A Girl Like You - A Girl Like You Part 38
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A Girl Like You Part 38

Then I realised that it was because that's what Robert said to me on New Year's Eve. Back when we were still best friends and everything was so warm and easy. He said that I was too scared . . .

The friendship is over. I need to just accept that.

With steadfast effort, I blinked back the tears and grinned at Plum, and luckily she and Sophie had moved on to talking about Sophie and Luke's pre-wedding trip to Chicago this week.

Now, sighing deeply, I look around the office again. It's a real London February day: the sun has called in sick. It's bitingly cold outside yet the office air-conditioning is still on 'high'. The fluorescent lighting, the grey carpets, the airlessness . . . Oh God.

I fight the urge to bang my head against my keyboard. Instead, I press 'refresh' again. Email from Dave!

Can you meet for a quick drink tonight? Need to talk.

My stomach feels like someone's kicked it. 'Need to talk'? Does that sound bad to you? No flirtiness, no 'x' at the end? I reply: Of course. Everything alright? x He replies almost immediately, and I'm seized by a fearful sick feeling.

Meet me at The Magpie at 6 pm.

Something is wrong. He was fine when I saw him yesterday. It was Sunday morning, so we slept in, I made us coffee, then later on I went home to change and met the girls for dinner. He spent last night with his sister Louisa, so I didn't see him . . . Perhaps they had a fight, and his digital coldness has nothing to do with me. The insecurity curl around my chest flickers, but doesn't go away. 6 pm? I can't wait that long! This is Daveticipation on steroids.

I gaze at my computer screen, watching the clock in the bottom right corner move. 4.41 pm.

My phone rings. It's my boss.

'Suzanne,' I say quickly, trying to sound as confident and busy as I can.

'Abigail, come in here please,' she says.

'Of course,' I say brightly. I walk over, fighting the urge to run. Why does she scare me so much? I miss my old boss. He just left me alone.

'The last six weeks have been abominable,' she barks, without any kind of prelude, the moment I step into her office. 'The only reason we're still breathing is because of Charlotte. Your sales calls have dropped to an all-time low. You haven't done anything proactive-'

'I finished the Brazil project,' I interject feebly.

'And did fuck-all with it,' she snaps. 'I thought we had an understanding, and at the end of last year, I saw a real change in you. Now it's like you want to be fired. You haven't taken your eye off the ball, you've put the fucking ball down and walked away from it entirely.'

'I know,' I say quickly. 'I'm sorry, I'll . . . I'll fix it, I'll step it up. I've had personal-'

'I don't care,' she says. 'Fix it. Go to the conference in Hong Kong. When you're back next week, I want to see a difference.'

I haven't had personal problems, I think to myself as I walk out of her office. I've just been preoccupied.

Maybe I do want to be fired.

I head straight to the bathrooms, lock myself in a cubicle, and sit on the closed seat. I want to cry, but I can't find the tears. All I have is a huge, thudding sense of foreboding. Dave . . . work . . . Dave . . . work.

I lean forward on the seat, looking down at my shoes and try to line them up perfectly against the tiles. It's impossible; the tiles are made of unevenly overlapping linoleum. It bothers me every time I pee.

Just a few months ago, I felt like everything was perfect! I remember thinking that I was invincible. Bulletproof.

Where did that go?

I count to 100, wash my hands and walk back to my desk. Charlotte's away skiing with Henry, so it's even quieter than usual. It's now 5.21 pm, and the sky is almost dark. I go to work in the dark, I come home from work in the dark. Oh God, I hate winter. I hate this office. I hate everything.

I'll tell Dave about Hong Kong tonight. Dave, tonight . . . ugh . . . The minutes creep by until finally, finally, it's time to go.

When I get to the pub, Dave is leaning on a stool against the wall, texting someone. He glances up and immediately assumes a blank look that's clearly intended to give nothing away. Oh God. My nervousness has never felt like this. I think my hands are shaking. I'm too scared to check.

I walk up, smiling twitchily, but he doesn't smile like he usually does, just leans over, very quickly kisses me hello on the lips and takes my coat off.

'Can I get you a drink?'

'Yes, please,' I say. The insecurity curl around my chest has become a boa constrictor. I try to smile and play the cocky card. 'Red, I think, if you're amenable.'

Dave smiles tightly, through pursed lips. 'I'll get you a glass, not a bottle. I can't stay long.' He heads to the bar.

He's totally about to dump me.

Breathe, Abigail. Breathe.

I sit down and gaze around, hyperventilating through the knotty fear-pain. I feel flushed, though I don't know if that's from emotion or because it's so hot in here.

'Here you go,' he says, coming back with a small glass of red.

'Thanks,' I say, taking a huge gulp.

'Abigail,' he starts, then looks at me and smiles as though seeing me for the first time. 'You have a red wine smile, angel.'

He called me angel, I think, the knotty-pain easing for a second. Maybe he's not about to dump me.

He takes a sip of his beer and pauses for a second, looking at me. 'I'm going away. For work.'

'Oh, great!' I say in relief. He's not dumping me! 'I mean, oh, well, that's a bummer. Where are you going? When?'

I see annoyance flicker across his face. Shit, he's in one of those moods where he hates questions. Or talking.

'Asia, mostly,' he says abruptly. 'Singapore first, then from Friday afternoon I'll be in Hong Kong for the weekend . . . Then Beijing, then Shanghai, then Tokyo.'

'I I-,' I say faintly. I want to tell him I'm going to be in Hong Kong too, and make him say that it's hilarious that we'll be there at the same time, but I don't know how. I'm too scared it will annoy him more. (And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.) 'Hong Kong will be,' he agrees, taking out his phone and glancing at it. 'It's my favourite city after London.'

There's a pause. I try to think of something to say. 'Well, I just got a text from Sophie, she and Luke are heading to Chicago for a pre-wedding break, he got a trip with his work, so she's joined him out there-' Stop gabbling Abigail, you tool.

He finishes the rest of his beer in one gulp. 'Right. I have to go. I'm taking the early flight tomorrow, so have to sort some things out. I'll be in touch, OK?'

'Cool,' I say. What I want to say is: I'll miss you, will you miss me, is everything alright, why do I still feel sick, I'll be in Hong Kong too, please don't leave . . .

He grins briefly, puts his coat on and checks his phone again. 'Take care.' Then he kisses me very quickly again and walks out of the pub without looking back.

I pick up my bag shakily. There's a text from Suzanne.

Where are you? Come to my office immediately. Urgent project.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Just over 48 hours later, I'm on a plane to Hong Kong.

This is my plan: I'll land at 5 pm Thursday afternoon, Hong Kong time. I've got a meeting with Andre on Friday morning, and then I'll call Dave and say 'Guess where I am?' And then we'll be in Hong Kong together for the weekend! I'll pop over to the Luxury In Asia conference at some point so Suzanne doesn't suspect anything, but mostly I plan to be in bed with Dave.

And everything will be fine.

Why am I doing this? For the job? To escape Suzanne for a week? So Dave will want to move to Hong Kong with me after all, he did say he loved it? Or so he'll decide that he can't live without me in London and beg me to stay? Or am I actually only flying because he's here and I have a horrible sinking feeling something is wrong? I don't know. But I can't stop myself.

Anyway, looking at this another way makes me feel kind of empowered. As Plum said, sometimes you just have to take a risk. No one can accuse me of being too passive now.

I am shattered, by the way. That 'urgent project' that Suzanne needed me for was a non-stop nightmare. I got four hours' sleep on Monday and Tuesday night, worked all the way through till 8 pm Wednesday night, then went straight to the airport. I haven't even had time to call Sophie or Plum all week. I've survived entirely on chocolate, stale sandwiches and coffee. In the back of my head I've been constantly running over the conversation with Dave in the pub. What did it mean? Why was he so odd? So now here I am, strapped uncomfortably into my economy seat, hurtling towards Hong Kong.

I tried to eat, couldn't, tried to read one of the trashy novels I bought at the airport, couldn't. I tried watching old romantic movies but cried so much during When Harry Met Sally that the guy next to me offered me his hanky. So embarrassing.

All I want to do is sleep. When I try, questions worries flash through my head.

Why won't the knot of panic and fear in my stomach go away? Why do I feel like I'm chasing him? Why do I feel sick, all the time?

God! I need to calm down. Caaaalm. Too much caffeine not so good for Abigail.

I'm overthinking it. He was probably just stressed on Monday night. That's all. He hasn't texted since he left London, but he did reply 'thanks . . . I'll try' when I texted him 'have a good flight'. He must be really busy.

And this Hong Kong job has been on the cards for ages, the fact that he's here this weekend is just serendipitous. It's not like I'm, you know, following him. Not really.

I take out Vogue, but am unable to read to the end of a sentence. So I start watching High Society. God I love this film. I detest most musicals as much as the next girl, but this one is special. Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Grace Kelly, beautiful mansions and clothes and songs and everyone gets tipsy and behaves inappropriately . . . I mean, what's not to love?

It strikes me for the first time, however, that the plot is pretty spurious. She's marrying a pompous bore called George, but flirting outrageously with Frank's Mike and is secretly still in love with her ex-husband, Bing's Dex the whole time. Why wouldn't she admit that she's in love with Dex? Don't you think she'd figure it out before the very end? Why is she making life so deliberately difficult for herself?

My mind wanders exhaustingly like this for the entire flight. I'm physically exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep. So I drink coffee to keep me going, and pace up and down the aisles. I can't eat anything. The knot in my stomach doesn't leave much room.

Eventually we start our descent. All I can see out the window is light grey clouds and dark grey hills and a grey tarmac. This is like a dream.

The company has corporate rates at the Mandarin Oriental, so waiting for me on the other side of baggage claim is a driver in a red-and-black uniform holding up a sign with ABIGAIL WOOD written on it. He escorts me to a waiting Mercedes Benz, with bottles of water and wet towels in the back.

I take my phone out of my bag. It's out of battery. Shit. No charger, either. Never mind. I know Dave's number off by heart if I have to call him . . . He's not landing till tomorrow, so I wasn't going to call him till then, but God, I don't know if I can wait that long.

The drive from Chep Lap Kok airport to Hong Kong Island is surreal. February is winter here, too, but it's humid and only slightly chilly: completely different to London. The sun sets or rather, as I can't see any sun, it gets darker and darker as we drive over enormous bridges linking islands covered in low grey mountains, and past huge estates with 50-storey apartment blocks lined up next to each other.

Then Hong Kong city finally appears in an explosion of light. It reminds me of Blade Runner: futuristic and strange and beautiful. Hundreds of skyscrapers of all sizes and angles are lit up in front of a grey mountain. It's like a different planet, I keep thinking. Another world.

I'm so tired.

We drive through a long tunnel that I assume must be underneath the Harbour, and emerge on Hong Kong Island, on a motorway that snakes above the ground. First, we pass apartment buildings, but they're quickly replaced by office blocks with shiny, reflective windows, reaching up farther than I can see. It's beautiful, I think absently. So beautiful. I wonder where Dave is. I blink, and it takes a long time to open my eyes again.

After a few more minutes, we turn into a driveway. Another red-and-black uniformed man opens the car door, and I walk into the marble lobby of the Mandarin Oriental.

As I wait to check in, I gaze around. Everyone else in this lobby looks rested and well-dressed. I look like a piece of used chewing gum in comparison. I can feel how dry my skin is from the flight and the lack of sleep. I really need a shower and my teeth feel fuzzy oh, my turn to check in.

'Do you have a Nokia charger?' I say, after they hand me my roomcard.

'Certainly, Miss Wood,' says the concierge. 'We'll find one and send it right up.'

God bless company expense accounts, I muse, as the bellboy shows me my hotel room. It really is the most beautiful room I've ever seen. It reeks of expensive masculinity, with a huge walk-in shower, separate bath and a mirrored vanity area with sink. The thought pops into my head: Robert would love this room. Oh God, Robert. I haven't seen him in days.

I tip the bellboy and collapse straight onto the bed.

I need sleep, I need it like oxygen, but my body is buzzing with caffeine and worry.

Opening my laptop, I quickly check my emails, just in case Dave has been in touch . . . Nothing. I can't be bothered to open any other emails. You know, I still have an acidy ache in my stomach, no matter how much I try to deep breathe it away.

The concierge calls. They're having trouble finding an old Nokia charger. God, why didn't I bring one?

Then, finally, eking out the pleasure of waiting to do it, because once it's done I can't do it again, I pick up the hotel phone and dial Dave's number. He's still in Singapore, but I can't wait till tomorrow. I need to know everything is OK, then I can sleep.

Please pick up, please pick up . . . God, my heart is thumping. Straight to voicemail.

I leave the following message: 'Hi! It's me . . . Just, uh, calling . . . send me an email when you can. My phone's out of battery, but I have something, uh, exciting to tell you . . . bye.'

Yep, a pretty shit message.

I hang up, the insecurity curl tightening around my chest. Deep breath, Abigail. Take a shower, go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be fine. Dave will turn up, he always does.

After asking the concierge to hold all calls (it's only midday in London and Suzanne will probably try to track me down), 'unless you find the phone charger,' I say as clearly as I can, I get into bed and close my eyes.

Chapter Thirty Six.

What follows is a 12-hour nightmare.

My brain won't stop racing, I'm hot and cold by turn, tossing and turning, in and out of shallow sleep. I don't know if it's tiredness or the insecurity curl just making its presence even more keenly felt, but my stomach is a bubbling, churning mass of nerves. My brain darts between work and Dave, work and Dave, neither thought giving me any rest or relief, just worry, worry, worry . . .

I beg the universe to let me sleep, then, since the universe isn't answering, I call reception about the phone charger.