'Then start doing what she wants.'
'Smashing. "Step it up". "Be proactive". Make more calls. Meet more clients. Introduce more sales. All that shit.' We walk in silence for a few seconds. 'Try not to worry about it,' says Robert. 'Any of it. Work, dating, none of it matters. Just . . . detach.'
'I want to be like a female version of you,' I say. 'Without quite so much meaningless sex.' Not that I'd mind a bit of sex, I think to myself. But not like the Skinny Jeans one-night-stand. He'd have to be gorgeous and we'd need some kind of, what's the word? . . . Oh yes. A spark.
'Good. Most things in life are only as difficult as you allow them to be.'
'What the devil do you do, anyway? Why are you always giving me advice? Are you a careers consultant or something? A life coach?'
Robert shakes his head.
'Are you a lawyer? You have that bossy lawyer thing going on.'
'Nope,' he says.
'Are you a spy?' I say. 'That makes sense. You won't tell me what you do, you're a control freak, you went to Cambridge . . .' I shiver as we walk past the church and the October wind hits us.
'Yes. I am a spy,' he says, putting his arm around me. It's like being tucked under the arm of a very large, warm bear. For a second, I press my head against his chest as we walk, then I realise it's an almost girlfriend-like sign of affection, so I pull away and go back to linking arms.
Just as we reach Carluccio's, Robert's phone rings again.
'Lukey!' Robert says with a grin. Oh, goody, I think, I want to talk to Sophie. There's a pause. 'Pretty tender. Your future sister-in-law has been looking after me.' Pause. Robert's face drops. 'You did?' Pause. 'I did?' Pause. 'No. She didn't.' Robert looks at me, his face now a blank. 'Yeah. Fuck, thanks. Sorry about that . . .' Pause. 'Well, yeah. Talk later.'
'Why didn't you tell me that you had to carry me home last night?' he asks. His voice is perfectly neutral, and his green eyes have gone very opaque. I look into them uneasily. What is he so upset about?
'I didn't want to worry you. You were in a miserable state over Louisa . . .'
Robert throws a hand up as if to stop me, like he can't even bear to hear her name. 'You should have fucking told me, Abigail. Christ!'
'But I thought it would upset you! Let's eat cake and talk about it.'
'I don't want fucking cake.' Shit, he's furious. He won't even look at me.
'I was going to tell you later. I didn't want to make your hangover even worse,' I say. 'I had no idea it would upset you this much. You're totally overreacting. I was trying to be a good friend.'
'No,' he says furiously. 'I'm going home. Just leave me alone. You're my fucking flatmate, Abigail.'
Is it me, or is the unspoken end to that sentence 'and not my friend'? I can't believe that he'd throw a tantrum like a huge fucking baby, and I'm about to say something to that effect when he starts walking away. I stand in the street for a few seconds, watching Robert hail a cab, get in and slam the door, feeling like I've been slapped. You stupid prick, I think. The 'you're my fucking flatmate' call was designed to hurt me, and it does.
I take a moment to centre myself. I didn't do anything wrong. He blew it completely out of proportion. He'll realise that.
But I can't go home now. I don't want to see him. That's why Plum never socialises with her flatmates. So home is still private and a place to escape to.
I sigh, and take my phone out of my bag to call Henry, the only person who might be free. He takes a long time to answer.
'You have won dinner with Abigail Wood, one of London's hottest bachelorettes!' I exclaim. 'You lucky boy. The Windsor Castle, Notting Hill, in one hour.'
'Abigay!' says Henry. 'I can't. I'm busy.'
'With whom? Someone with chesticles?' I say coquettishly.
'Well, actually, yeah,' he says. 'Sorry.'
'Oh, OK,' I say contritely. Robert's advice is obviously working. 'Well, um, have fun.'
The day is now devoid of all cosiness. It's grey and empty and Sundayish. I don't want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. Lonely Single Girl Syndrome has never seemed such a likelihood.
I start walking, because standing still is making me cold. Wanker, I think with every step. Silly, silly wanker. I know he only reacted that way because he's a control freak, but he tried to hurt my feelings and it worked.
I walk back down through Regent's Park, which is far less delightful now that I'm alone. Everyone else is walking with friends and partners and babies. Even a dog would be good company right now, I think fretfully. I am just not enjoying myself. The happy peace I felt earlier is gone.
Fuck it, I suddenly think. It's my home too. I pay rent. Robert can just deal with me being there. Stupid man, losing his temper because he's embarrassed about the way he acted over Louisa. I know that's all it is, but he'd better fucking apologise.
When I get back, Robert is in his usual position on the couch, legs on coffee table, reading the papers. I decide not to say hello (screw him!) and stride up to my room. I sit on the bed and sigh. It was such a perfect day up till we started fighting. Now I have cold, hard Sunday blues.
Then there's a knock on my door.
'Yes?' I say, as though it could be anyone else but Robert.
'Can I come in?'
'Yes,' I say, turning to face him. He's a picture of hungover, stubbled contrition.
'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I was a dick. I'm sorry.'
'A total dick.'
'A total dick,' he repeats. 'Will you forgive me?'
'Say that I'm your friend as well as your flatmate,' I say petulantly.
'You are a brilliant friend and flatmate,' he says, coming in and sitting next to me on the bed. 'I'm sorry that I was so drunk last night and you had to see me like that. I was embarrassed when Luke told me, that's all.'
'There's more to it than that,' I say.
He sighs. 'I was angry that I let myself get like that. And I took it out on you.'
'Yeah, you lashed,' I say thoughtfully. 'You were lashy.'
'I promise not to lash out again,' he says ruefully. 'I promise to tell you next time you turn up shitfaced to a party that you're not invited to,' I say. 'I didn't know it would upset you so much.'
'Thanks for looking after me,' he says. 'Last night and today. I've had a really good weekend apart from that.'
'Anytime,' I say. 'And I've had a really good weekend too. Even though whatsisname dumped me.'
We pause.
'Do you want a hug, or something?' I say. 'Because that's probably asking too much.'
'Let's go to the pub. Steak, chips and red wine. Yes?'
Chapter Fifteen.
Six weeks is a long time when you're single.
It's been just six weeks since Adam the Tick Boxer, the little fucknuckle, dumped me, but I could walk into any busy bar in London right this second, certain that I'm likely to meet a guy. Certain that if I make eye contact he'll probably come and talk to me, probably ask for my number and probably text within 48 hours. Plus and this is key certain that if he doesn't, I'll have a good time anyway.
Sound arrogant? I think of it more as a victorious circle of self-assurance, where if you're breezily confident that you'll be asked out, then you'll be asked out because you're so breezily confident. It's so easy to be this bulletproof. All you have to do is fake it and boom! You're there.
I'm in control. I don't respond immediately to texts, don't analyse everything, and most importantly, I don't worry about any of it.
In other words, I'm dating like a man.
I went out with Rich, Henry's brother, twice before he left for Hong Kong. He's nice, but almost too nice. Know what I mean? And I went out with Toby twice before I decided he was probably too much of a high-flying social bunny for me (he spent most of our dates talking to other people).
Anyway, neither of them made my heart beat wildly with excitement. So why bother seeing them again?
'Because you want to get to know them better?' suggested Plum when I said this.
'But that's just it. I don't,' I replied.
Once you get the hang of dating, it's kind of hard to stop. What did I do with my Wednesday and Thursday nights before I dated? I don't remember. (Fridays and Saturdays are still for friends. Obviously.) One of my dates, Mark, wore a T-shirt saying 'I'm not a gynaecologist but I'll take a look' which rendered me helpless with laughter at such an error of judgement.
Another date, Patrick, was ridiculously good-looking. I met him at a terrible nightclub called Embargo's, and it wasn't till he said he was hoping to go to Sandhurst next year that I said, 'How old are you?' and he said 'Well, how old are you?' I said, 'Twenty-seven,' at the same moment he said, 'Eighteen.' We both stared at each other for a few seconds and called it a night 10 minutes later.
I snogged a guy called Tom at one of Henry's rugby parties, and we went out once, but he ruined it for himself by texting me eight hopeful 'Are you still out' texts at 3 am the following weekend. ('That just means he likes you! That's a good sign!' exclaimed Plum when I told her. 'No,' I said. 'One drunk phone text means he likes me. Seven drunk texts means he's an idiot.') I also went out with an American called Chad (honestly, that was his name, though he didn't laugh when I asked if I could call him Dimpled Chad) a couple of times, but he was rude to the waitress.
And lastly, I went out with a charming guy called James twice, who read the Daily Mail. Enough said.
So I ditched them, and haven't thought about them since. Delete, ignore, continue.
Plum and Sophie think I'm strange. Henry thinks I'm awesome, having taken similar advice from Robert.
'It's you and me, Abigay! We rock singledom!' said Henry.
'You are acting like a man,' said Sophie. 'A bastard man.'
'A bastardette,' corrected Plum. 'A fucknuckle bastardette.'
'Plum. Language,' said Sophie.
'Sorry.'
I shrugged. 'I'm just acting the way men act. Why pretend to like them when I don't?'
'Because you'll hurt their feelings?' said Plum.
I thought about this for exactly one second. 'I don't care. I'm having fun.'
It's true. Who wouldn't like to get dressed up and sit in a bar with someone who is at least slightly attractive, and who has never heard your best lines and stories before? If it's a bad date, it's a great story. If it's a good date, then hell. It's a good date!
Yes, I am still nervous, but I just keep smiling cool! confident! and it's always fine. More than fine. Smashing.
Tonight is a new experience in the dating spectrum: a blind date.
It's the brother of a guy Sophie works with. All I know about him is that his name is Jon, he's 29, does something in media, and is apparently 'really quite good-looking'.
Sophie's colleague was whingeing that Jon kept meeting absolute cows and 'he just needs someone nice'. She texted and I thought, why not?
It's Thursday night, and we're meeting in Soho. You'd think, since this is media-land, that Jon would know all the best places to go, but in the few texts that we've exchanged, he's been star-tlingly ambivalent about venues.
'He's easygoing,' protested Sophie, when I rang her to point this out.
'You say easygoing, I say wishy-washy,' I replied. 'I want someone to take charge so I don't have to decide everything.'
'God, you're turning into a ball-breaker,' she said.
I was thrilled. 'Thank you!'
Ball-breaker is such a nice change from always being called nice, dependable, sweet, subdued . . .
We eventually agreed to meet at 9 pm at 22 Below, a cocktail bar in Soho.
I put on my fail-safe date outfit: extremely high black heels, black tights and a short black dress. I add a white jacket, tied with a big, black Obi belt. (Pretty with a monochromatic punch.) Hair down, in case I need to hide behind it. There. I feel slim and tall and confident. And when it comes to dating, that's half the battle already won.
I head downstairs at 8 pm to get myself some crumpets with peanut butter (strong drinks on no dinner is not a good idea for me), and turn on the TV to 'You Belong With Me' by Taylor Swift. I love teen girl-pop. I was quietly obsessed with Avril Lavigne's 'Sk8ter Boi' and 'Girlfriend' for years. (Immature, I know, but Plum loved Justin Bieber so I feel OK about it. Fucknuckle.) I stretch my feet out to the coffee table, admire my heels, and sing along loudly. I know every word.
'That's a fucking naff song,' says a voice behind me. It's Robert.
'Don't care,' I reply.
'Seriously. You're too old to like teen pop.'
'LOVE. LOVE teen pop,' I correct him. 'Right, I'm off. I've got a date.'
I stand up and head to the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher. Robert's unpacking a little take-away box from Marine Ices. I know it is spaghetti napoletana without even looking at it, as it's his standard dinner on weeknights.
'You're going to get sick if you don't eat some vegetables soon,' I tell him.
'Thanks, Mum,' he replies. 'Don't think I don't know what you just ate. You are the laziest cook ever.'