A Girl Like You - A Girl Like You Part 29
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A Girl Like You Part 29

'Are you fucking serious?' I exclaim, before I can help myself. That's the absolute opposite of everything Robert's taught me, and the opposite of how I'm trying to act with Dave.

'I like him,' she says simply. 'I really, really like him and I didn't want to fuck around. I used to see getting a boyfriend as the holy grail to escape the sweaty moshpit of singledom but that's not how it works. You have to wait for the right guy. I met Dan and thought, oh there you are. It was different. I can't explain it. . . .'

My instant reaction to this is: for fuck's sake. But then I pause and reflect for a second. Did I think 'oh there you are'? Not really. Could I say that stuff to Dave? No way.

'Kittenpants? Are you there?' says Plum.

'I've been single for like, five months after seven years of a relationshit. I want to keep this casual.'

'You're lying,' she says. Marvellously direct, these Yorkshire girls. And perceptive.

I pause. Then the words tumble out in a rush. 'I'm scared it's all going to go wrong. I can't be like you. Oh Plummy, I hope it's not a fling, I like him, I do but pretending to be a bullet-proof bastardette is the only way I know to stay in control, or pretend to stay in control, my stomach is in knots all the time, and-'

'Breathe,' instructs Plum.

But my brain goes racing on. I don't know what I mean to him. Am I his girlfriend? Can a relationship happen without us talking about it? Are there stages? Is there an established time schedule I should know about, like after three months you're properly together? Does it all depend on those three goddamn little words? Why is it so confusing? Why don't I know where I stand? I am insecure! Why am I insecure? 'Are you there?' she says. 'Yes,' I reply, taking a deep, shaky breath. 'If it ends, I'll be fine. I'll get over feeling like I've been plugged into an electrical socket every time I'm within a ten-metre radius of him, and you know, continue with my happy single life. I could do that. I could!'

'Are you sure you're not just addicted to the sex?'

'No,' I say. 'It's not. It's more than that. He's so funny and confident, I love that about him. And when he lets his guard down I just . . .' I trail off.

'Oh, it's the emotional chase, then,' says Plum knowingly. 'Thomasina always says that a self-contained, seemingly un obtainable man who withholds his emotions, or affections, is twice as attractive . . . it's like a game, and every time he reveals something about himself, you feel like you're winning.'

'No,' I say waveringly. Though that sounds scarily accurate. 'What did you think? Do you think he's serious about me?' No answer. 'Do you like him?' Plum and Dan met him last week when we had dinner at Lemonia.

'I'd like to get to know him better,' she says, after a pause. Which means, of course, that she doesn't like him. 'I can't believe you're still at work, by the way.'

'It's fine,' I say, gazing around the half-full, fluorescent-lit office. 'I'm still, you know, over delivering, just like Suzanne told me to. Step. It. Up. Those were her exact words. Step it up, Abigail.'

'What a wanker,' comments Plum.

'Yeah,' I say automatically. I've never thought of Suzanne as a wanker before. A cold slave driver, yes, but I accepted that she was someone who knew how to get the best out of us all.

'How's beautiful Robert the fuckmerchant?' asks Plum. 'I haven't seen him in ages. He must be happy you're seeing one of his best friends.'

'He doesn't seem that impressed, actually. He hasn't been quite himself around me since that weekend in France.'

'Jealous that you're taking his friend away,' says Plum knowingly. 'Such a typical guy thing.'

'They seem to have a complicated friendship . . . highly competitive. They go out of their way to irritate each other.'

'Alphas,' sniffs Plum.

Actually, I assumed the relationship deteriorated when Dave's sister Louisa trampled on Robert's heart, but perhaps Plum's right: they're alpha males who've been pecking around the same field for too long. 'Whatever the reason, Robert and I haven't had much quality flatmate time recently. I miss his grumpiness.'

'I'm sure you'll work it out,' says Plum. 'You get along so well. Why not ask him out for a drink?'

'Nah,' I say. 'Making it a formal drink would be weird. We only ever hung out by accident because we were both, you know, at home at the same time.'

'You hung out by accident every night and weekend?' says Plum.

'Perhaps our friendship would never last past one of us getting into a relationship. Perhaps we were always going to drift apart,' I say.

'Yeah,' agrees Plum. 'You know, I've slept with all of my male friends. Except Henry.'

'Poor Henry,' I say. 'My mum's dying for me to marry him.'

'Yeah but come on . . . it's Henry,' says Plum. 'Anyway, he's in love with Charlotte. Dan and I met them for brunch on Sunday. They're such good fun. Do you think she's smarter than him?'

'I haven't thought about it,' I say, trying to ignore the stab of jealousy I feel: I got the text about brunch, but when I suggested to Dave that we join them, he said 'I already did the friend thing, and anyway, there's only one thing I'm interested in eating this morning, and that's' well, anyway. He wasn't interested.

'Hmm. Dan's probably smarter than me, but I'm funnier,' she says. 'Abigail! Are you listening?'

'I am!' I say. 'I am so glad things are going so well for you.'

'So am I,' she says. 'All those idiots were turning me into a basketcase. And crazy is so not a good look for me.'

I press 'refresh' on my computer for the eighteenth time since we started talking, and glance at my phone. Nope, nothing.

Plum clears her throat. 'I have to go, my fake tan is dry and my eyebrows aren't going to pluck themselves.'

We hang up, and I go back to staring at my screen again. It's 8.22 pm. Time to go home and wait.

Chapter Twenty Five.

He's never waited this long to call before. What if something's happened?

I take a cab home, rather than the tube, which is an unnecessary expense but I don't want to go underground and lose phone reception. (I know how dismal that sounds, but I'm being honest.) I take a shower with my phone propped up on the closed toilet seat in case he rings. (He doesn't.) Then I blow-dry my hair and put on my favourite jeans and a casual-but-totally-sexy nude-coloured top and my cosiest socks with the phone constantly in my line of vision so I can pick it up easily if he rings. (He doesn't.) Then I head downstairs for a glass of red wine. With my phone. (As you probably guessed.) In case he rings. (He doesn't.) I lie down on the couch, wine in hand, legs hanging over the edge, staring into space.

It's past 9.30 pm now. Where could he be? What if he's drunk somewhere, flirting with another girl? What if he's passed out and won't even call me till tomorrow? What if he's changed his mind about whatever it is that is going on between us? What if- Shut up, Abigail. Calm down. This attitude is so not you. It's (don't say it, don't say it) desperate.

The front door bangs. Robert's in the front hallway, taking off his protective moped gear.

'Hi!' I say.

'Hey,' he replies.

It's been ages since Robert and I last hung out since before France, now that I think about it and I suddenly feel elated to see him. I swing my legs off the couch and stand up, smiling brightly.

'Wine?' I say.

'Ah, why not,' he says, sighing, and coming into the room. He's still wearing his suit and looks a bit rumpled and stressed.

'You need a haircut,' I say.

'A shower is more important right now. Very long day. Back in ten.'

He turns and heads straight for his room. I wonder why he's so stressed. He still won't tell me what he does. I've stopped asking.

The living room feels somehow bare and unloved tonight, and not a very nice place to come home to.

So I tidy up, fluffing all the big red cushions and banging the couch into shape, and turn on the fire and the lamps around the room to try to make it feel cosier. Then I open up a packet of pretzels and put it into a bowl for us to have with the wine. There are some tea lights sitting in mismatched tumblers behind the sink, so I put them on the coffee table too. Then I realise they look like an attempt at romance, so I quickly blow the candles out and put them back behind the sink, just as Robert gets back.

His hair is all wet from the shower and he's wearing odd socks with his oldest, most threadbare pair of jeans, and his favourite blue shirt that has too many holes in it. It's done up wrong, but I decide not to tell him that. He looks like himself again. I can't help beaming at him. And not because he's distracting me from Dave not calling. It is just so good to see him.

'You cooked!' he says, looking at the pretzels and wine with a grin.

'Never say I don't look after you,' I reply, taking a seat and picking up my glass. He stretches and sits down in his chair with a huffing sound, picking up his glass of wine and holding it up to me. Our eyes meet for the first time since he got home.

'Happy almost-Christmas,' I say.

'Happy almost-Christmas,' he nods, and takes a long sip. 'Ah. That's better.'

There's a pause as we smile at each other. I like his face, I think involuntarily. And not because of the whole handsome thing. I just like it. I probably can't tell him that without sounding like a fool, however, so I take a sip of wine.

'How's Dave?' he says.

'He's good, fine, he's good,' I say quickly. I don't want to linger on the subject in case Robert says something I don't want to hear. 'How's, uh, how's . . .'

'They're fine,' he says crunching a handful of pretzels thoughtfully, which is very hard to do. 'They're all fine. How's work?'

I look at him and raise an eyebrow. Work is one thing I don't want to talk about. 'Business as usual, then,' says Robert. 'I thought you were faking work confidence?'

I shrug. 'You can't fake something for that long. Eventually you have to admit the truth, and I hate . . . Christmas decorations!' I exclaim. 'That's what's missing.'

'Huh?'

'I was thinking this room felt a bit bare . . . it needs Christmas decorations!'

'Hmm. I've got my sister's old stuff somewhere from before she moved to Dublin . . .'

Robert goes to the hallway cupboard and takes down a very large cardboard box.

'Abby, darling, meet the worst Christmas decorations ever.' Out comes threadbare tinsel; tarnished baubles; knotted Christmas lights; a dilapidated Christmas wreath with some seriously sick-looking red robins attached; eight red candles of varying degrees of use; a CD called The Best Christmas Album EVER and that's just the first layer.

'Your sister seems like she'd be fun,' I say, picking up a staple gun from the box.

'Alice? Oh, she is,' says Robert, picking up a cutlery holder attached to wooden geese swimming in holly.

'What is this?' I say, holding up a stuffed moose with a Santa hat on, with 'Fernie 2002' embroidered on the hat.

'Alice used to staple gun that moose to her front door,' he says. 'Instead of a wreath.'

'May I?' I say, leaping joyfully towards the front door, reindeer and staple gun in hand.

'Ah, the leap of the nimble-footed mountain goat!' he calls after me. 'I'd recognise it anywhere.'

I staple the moose to the door by arms, feet and antlers, and spring joyfully back into the house. 'Shall we get into the Christmas spirit?' I pick up a bottle of Jack Daniel's with a Santa Claus beard attached and waggle it at him.

An hour later, I'm wearing a mistletoe headband. Robert is wearing a Mrs Santa hat with long white plaits. We're singing along to Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas'. I've propped the red robin wreath on the coffee table and put red candles inside, and arranged the baubles in a large glass bowl on the kitchen top. We've also staple gunned fairy lights around the windows (probably a disastrous idea, but at that point we'd already had two glasses of Jack).

'It looks like Christmas with a hangover,' I say proudly.

'I love it,' says Robert, taking a sip of his Jack Daniel's. 'God! I've had a shit week. Thanks for making me do this. You are like human Prozac.'

I grin at him. It feels so easy hanging out with him again. If only relationships could be as easy as friendships. I guess they are, eventually, but first you probably have to go through the trial-by-insecurity phase that I'm in with Dave right now. I want to ask Robert if we can do something together this week, but then I remember that I hope to see Dave every night, so I don't say anything.

Robert starts staple gunning tinsel to the doorway leading out to the stairs.

'That tinsel has alopecia,' I comment.

He gazes at it. 'You're absolutely right,' he says. He tries to rip it down, and shreds hundreds of individual strands of tinsel confetti. 'Bugger!' he shouts. He tries to pick them up off the floor, loses first his balance and then his patience, throwing all the tinsel pieces up in the air and spinning under them. 'Abby, what am I? A snow globe.'

'You're so butch when you're twirling. Like a big galumphing ballet dancer.'

'Well, I trained professionally for years. Till I got in a fight defending a dog from a pack of rabid old ladies.'

I don't mind about Dave not calling, I think suddenly, picking up a half-full bag of chocolate coins from the floor. He'll turn up at some point. And I'm having fun here, anyway.

'I wonder if I'll get a Christmas stocking this year,' I say. 'I think my mother might have outlawed it.'

'I always get one,' Robert says, picking up my legs with one hand and sliding himself onto the couch, then letting my feet plop back down over him. 'My mother tried to stop it a few years ago. She announced that she was tired of spending the whole of December trying to find puzzles and games and toys for three people whose combined ages were almost 100.'

'That is way harsh. What did you say?'

'We pretended to cry,' says Robert. 'Obviously.'

I rest my head on Robert's arm and sigh happily. I feel like I'm home for the first time in weeks, I muse. I can't even remember the last time we sat here together. I remember the first time, after that disastrous date with Paulie. That seems like a very long time ago.

'How old are these?' I say, chewing a chocolate coin.

'At least four years. Possibly five.'

'Mmm, yes, excellent vintage. I particularly like the white specks, they're extra tasty. So . . . Why are you so stressed?'

'Work.'

'Are you ever going to tell me what you do?'

Pause.