or interesting. I just don’t fancy him. I did fancy Paulie, a bit. Having said that, Paulie got my name wrong and didn’t make much effort even before my nervous meltdown. Hmm.

If you were me, would you get the tube home? Me neither.

I get in a black cab and start giggling to myself in the back. Not one but two bad dates! At least that one wasn’t stressful. How silly the whole dating thing is! I mean, really. Oh well, experience equals confidence, right? I just – oh, more texts.

From Henry:
If you were a real friend you’d blend all my food from now on.

From Sophie:
Wedding dress hell. I’m getting married in jeans. How’s the date?

From Plum:
Seeing the guy from The Westbourne tomorrow!! ARGH!

By the time I get to The Engineer, I’m in a really good mood. I walk in and see Rob in a corner talking to a very pretty girl with long dark hair. Interesting body language: she’s leaning forward in her chair, and he’s leaning right back. Something not fun is happening.

‘Hi!’ I say brightly, when I reach their table. The girl – the tanned, glamorous type that you see on holiday, the kind with no body fat and improbably full lips – turns towards me, and I see that she’s been crying. Her long fingers are curled around tatty little tissues. She seems unable to speak.

‘This is Antonia,’ says Robert shortly. I look at him, and back at her. His face is completely closed, giving nothing away. ‘I’m Abigail, Robert’s flatmate,’ I say. She blinks and looks away. ‘I’ll get a . . . bottle,’ I add, and turn towards the bar. Yikes. This is going to be awkward. Third-wheel-tastic. Should I just leave? I pretend to look around the bar and see Antonia storming out. Problem solved.

By the time I get back with the wine, Robert has sprawled himself over the two seats. He has a habit of taking up all the space at a table, or a sofa, or anywhere, I’ve noticed. Anyone else feels like they’re encroaching on his territory just by being in the same room. I push his feet off the chair with my knee, sit down with a dramatic flourish, and pour us each a glass of red. I feel slightly euphoric to have got away from Josh From HR so easily.

‘You need to shave,’ I say.

‘So, did you break his heart?’ replies Robert, ignoring my shaving comment. I notice again how green and steady his eyes are. He really nails the whole self-assured eye contact thing.

‘I don’t think so. We had nothing to say to each other.’ I sigh. ‘My second date in my whole life was a dweeb. And the first was a fucknuckle.’

‘You now think Bam-Bou Paulie was a fucknuckle?’ says Robert in surprise, his eyes lighting up in amusement.

‘I’m always more discerning in retrospect.’

‘Aren’t we all, Abigail darling?’

‘I’m not your darling. You clearly just broke your darling’s heart.’

‘Oh, no grief, please . . . she flew here from Milan. I didn’t ask her to. Fucking nightmare.’

‘I expect you led her on,’ I say.

‘I did not,’ he says defensively, running his hands through his hair. ‘I never do, I always say “this is just casual” and then before you know it, it’s where-is-this-going, what-am-I, and what-do-you-take-me-for . . .’

‘How awful it must be when the easy sex starts asking hard questions.’

‘Quite. I admit, it got a little too serious with Antonia . . . I mean, that’s been going on for months. My bad.’

I snort with laughter.

‘But the rest of the time, I’m totally honest that I am not looking for, uh, anything, and I end it within a month. I mean, that doesn’t make me a bad guy, does it?’

‘You’re such a cliché.’

‘How amusing, because you’re not at all. Newly single girl, late 20s, trying to bag a boyfriend . . .’

‘Shut up. And I’m not trying to “bag a boyfriend”. I’m just trying to survive singledom and make up for lost time.’

‘I’ve given you a few tips. You’ll be fine.’

‘Tonight was easy,’ I admit. ‘I had no problem walking out. I felt totally in control.’

‘Of course, Christ, you should always feel in control,’ says Robert in surprise.

I take out my notebook and write
Stay in control
on the list. Robert watches me with a bemused look on his face. As I look up our eyes meet, and I raise an eyebrow at him.