A Girl Like You - A Girl Like You Part 20
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A Girl Like You Part 20

'I can't script non-specific "what if" situations, Abigail,' says Robert. 'You can handle this. Come on. Be a man. Pull yourself together.'

'I've got an idea!' exclaims Plum. 'My earpiece. The Bluetooth thing on my phone. We can arrange your hair to hide it, and Robert can call my phone and listen in and suggest things to say.'

I gaze at Plum for a second. It's the perfect solution.

'Yes! Awesome idea!' I say. Plum starts high-fiving me and jumping gleefully around the bathroom. I turn back to the phone. 'Robert! Will you do it?'

'Um . . . OK,' says Robert slowly. 'Can you really hide it, though? And I need to be able to hear what he's saying, too.'

Plum brandishes a hairclip. 'Side part, so all your hair is over your ear. Voila.'

'Got it,' I say. 'In that case I need another double vodka, please. My shout. Take my card. You know my pincode. Robert, I will call you back in a few minutes.'

'Roger that,' says Plum, and runs out of the bathroom. I get my make-up out of my bag and start reapplying. I need more warpaint for this battle.

Twenty minutes later, my hair is now in a (rather becoming, actually) bouffy side-swooped ponytail, entirely covering my right ear. Plum's phone earpiece is tucked safely behind said side-swoop, and Robert is sitting on the couch at home with a bottle of wine, his voice beaming into my ear via the magic of Bluetooth. Or wireless. Or whatever it is.

'Can you hear me? Testing, testing.'

'Affirmative,' I say into the bathroom mirror.

'You can't see a thing,' says Plum admiringly. 'God, I am brilliant.'

She's bursting with sunny positivity. What a difference a date makes. I also notice that she's backcombed her hair and done a sex-kitten-swish with her eye make-up. 'Miaow,' I say. 'I know,' she beams. 'I'm seeing Dan tomorrow. But the admiring male gaze is good for the soul.'

'Amen to that, sister,' I say, and we clink glasses. 'Robert, can you hear us talking?'

'Loud and clear,' says Robert. 'And heavy on the oestrogen.'

'OK,' I say. My nerves have solidified into a tiny fist in the pit of my stomach. I can handle anything tonight throws at me . . . with Robert's help. 'Robert, thank you so much for doing this,' I say. 'I mean really. I owe you.'

'Add it to my tab,' says the little Robert voice in my ear. 'OK, team,' I say, as a bell rings outside. 'Let's go.'

We walk outside and upstairs to a private room, where Charlotte, Henry and the rest of the speed-daters have already congregated. Forty of London's young singles, all in the one room. I can practically smell the hormones.

Keeping my head down, I take a seat at a table for two with a bottle of wine and two glasses. How thoughtful to provide a conversational lubricant, I think, pouring myself an extremely large glass, drinking half of it and then refilling it. There's also a pencil and a sheet of paper with 20 numbered lines on. I'm supposed to make notes? Fuck that.

A girl at the front is calling out instructions to people, but I'm having trouble paying attention. I look around and see Charlotte and Plum at their own little tables, and give them little thumbs up and nods. The rest of the speed daters are all in different stages of nervousness and excitement. I can't see any particularly good-looking guys, by the way. Which is good: the next hour is about surviving, not flirting.

'You OK, Abby, darling?' says Robert.

'Smashing!' I exclaim brightly, scaring a guy walking past who thinks I'm talking to him. 'Sorry, sorry!' If I'm not careful, I'm going to look absolutely cuckoo. Thinking this, I say 'cuckoo!' aloud, and I hear Robert laughing.

'Hi, I'm Christopher,' says a shaven-headed man in a suit, shaking my hand. 'I think I'm your first victim.'

'Tell him you'll take it easy on him, but you like to draw first blood,' says Robert. I crack up and Christopher looks at me oddly. 'If you find that amusing, we're going to have a great time.' he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. Two can play the arrogance card, my friend.

Then a bell rings again, and the speed date has officially started.

'So, what brings you here tonight, Christopher?' I say.

'I'm a journalist. I'm reviewing this for Time Out,' he says.

'He's lying,' says Robert in my ear. 'He's trying to look cool.'

'Really,' I say. 'Do you work with Kristina O'Shaunnessy?'

'Yeah, I think she's on another floor,' he says smoothly. He is lying. I totally made that name up.

'Do you live, um, in London?' I say.

'Oh God, I'm so bored already,' says Robert.

'Shut up,' I say. Christopher looks at me oddly. 'I mean . . . don't shut up! Talk! Talk!'

Robert starts laughing in my ear and I'm having trouble holding it together. The rest of the speed date is a complete catastrophe, as all I can hear in one ear is Robert laughing, and Christopher, clearly thinking I'm mad, in the other.

Then the bell rings again. Christopher can't wait to get away.

'Listen, dammit, I need you to be serious,' I whisper fiercely. 'I'll be sectioned if it continues like this.'

'Sorry,' Robert says. 'OK, OK, I will be serious now.'

Then the bell rings again, and I look up, and it's Josh From HR.

'Abigail,' he says awkwardly, sitting down.

'Josh!' I say loudly.

'Who?'

'From HR,' I add quickly.

'Got it.'

'How've you been? What have you been up to?' I gabble. Ah, job interview mode. We meet again.

'Great,' he says, and pauses. 'Look, I don't want to make this awkward . . .' he trails off, clearly trying to think of how to ask me why I ignored him. I clear my throat, hoping Robert will take that as a cue to talk. He does.

'I've been meaning to text you,' says Robert.

'I've been meaning to text you,' I say.

'I just think I'm not ready. Uh, to date. I was in a very serious relationship and meeting someone straight away wasn't part of the plan.'

'I just think I'm not ready to date. I was in a very serious relationship and meeting someone straight away wasn't part of the plan.'

'I totally get it,' says Josh. 'And actually, I wanted to ask you about the girl I just met. I think she's a friend of yours. Plum? . . . She's amazing! Tell me everything about her!'

Robert starts laughing again.

'Plum!' I say brightly, trying to ignore Robert. 'Of course. She's one of my best friends. What do you want to know?'

'Where does she live? I want to meet someone who's also south of the river,' he says.

The rest of the three minutes is filled by telling Josh all about Plum. Hopefully she won't get annoyed.

By the time Josh leaves, I'm sweating lightly.

'Thanks for nothing,' I hiss into my earpiece.

'And you thought it was going to be all about you. Serves you right for being arrogant.'

'I thought arrogance was good.'

'Only if it's funny.'

The next dates are easier: perfectly nice guys, none of them particularly interesting, funny or good-looking. I'm not feeling with it enough to apply myself to the task of conversing, so each speed date drifts pointlessly through predictable questions and answers. All of them probably think I'm strange, as I keep grinning when Robert makes little comments about them into my ear.

'I'm an entrepreneur,' says one.

'Pimp,' says Robert.

'I love travelling,' says another.

'Sex tourist.'

'Have you been to Canada?' says the smoothest of the bunch.

'Serial killer.'

And then Skinny Jeans sits down.

'Abigail,' he says. 'I thought it was you.'

'Hi!' I say loudly. 'Mark!'

'Who?' says Robert. Fuck, he doesn't know his real name. Why do I give everyone stupid nicknames?

'I almost don't recognise you out of your SKINNY JEANS,' I enunciate carefully. He's wearing grey flannel trousers and a pink T-Shirt with leather Converses. He speaks clothes exceptionally confidently for a straight man. I wonder if he'd take me shopping.

'Oh, right. Got it.'

'That's odd,' says Skinny Jeans. 'Since I was wearing nothing at all when you left my room without saying goodbye . . . let's see, seven weeks ago?'

'Um, yes. Well, you know . . .' I trail off. Come on, Robert, I think desperately.

'I'm sorry, were you planning on making me breakfast in bed?' says Robert. Yes! Make a joke!

'I'm sorry, were you planning on making me breakfast in bed?' I say.

Skinny Jeans grins.

'Scrambled eggs? Toast? On a little tray?'

'Scrambled eggs? Toast? On a little tray with a rose on it?' I say.

'Don't fuck with my script,' says Robert, which makes me grin slightly more broadly.

'Find yourself hilarious, huh?' says Skinny Jeans.

'I'm a great audience,' I reply, without thinking.

'Cute line,' says Robert.

'Well, whatever . . .' says Skinny Jeans. 'I had a good time anyway. I was just . . . surprised not to hear from you.'

'I'm sure you got over it,' says Robert.

'I'm sure you got over it,' I say, in a slightly teasing tone.

'I don't know why I expected a girl like you to want to see me again, anyway,' says Skinny Jeans, half to himself.

'What does that mean? A girl like me?'

'Cocky. Funny. Hot,' he says.

I start laughing. 'I was so nervous on our date . . .'

He raises an eyebrow. 'You were?'

'Don't talk about feelings . . . talk about booze,' instructs Robert.

'Have some more wine,' I say. I fill up his glass as slowly as I can, and then mine. How long can three minutes possibly last?

'Do you remember rubbing the fat guy's tummy for luck? Holy shit, that was hilarious.'

'Uh, yeah,' I say. I do remember it, kind of.

'And singing all the words to Smokey Joe's Cafe in that kebab shop on Portobello Road? And getting everyone in the shop to join in?'

'Erm, yeah, that was smashing.' Nope, don't remember that at all.

'You are one classy lady.'

'It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time,' says Skinny Jeans.