'I was thinking more of a giant dung beetle,' says Robert.
I shrug, and waddle noisily towards the front door. 'Let's go.'
I cling like a heavily-padded barnacle to Robert all the way to work, and jump off with a shout of thanks. He nods and speeds away.
Walking through the reception area to the lifts dressed like this is mildly embarrassing, so I just keep my head held high and pretend it's totally normal to look like a giant dung beetle shuffling through the lobby of a large investment bank.
'Looking good, Abigail!' says the security guard, Steve, as I pass him.
'Feeling good, Steve!' I reply, taking out my security pass from my bag to swipe. It's our standard Trading Places greeting since we started chatting when I forgot my pass a few months ago. Today he starts laughing at me, clearly tickled by my outfit. I poke my tongue out.
'Salut, Abigail,' says a voice as I get into the lift. I knew I'd run into someone. I meet the warm brown-eyed gaze of Andre, the French guy. He hasn't been working in the London office much lately. How typical that I'd see him when I look like this.
'How are you?' he asks.
'Excellent,' I say, flashing a grin at him. 'Please excuse my clothes, I was on a moped . . .'
'Not at all,' he says, making a flicking motion with his hand. 'You always look lovely.'
There is a pause. Thank God no one else is in the lift. I smile without looking at him and keep my eyes fixed on the climbing numbers. He's been sitting near Charlotte and me, and I often catch him looking at me. Third floor . . . fourth floor . . .
'I'm going up to eighth, but . . . will you have lunch with me today?' Andre asks. 'I want to discuss a project with you,' he adds quickly.
'Uh, sure,' I say. 'I'll meet you at 1 pm in the lobby.'
'It's a date!' he says, grinning.
It's not a date, I think to myself. I don't date anymore, because I have Dave. And I really, really do have him.
I grin to myself and fight the urge to do a nimble-footed-mountain-goat leap as I swishswishswish to the ladies' bathrooms, take off all my protective moped gear, and carry it back to my desk.
I take a quick look at my emails and Bloomberg with the front 20% of my brain. The back 80% is thinking about Dave. I am so happy I could burst. I was right!
I knew that if I just stayed in control, and played the cool/ detached hand perfectly, that I could win him over. I really am bulletproof.
'Do you have any painkillers?' whispers a voice, and I turn to see Charlotte walking, or rather, stumbling, to her seat. Her hair is in some kind of messy platinum beehive, her skin is blotchy-but-glowing and she's got a guilty grin on her face. 'Henry and I went out for a bottle of wine last night and next thing I knew, it was midnight and we were in some Spanish bar behind Tottenham Court Road dancing to Mental As Anything,' she says.
'You look fantastic!' I exclaim. She does. She looks sex-sozzled and very, very happy.
'Are you drunk? I look like a furball. Have you seen my pash rash?' she grins, giggling helplessly. Her smile is so sweet, even through the stubble rash, and so much nicer than the pale, moochy expression that I knew all those months ago, that I can't help smiling back.
I reach into my second drawer for the morning-after kit I've used regularly since I started seeing Dave. 'Solpadeine, Berocca, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, face powder, moisturiser, lip balm,' I whisper. 'Knock yourself out. And you should ask Henry to shave.'
'I know! But he's so cute when he's stubbly . . .' she says.
'I should have introduced you two months ago.'
'Yeah, what the fuck took you so long?' she says with a grin, before dashing off towards the bathrooms. I guess she's not rebounding with Henry: no one looks that ecstatically happy with a short-term investment.
The morning goes fast, and it's not until ten to 1 pm that I remember my lunch/date with Andre. Bugger. He's waiting for me in the lobby when I get down there.
'No moped suit?' he enquires, grinning at me. He really is a good-looking man, if you like that olive-skinned chocolate-eyed handsome French thing. But this isn't a date so it doesn't matter what I think of him. I'm sure we'll just grab a coffee and a sandwich from the Italian place, have a quick chat and get back to work.
'Uh, no, no moped suits at lunch' I say. 'So, where are we going?'
'Marco Pierre White,' he says.
Shit.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
I can't wait to tell Robert about this. I'm on an accidental lunch date with Andre.
We're only halfway through our main course at the Marco Pierre White Steak & Alehouse (a restaurant that, from the name, you'd think would have sawdust on the floor, but looks more like a wedding reception, with immaculate all-white decor and mirrors reflecting all the smug diners around us). Already Andre has told me all about his ex-wife, how he misses Paris, his loves (football, Danish design, the Maldives) and hates (the Catholic church, the European Union, Belgians). I definitely have the feeling that this isn't entirely business.
What can I do? I can't ask 'What are your intentions, young man?' I could be wrong, and either way, the ensuing awkwardness would be so awful. So instead, I'm trying to keep my end of the conversation professional-but-charming. It's not easy. He insisted on my trying one of his oysters ('oy-stares!') directly from the shell in his hand, and then asked if he might taste my potted shrimps. (I dumped a spoonful straight onto his plate.) Thank God we're both having steak for main course.
He hasn't asked if I'm seeing anyone, and I can't think of a conversation topic that starts 'so my boyfriend Dave and I' without being obvious.
The restaurant is tinkling with the sweet, festive sound of people dying to get plastered. The rest of the diners are 80% male finance types, all on let's-expense-this-fucker lunches who are laughing loudly and tucking in to the food and particularly the wine with gusto. I feel very out of place.
'This is an exceptional restaurant,' says Andre, sipping his wine thoughtfully and maintaining eye contact with me. 'Elegant. Welcoming. Warm.'
'It is,' I agree. Is it just the accent that makes everything Andre says seem romantic? I've waited for almost an hour for him to bring up the work subject that was ostensibly the reason for today's lunch. But I don't want to be rude. And considering he's French he probably regards food with a practically sexual adoration and doesn't want to sully the meal with work-related talk.
Ah, fuck it. 'So, Andre, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?'
'Hong Kong,' he says. 'Come to Hong Kong with me.'
I am speechless. Is he propositioning me?
'As you know, I'm moving there to start a new regional retail analyst centre. I want you to be vice president of retail research.'
I stare at him for a few seconds. A promotion? In Hong Kong? 'I, um . . . does Suzanne know you are speaking to me about this?'
'No, and I don't want her to,' he says smoothly. He goes on to talk about the team he wants to start, and the role I'd be playing.
I can't think what to say. I have nothing in my brain.
Almost nothing.
Because I hate hate to admit this, but after six years of working, six years of 7 am starts and late nights and deferred bonuses and anxious presentations and endless hard fucking work, the first person I think of when I'm offered a career-making promotion is Dave.
'What's your, how do you say, stomach tell you?'
'You mean my gut?' I say.
'Exactement,' he says.
'That I need time to think about it,' I lie. I hadn't even consulted my gut, I was just picturing myself telling Dave about it, and him asking me maybe even begging me not to go, telling me that he needed me and couldn't live without me, that I was the only woman he'd ever ahem. God. Get a grip, Abigail. 'And I'd need to check it all out,' I say, taking out my notebook. Yes. Act positive and rational. You're an analyst. Analyse it. 'If you tell me more, I'll do some research of my own . . .'
'OK. Let's meet again in January and discuss it.' He looks a bit disappointed.
'I'm really honoured, Andre, thrilled, amazing.' Someone hand me an adjective. 'Thank you. It sounds incredible, incredibly interesting, uh, incredible.' Nice one.
Andre goes on to tell me more about the history of the office, and the people currently working there, and their major clients. I make a note of everything, trying to keep my facial expression set to 'interested'.
'I hope it will be motivating for both of us. I have been watching you over the past two months. Suzanne, well, she is . . .' he clears his throat. 'I think you need more authority and freedom to really thrive. I'd like to give you total autonomy.'
'That sounds wonderful,' I say. And it does.
The question I should be asking myself, of course, is the question I never, ever answer: do I even want to do this job anymore? I don't know. What do I want? Urgh. Don't think about it . . .
Suddenly my attention is drawn by two familiar figures coming in to the restaurant, and for a second, I think I'm hallucinating. I glance quickly into the mirrors to try to see their faces and gasp.
They walk away from us, right down to the other end of the restaurant, and sit at a table almost entirely obscured from my view. But I get a good look before they sit down. And there's no mistaking who it is.
Dave and Bella.
I feel like I've been kicked in the chest. I can't breathe. What is he doing here with her? Are they friends now? I didn't think they even got on, did you?
'Abigail? Are you alright?' says Andre. He puts his knife and fork down and looks over at me in concern.
'Fine, I'm fine,' I say, putting my hand to my forehead in an attempt to slow down my thoughts. The initial pain has turned into an icy feeling that is washing through my body. They can't see me, but I want to run away from them, from my thoughts, from work, from everything. I mean, what the hell are they doing here together? They're not friends, they barely spoke to each other in France! What should I do? Confront them? That would be a bit dramatic, wouldn't it? I mean it's just lunch! Then Dave might think I'm overreacting, or being unnaturally jealous. He does hate jealousy, he told me that once, he finds it boring. I don't want to spoil anything just when things are finally good between us . . .
My heart is hammering painfully, oh God, I feel sick.
Let's be positive: they're having lunch, not dinner, right? Lunch is nothing, right? I'm at lunch with Andre! But in that case, why didn't Dave tell me he was meeting Bella today? Then again, he never tells me who he's seeing for lunch. Perhaps he's giving her advice on Ollie. No, that's not likely either. If I walked up to them and said 'fancy seeing you here!', would it be awkward? It totally would. Bella was, frankly, a bit of a bitch in France. And I thought she lived in fucking Bath! God! Brain, slow down! I put both hands to my temples and take a deep breath.
'You are very pale,' says Andre. 'Do you need some air?'
I meet his eyes. 'Yes,' I say. 'I need to get out of here. Do you mind if we leave? I will wait for you outside.'
'No problem,' he says. 'I'll get the bill.'
I run-walk to the door, my head down so that Dave and Bella don't notice me. Not that they're looking around, mind you, from what I can see in nervous, flicky little glances, they're deep in conversation. They look intensely together. Like a couple. An impossibly beautiful, sexy couple.
I think I'm going to throw up.
I get my coat and hurry outside to the street, taking deep breaths as I go.
Breathe, Abigail. Think. What would Robert say about this? Should I call him? No. Of course not. He's all weird about Dave as it is. But if I did, he'd say I was overreacting.
And he'd be right. It's just lunch with an old friend. A family friend! It's nothing. Last night Dave said he wanted to be with me, that he wanted to tell everyone we were together. He said he wanted a girl like me.
Remembering this, my anxiety loosens its stranglehold on my chest just slightly. Enough so I don't think I'm about to keel over.
Calm down. He can have lunch with an old family friend who happens to be a woman. After all, I'm having lunch with Andre, aren't I? And Dave isn't the kind of guy who would cheat, is he?
Actually, he's exactly the kind of guy I'd previously have imagined as a cheater confident, slick, flirty, with a short attention span . . . but that's a stupid thing to think. What do I know about the kind of man who cheats? Peter pause to spit cheated on me! And I was absolutely fucking clueless about it. God, oh God why is this happening. Brain, please stop.
Anyway. She has a boyfriend, Ollie, and yes, they were fighting in France but I don't think they've broken up, have they? So why am I jumping to conclusions?
'Abigail, I am so sorry, perhaps it was the oy-stare?' says Andre, coming outside. His face is all worried concern.
'Uh, perhaps it was,' I agree. 'Let's go back to the office.'
The rest of the afternoon is agony. My standard uneasy Daveticipation was nothing compared to this.
I can't help it: I'm in hell. I can't even distract myself: there's nothing happening in the markets. I can't hold a phone conversation. I can't read to the end of a sentence without thinking about what I saw, and I'm obsessively checking my phone. I even take my phone to the toilet with me in case he calls, which is hard, as it's one of those office loos with no cistern so there's nowhere to balance it, so I have to put it in my mouth while I pee. That's probably really unhygienic.
I'm desperate to call Plum or Sophie for reassurance. But their inevitable advice will be to simply ask him what he was doing. I know that's what you're probably thinking too. But I can't. I can't confront him about having lunch with his ex-fling (ex-girlfriend? No, it was just a fling, right? That's what Robert said, wasn't it?). It sounds like I was stalking him, and he'll ask why I didn't come up and say hi right then and there instead of creeping away. If I bring it up now, I'm going to look like a fool.
Oh God. I want to cry.
I head home from work at 6 pm.
I go straight upstairs. Robert's not home. Every step is difficult, and the house feels unusually cold. I have no energy. Angst is so draining.
I lie on my bed in the dark, fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling.
Worst case scenario: it will all end. I'll go back to being single.
That wouldn't be so bad, right? I started this thing with Dave knowing that it could end, that I had to stay in control and not become too smitten, too fast, that I had to be bulletproof . . .
But I'm not. I took a risk. I told him I wanted to be with him last night. I have to see this out.
Anyway, everything else in my world has changed. Everyone else is in love now. Robert is single, but as he said once, he's multiple. Being the only single person in the group would not be fun. I'd be alone every night, with no wingwomen to go out with.
And anyway, I don't want to be single. I want Dave.
I think I must be falling in love with him. This sick, nervous feeling can't be anything else.
My phone rings from deep in the depths of my bag. Moving faster than I ever have before, I sit up and grab the flashing light in the darkness.
It's Dave. 'Hello?' I say, answering too quickly.
'I need you. Naked. My house, 20 minutes.'
'Aren't you going to feed me first?' I say, on auto-witter whilst my mind races. He sounds totally normal. Not like he had an illicit lunch today or has anything to hide.