A Girl Like You - A Girl Like You Part 37
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A Girl Like You Part 37

'Dave, I can't believe you never even mentioned Gail to me!' says Dave's mother. She raises a glass of wine to her lips. 'I really don't know what I'll do with you, darling.'

I think about correcting her to say 'Abigail', but since I've done that six times in the past hour, there's really no point. So instead, I smile and wait for Dave to reply.

'It's ABI-gail, Dottie,' he says. He calls his mother by her first name. 'And well, I don't discuss my personal life with you.'

'You wouldn't have a life at all if it wasn't for me! Me and my wonderful womb,' she says. She turns to me and winks. 'Am I right?'

'Dottie . . .' says Dave warningly.

'He hates the word "womb",' she says to me confidingly, yet loudly. 'Womb, David! Vagina!'

Dave's mother is, shall we say, surprising. I'd expected a sophisticated older lady. Very slim, with tennis-playing arms, a blonde bob and a calm, brittle exterior. In other words, a peroxide Anna Wintour.

I got the blonde bob bit right, but the rest very, very wrong.

Dottie is a Rubenesque, heavily made-up woman, poured and tweaked into a very tight dress. Since her fourth glass of wine, her conversation has pinballed all over the place. We've heard about the contractor renovating her house ('That dreadful man! His eyes! On my pins!'), the difficulties of dating for the over 50s ('I never thought I'd say it, but bald men really do try harder') and the love woes of her bichon-frise, Mr Mitzy ('Retarded detumescence, the vet called it. I said I don't care, make it go away!'). She's also on first name terms with all the waiters.

'This restaurant does not know how to make a decent risotto,' she says, pushing her plate away and taking out a packet of Silk Cut. She speaks in very clear italics for dramatic emphasis and, I think, to escape any enunciation problems caused by excess wine. 'Raymond! Take it away! I'm going outside. For a fag. Abigail?'

'Uh I don't ' Actually, I'm in the kind of stressed mildly-drunk mood where a cigarette would be great, but I'm on auto-lie, programmed to not smoke in front of the mythical-disapproving-mother-in-law. Plus, the idea of being alone with her is scary.

'Yes, you fucking do,' says Dave irritably. 'Take her outside, please.'

Once outside, in the freezing January air, Dottie breaks into a gusty rendition of 'It's Harry I'm Plannin' To Marry'. I smile awkwardly. What the devil do I do now? Join in?

'Well, cheeky David to surprise me with you like this,' she then says to me through a haze of smoke. 'I had no idea he was even seeing anyone! He's such a bachelor. Don't you think he's extraordinarily handsome? I tell you, if I was 15 years younger . . .'

Creepy. I know boys' mothers always adore their little princes, but Peter's mother never acted like this. And surely she means 30 years younger?

'Yes, he's lovely,' I say eventually.

'I said to him recently: you'll end up old and alone like me if you're not careful!' she exclaims joyfully. 'But it's different for men!'

I nod. She's scaring me.

'I've been seeing this fabulous gent who lives in Marbella most of the time. Wonderful lifestyle out there. Wants me to move in with him,' she says, dragging quickly and repetitively on her cigarette so it burns down to halfway in seconds. 'Ever since David's father-' she pauses, and suddenly her eyes are filled with tears. I put my hand on her arm instinctively.

'Oh God, Dottie, I'm so-'

'Sorry? Why would you be sorry, it wasn't your fault, was it?' she snaps. 'Let's go!'

I stub out my cigarette in the little bin left for smokers, and then pick up Dottie's cigarette butt from the ground and put it in there, too, and follow her inside.

'I took the liberty of ordering coffees,' says Dave pointedly.

'I'd love a little nibble on something sweet,' says Dottie, taking another slug of wine. She looks completely normal now, no sign of the recent near-hysteria. (Me? I'm shell-shocked.) 'I'll get you a Wagon Wheel on the way to your hotel,' snaps Dave.

'I'm so sad Louisa couldn't join us,' says Dottie petulantly. So am I, I think. I'm dying to meet the bitch that broke Robert's heart. I asked Dave a few times, till he said 'what's with the Louisa obsession?' so I stopped.

'I'm not,' says Dave. 'I've had enough Louisa to last me till next Christmas.'

'You picked those fights, David.'

Dave ignores his mother, and thankfully, the coffees arrive. I'm so nervous that I've been totally silent most of dinner, unable to think of anything to say and, when I do, unable to say it out loud. But I can't just sit here mute, either.

'Coffee! I love coffee!' I blurt out, apropos nothing.

Oh, Abigail. Why don't you just read the fucking menu aloud?

When dinner is finally over, we drop Dottie off at her hotel, and continue in the taxi back to Dave's house. We haven't spoken to each other since we left the restaurant. I clear my throat, but he doesn't even turn away from the window. There's a gulf between us. There always is.

I don't know what's going through his head, just that he's in a bad mood. Or maybe he's tired. I can't tell the difference. Perhaps he's regretting asking me along tonight, I think glumly. Probably thinking how much he wishes he wasn't with me. Oh God, this isn't right. Something is wrong, something is missing . . .

And then Dave turns to me.

'Abigail, angel, I'm so sorry,' he says. 'I thought she'd be better than that.'

'She was lovely,' I say untruthfully. What does he mean, 'better'? Less drunk? Less prone to singing/crying fits and professions of motherly lust? 'She got a little upset outside. About your Dad.'

He sighs, and then leans over and takes my hand. It's the first non-sexual physical affection I've ever had from Dave. 'Thanks for coming with me,' he says, holding my hand up to his lips and kissing it. 'I needed you.'

'Do you want to talk about it?' I say. I think I already know the answer, but I'm so thrilled to have him be even a tiny bit open with me that I can't help myself.

'No. Now come here.'

He pulls me over to his side of the taxi and kisses me. For the first time ever, it's tender, and I actually feel close to him. I don't know why his mother was crying, or why tonight was as difficult for him as it clearly was, but I don't care. All I need is Dave to be near me, and to want me as much as I want him. Everything must be OK if he's being like this, right? That uneasy feeling I had that something is wrong . . . it's nothing. It must be nothing.

'You're delightful,' he murmurs, in between kisses. 'It's always good to see you, always.'

My heart leaps with joy. Everything is fine! I knew it was.

By the time we get home (I mean, to his place), he's cheered up considerably. Dave doesn't enjoy introspection; his moods are unnaturally buoyant. It's infectious to be around: when he's happy, I'm happy.

I now feel open enough to tell him about what I'm doing this weekend, rather than sneaking them in around his plans as I discover them on the fly, the way I usually do.

'A tasting at Luke's wedding venue?' he responds at one point. 'They should do a marriage tasting . . . you could get the cold shoulder, a long-term huff, a touch of a temper tantrum, and endless arguments about whose turn it is to spend Christmas with whose family.'

'Cynic,' I say. I'm lying in his bed, as he puts away washing and hangs up his laundered shirts.

'Well, I'm not sure what I'm doing. JimmyJames wants to go to some party in Islington.'

'That sounds fun,' I say, as coolly as I can. (He's discussing plans! In advance!) 'Shall we do it? OK, I'll tell him we're in,' he stands in front of his open sock drawer and sighs. 'I am thirty fucking years old. I should be able to find a matching pair of socks.'

Encouraged by this new perfect-boyfriend side of Dave, and anxious not to lose his attention, I lean back and sigh deeply. 'I'm having a work crisis, Dave,' I say. It's time to tell him about the job offer in Hong Kong.

'Really, angel? Do tell . . .' he says, peering into the sock drawer. 'I've never even fucking owned a pink sock. Where did you come from?' He holds the pink sock up to the ceiling. 'I shall call you Bethany. Bethany, the mysterious pink sock.'

I giggle. Dave picks up a stray white sock, folds them together and starts singing 'Bethany and Ivory'. 'Um, well, I don't love my job. And I don't know if it's my team, or the job, or the industry . . .'

'No one loves their job,' he says, walking into his bathroom and coming back with a toothbrush in his mouth. 'That's a fact.'

'Don't you think I should care about what I do between 7 am and 7 pm every day?'

'You don't have any other interests, do you?' says Dave, around his toothbrushing. 'It's not like you love photography, or interior design, or flower arranging . . . so what the fuck else would you do?'

'Um . . .' I can't think what to say. He's absolutely right.

'You're not going to magically discover some perfect career that'll make you dribblingly happy for the rest of your life. Just accept that you're like everybody else, angel.'

I feel hurt by this, but I can't think why. He's not being mean exactly. Just truthful.

'I was offered a-'

Dave holds a hand up to interrupt me, goes back to his bathroom, spits out the toothpaste, rinses and pads back into the room. 'Enough job talk! It just reminds me of my own career dissatisfaction. My bonus had better be the size of Birmingham this year or I'm going to crack skulls. Those people don't appreciate me.'

'I don't think anyone's bonus is going to be good this year,' I say. Dave's bonuses, past, present and future, are one of his favourite subjects, I've noticed. 'Well then, let's not talk about it again, hmm?' Dave looks over at me and smiles lasciviously. 'Are you naked, young lady?'

I nod my head coyly. In this conversation, at least, I know just what to do.

'Shocking,' he says. 'I'll need to see that for myself.'

Chapter Thirty Four.

I still haven't brought up the whole Hong Kong thing. And it's been almost a month.

I keep telling myself I'll do it tonight, and then . . . I never do. If I tell Dave about the trip I'm supposedly taking (this week!, oh God) to go to the Luxury In Asia conference in Hong Kong, then I'd have to tell him about the job offer, and I'll be forcing a conversation titled Where Is This Relationship Going. I don't feel quite, um, confident enough to do that yet. So the flights are booked, the hotel is booked . . . but in my head, I'm not even sure if I'm going.There hasn't been a good time to tell Dave, anyway. He's been more distracted than usual lately. I think his work is making him very stressed he often works so late that we don't even see each other for days. But one thing hasn't changed: whenever I'm about to see him, my stomach churns with nerves.

I'll bring it up with Dave tonight, I will. I will. And I'll email Andre to confirm it. He and I have been emailing a lot work stuff, but a bit of banter, too. Maybe working with him would be different from here, maybe I'd like it. Oh God. I have to make a decision soon.

I look around at the frenzied boredom that characterises 4 pm on a Monday in my office, press 'refresh' on my email, and sigh.

I mentioned the job offer to Sophie and Plum over our Sunday night supper at Sophie's house last night. Their shocked reaction quickly convinced me that mentioning the trip wouldn't be a good idea.

'You're moving . . . to Hong fucking Kong?' said Plum in disbelief.

'No, no, I don't know, maybe,' I said, stumbling over my words. 'I don't think . . . I don't know. I was offered a job, that's all.'

'I thought that you weren't sure about your job.'

'That it doesn't make you happy.'

'I wasn't,' I said, adding more grated cheese to my baked beans and buttering another slice of toast. Sophie doesn't make a huge effort for these Sunday suppers, but they're very comforting. I always think that toast smells like a hug. 'I'm not, I mean . . . I don't know. Yet. But it's good, right?'

'It's fantastic! I mean, congratulations! As long as it's what you want,' said Sophie.

'What does Dave think?' asked Plum.

'Nothing, I haven't told him,' I replied, frowning to myself. 'No need . . . to . . . for that.'

Sophie and Plum exchanged a glance. Wait a fucking minute, I thought, I'm not the one who has a glanced exchanged about her. If anything, I am the one exchanging said glances, dash it. But I didn't feel up to confronting them.

'Not yet,' I continued hurriedly, biting into my toast. 'What's the point? Since, as you say I'm still, uh, working things out. It's my decision. Enough about me, anyway. Let's talk about something else.'

'How's dishy old Roberto, my favourite fuckmerchant?' said Plum.

'Something apart from him,' I said. They both looked at me. 'Robert and I . . . well, we've grown apart.'

It's undeniable. We don't email or text the way we used to. I rarely see him, and when I hear him and walk downstairs to say hi, the front door bangs and I can hear his footsteps hurrying away. He's avoiding me.

I can't exactly talk to him about it. What would I say? 'Oh, Robert, by the way. Kissing you was a huge mistake and I regret it. I can't bear the thought that I cheated on Dave with you. I know you regret it, I also know you disapprove of me and Dave for some mysterious stupid macho reason, but come on, let's be buddies?'

No. That's not what grown-ups do. Grown-ups just pretend everything is fine and get on with life. Even though I miss him. And I wish everything could just go back to the way it was.

Sophie and Plum looked at me sympathetically, and I suddenly felt like crying. Instead I tried to act philosophical.

'Perhaps you can't have a best male friend and a boyfriend.'

'What about Henry?' said Sophie.

'Doesn't count. We've known him way too long.'

'You can't get rid of long-term friends without something viciously spiteful happening, like someone deleting you on Facebook,' added Plum.

'Why isn't Henry here, anyway?'

'He's cooking dinner for Charlotte.'

'He'll make a fabulous wife one day.'

Then Plum dropped a bombshell.

'I've quit my job. I'm starting a graduate diploma in Fashion Media Styling at the London College of Fashion.'

Sophie and I immediately started whooping our excitement and congratulations.

'When did you decide this?' I asked. Plum looked absurdly happy.

'Remember that day you asked me if I loved my job? That started it . . . I've always wanted to work in fashion. I was just too fucking scared to admit it because then I'd have to actually do something about it.'

I felt a lump in my throat. Why do I want to cry, I wondered jealousy? No. Worry about my own lack of career focus? No, not that either.