A Girl Like You - A Girl Like You Part 12
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A Girl Like You Part 12

'What should I wear tonight?' I ask Robert.

'Are you going to ask me that every night?' he says. 'Because it's been coming up a lot.'

'It's rhetorical,' I say. 'I'm saying it aloud to prompt myself to think about it. I'm going to Henry's brother's goodbye party. I'm meeting Adam The Tick Boxer first, so I want to look sexy, and tall, and-'

'What happened to the nice shy Abby I met all those months ago?' he says to himself. 'She was great. Practically a mute. This Abby never shuts up.'

I give him the finger as I leave the balcony.

'That's very childish, Abby,' he calls after me. 'I expect more of you.'

I don't really need his sartorial advice, of course. I speak style pretty well these days. I'm going to wear my nude pencil dress and my grass-green, very high heels, and my hair parted on the side and tied in a low, chignon thing . . . Pretty With A Punch.

I lie on my bed for a while and try to nap, but my mind keeps drifting to Adam The Tick Boxer. I think I'll take him as my date to Sophie's wedding next year! Do you think it's too early to ask him? I wonder what his plans are for New Year's Eve. It's my birthday on January 1. Maybe we could go away for the night . . .

I take a long shower, and enjoy a surprisingly successful blow-drying-and-straightening session. Then I get dressed. Some natural-ish makeup, with brown smoky eyes, and voila! All done.

I stalk out of my room, picking up my white wrappy coat on the way and stomp down the stairs (you have to stomp or stride in heels this high; at least until your second drink, when you can strut or slink). I catch Robert coming out of his room with wet hair pulling a T-shirt down over jeans. He makes a whistling sound at me.

'Sexy outfit.'

'Sexual harassment in the home environment,' I say sniffily.

'Sorry. You look like shit. Go have some fun.'

'I intend to,' I grin. Adam The Tick Boxer, here I come.

Chapter Twelve.

8 pm Saturday night. South Kensington tube station. And my night hasn't started well.

'Abigail!' exclaims Plum. 'Finally!'

'Cocksmoker!' I reply.

'Do I have something in my teeth?'

'Adam The Cocksmoking Tick Boxer just dumped me,' I whisper furiously, taking her arm. 'Let's walk. I need to smoke.'

'No,' she gasps.

'I really do, I need to smoke.'

'I mean he dumped you? And you don't smoke.'

'I do tonight,' Plum hands me her lit cigarette so I can in expertly drag on it. 'I was meant to meet him at the Grand Union in Camden, for a drink, you know, as I was coming down here and he has a thing somewhere else, and then he didn't show, so I rang him, and he didn't answer, and I texted him, and he replied "I'm back with my ex-girlfriend. I'm sorry."'

'Oh, that's fucked,' says Plum sympathetically. 'I hate it when that happens. What a fucknuckle.'

'Does that happen a lot?! I just can't believe it. I don't understand what I did wrong,' I say, exhaling quickly. Why isn't Plum more shocked by this? I feel like having a tantrum. Keep your cool, Abigail . . . ah, fuck it, I can't. 'This is not fair! I have never felt this confused and helplessly single before!'

'Wait till it happens eighteen times in a row,' says Plum. 'Westbourne guy,' she pauses, and spits over her shoulder, 'didn't call. I texted him, and he didn't reply.'

'Oh God, I'm sorry,' I say. Poor Plum. I wish I could erase all the shit things that have happened to her so she could start again. How would I feel if I'd met someone I liked and had it in explicably go bad time after time after time, for years and years? I can't imagine.

Plum shrugs, and puts on her best I'm-in-a-great-mood smile. 'Don't worry about it. Here. Vodka?'

Plum always has a small water bottle of vodka in her bag on nights out. It's a necessary strategy she explained once, to combat London bar prices. I have a quick swig and, coughing, take out my phone to check (just in case) if Adam The Tick Boxer has texted again (he hasn't). And the only thing that stops me from bursting into tears is the determination that I am not going to be the kind of girl who gets stood up on a Saturday night and cries about it.

Instead I will just rant for a while.

'I don't get it,' I splutter, puffing violently on my fag. 'I just don't get it. Who does that? Who pursues someone and goes out of their way to spend time with them and then discards them?'

Plum and I lock eyes. 'Robert,' we say simultaneously.

'I'm going to call him,' I say. 'He'll know what we should do.'

'How may I assist you,' he says, instead of hello.

'Adam The Cocksmoking Tick Boxer' I pause and spit, as Plum looks at me supportively 'fucking dumped me, and you need to fucking tell me why.'

'Whoa, psychogail,' he says, laughing. 'What?'

'Adam. The Cocksmoking. Tick Boxer. Dumped. Me.' I take another dramatic drag. 'I don't understand, I thought it was going well-'

'Abby, you weren't going out with him. You've only known him a week,' says Robert bluntly.

'Well, I felt like I was going out with him,' I falter. 'Not dumped, then. Rejected. Is that better?'

'I thought you said you were cool and detached.'

'I acted cool and detached,' I say. 'Mostly.' Though I did suggest the last two dates, now that I think about it. And I suggested staying at his house last night. And I did text him first every day since Tuesday. Shit, that's not cool or detached. 'Ah, fuck it.'

Plum hands me the vodka-water-bottle again, and I take another swig.

Robert's grinning, I can tell. 'OK. Well, don't worry about that. He's clearly stupid, blind and probably gay. So shrug it off. Being tough is absolutely key to surviving single life, Abby. You can't compete in blood sports if you faint at the first shot.'

'Tough,' I say tentatively. 'I am tough. I am a bastard, just like you.'

'Uh, sure, whatever . . . Now. Delete his number.'

'Seriously? But what if I need to-'

'Abby, darling, for your own good, delete his number,' instructs Robert.

The sound of Robert calling me darling makes me feel even more like crying. I don't know why.

'I'm sorry I'm interrupting your date,' I say, with a choking sound.

'I'm not on a date,' he says. 'I'm with your sister and Luke, actually. We're heading out to another fucking 30th in a bit. Sure you'll be alright?'

'Yep,' I say, snuffling into the phone as we walk. Plum looks over sympathetically and squeezes my arm. 'I'm with Plum. I'm good.'

'Good,' he says. I can hear that he's smiling. 'Remember, this is experience.'

'Experience,' I repeat, proudly. 'Experience equals confidence. Tough.'

'Exactly. You're in control. You're tough. You're bulletproof. Now go out there and batter up: make this party your bitch.'

I hang up, delete Adam The Cocksmoking Tick Boxer's number, square my shoulders, and look Plum in the eye.

'Batter up!'

'What does that mean?' whispers Plum.

'It means: bring on the next man! We are bulletproof! Say it with me.'

'Batter up! We are bulletproof,' she snarls. 'Fuck, yeah.'

We bump fists in a semi-and-therefore-not-really-ironic way, I stub out my cigarette, and we resume marching towards the Hollywood Arms and the party.

With every step, I imagine myself shaking off the rejection and becoming stronger and tougher. Everything is perfect. I will not end up bitter or miserable or angry or desperate. I will make this party my bitch, in fact, I will make being single my bitch. Experience. Confidence. Bulletproof. Yes.

'Abigay!' shouts Henry from the other end of room when we finally get to the Hollywood Arms, a glossily posh pub with a private upstairs room for parties. 'Pruneface! Finally!'

'I wish he wouldn't call me Abigay. It's really inappropriate,' I mutter to Plum.

'You want to complain about Abigay when he calls me Pruneface?'

'Your real name is Prunella,' I remind her.

'Shut it, Abigay,' she retorts with a dazzling smile.

'My girls!' he shouts, enveloping us in a boozy hug. He's three weets to the shind, as per usual on a match day.

'Beetchez! Are you two ready for a big night?' he bellows. 'I had a nice little Saturday: house hunting all morning and got the shit beaten out of me at rugby. So I'm going to raise the roof.' He does a little 'raise the roof' motion with his hands, causing a few of the boys around him to join in.

The party is well underway. I vaguely recognise some of Henry's rugby friends. I wish I'd mingled more in the past. I wonder if everyone in relationships becomes socially lazy, or if it was just me.

Come on, social butterfly, unfurl your wings.

'How was house hunting? Where are you looking?' says Plum.

'A ballache. The underbelly of Chiswick,' he answers.

'No!' I gasp. 'Seriously. Don't. We would never see you again. Hammersmith is the Hadrian's wall of West London.'

'You talk nice,' grins one of Henry's drunker rugby friends, Gaz, as Henry orders drinks. Gaz came to a Christmas party that Peter and I had in our second year in London, and threw up in the kitchen at 10 pm. I arch an eyebrow instead of replying.

'I've snogged at least three men in this room and screwed two others,' says Plum in a low voice. 'Ah well. Live and learn.'

Henry hands us our drinks.

'What's that you're drinking?' asks Gaz. He is seriously invading my personal space.

'Uh, vodka and cranberry,' I say.

'Cranberry juice,' he says, nodding. 'That's good for your vagina.'

Plum splutters into her drink, unable to control her laughter. I flash Gaz a please-fuck-off grimace-smile. I am in control. One more drink and I'll start butterflying.

'I've invited a friend along later,' he says, swaying slightly. 'She's fit. And gagging for it. Once women hit 30, there's only one thing they want.'

Plum's smile freezes and I narrow my eyes at him. Fucknuckle. 'Really?'

'Marriage. Babies. Ring on the ol' finger . . . She's desperate for it.'

Gaz is saved from my heel in his jugular by the arrival of Henry's brother Rich.

'Late to your own party!' shouts Henry, tucking Plum under his arm like a teddy bear. She pushes him off with pretend irritation and tries to fix her hair.

'Punctuality is an overrated virtue,' Rich says, accepting a beer from one of the guys. He looks a bit like Henry, only without the puppyness. More of a grown-up dog. And rather attractive, I've always thought. 'Good evening, Plum, Abigail. Looking lovely, as ever.'

'We thought we'd make an effort,' I say. 'Since you're heading off to deepest darkest China, after all.'

'Hong Kong isn't exactly deepest darkest China,' he says. 'But I appreciate the thought. How's single life?'

I think for a second. 'Surprising.'

Rich grins. 'I've been looking forward to you coming back on the market for years. Never thought Peter was in your league. What a shame I'm leaving.'

'Tragedy.' Hell yeah, I am a flirting machine tonight. The phone chat with Robert was a life-saver. Bulletproof. I am bulletproof.

Rich's attention is taken by one of his ex-work colleagues trying to give him a very unwelcome Jagerbomb, and I look over and see Plum's now standing at the bar, being ignored by the bartender. She suddenly looks a little bit lost and, to be honest, not bulletproof at all.

I walk over to her. 'You OK?'

She shrugs. 'I just got an encouraging text from Thomasina saying: if he wasn't quite right, he wasn't Mr Right.' She sighs, her I'm-in-a-great-mood mask dropping again. 'Can you believe that shit? I love my work friends, but seriously. I am so glad I have you. Especially now . . .'

'Now that I'm single and going through the same thing?' I say, laughing.