'Anything exciting happen last night?' asks Sophie. 'I mean men. You know I mean men.'
I grin, and shrug coolly. I want to get the subject off men so Plum doesn't get even more depressed. I'm also trying out the don't-think-about-him-don't-talk-about-him attitude I've been working on since Robert's post-Paulie peptalk.
'Bonjour tigre,' says Plum under her breath. I look up. It's Robert, striding towards us, up Westbourne Park Road, talking on his phone.
'That's my flatmate,' I say. 'Robert.'
'Fucking hell,' she says quietly, glancing at Sophie and Luke to see if they're listening, but fortunately they're cooing at each other like pigeons. 'He is gorgeous.'
Robert is clearly trying to end the phone conversation. He's wearing a kind of cool, albeit wrinkled, khaki shirt. Combined with the furrowed brow and stubble, I have to admit he looks pretty good. He'll need Botox soon if he doesn't stop frowning, though.
'Right . . . Is that all? . . . Well, thanks for calling . . . I don't know yet. It's six days away . . . I will. Yes.' He finally hangs up, shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, and turns to us.
'Luke, you look fantastic. Hello Sophie, Abigail,' he says, leaning over to give me a kiss hello. His stubble is longer than usual, and he smells slightly of whisky.
'Long night, huh, sailor?' I say, wrinkling my nose.
'You have no idea,' he says. His voice is very husky. 'God, even my eyebrows hurt.'
'You bad man, why are you in the same clothes that you were in last night?' asks Sophie. Robert winks at her. Plum is practically panting.
'Robert, meet Plum. Plum, Robert,' I say.
'Hello, Plum,' says Robert, sitting down at the table next to me. 'What a delightful name. It's one of my favourite stone fruits.' Hung-over Robert is infinitely more relaxed than After Work Robert, I notice. I wonder if his job is stressful.
'So you were out last night? Were you dancing too? Hung-over today? I hate hangovers, don't you? I had one earlier but it's gone now!' babbles Plum, as she frantically flicks her hair. I glance at her in shock. Is that her idea of subtle body language? And is Robert really that gorgeous?
'No questions, please. I need a drink,' he says. Luke hands him the beer he has waiting for him. 'Thanks. Christ, it's sunny. I'll pay you a thousand pounds for your sunglasses, Abigail.' His eyes are dark green, I notice, with irritatingly thick eyelashes. Why do men always get them? Is it the gene pool's idea of a joke?
I hand over my sunglasses, which are sort of Fifties and cateyeish, and to my surprise he happily puts them on and beams at us all.
'Do I look like Audrey?'
'Audrey is boring,' I say. 'Katharine Hepburn was so much cooler.'
Robert gasps in mock horror. 'How could you say that? I heart Audrey!'
'How come I've never met you before?' says Plum. She's cool again. At least on the outside.
'I was seeing a girl in Italy,' he says, turning to her with a grin. The cat-eye glasses give everyone killer cheekbones. Including Robert. 'Lots of weekends away.'
'And another girl in Edinburgh,' adds Luke. 'And one in Bethnal Green, and one in Highgate . . .' Robert shoots him a shut-up look and Luke responds with a wide albeit slightly watery grin.
'Well, I'm free again now, so all's well that ends well,' Robert says.
Funny, how men call it being free and women call it being alone, isn't it?
Soon Plum is talking about the lack of men in London. She's either already pissed, or wants Robert to know she's really, definitely, totally single.
'I go out four motherfucking nights a week. I am in bars and parties and I'm not obese or revoltingly ugly. And yet I cannot meet a decent man. It's just fucknuckle after fucknuckle, time after time . . .'
'Seriously, can you please not swear for just one minute?' says Sophie.
'No I cannot! There are no fucking men in London.'
'That's just not true,' says Robert.
'Are you saying I am meeting men without my knowledge?' Plum reaches out and pokes Robert in the arm.
'No,' says Robert matter-of-factly. 'I'm saying you're closed to opportunity. Take right now: you've got your back to the crowd. You can only see us. I've seen every woman who's walked in . . . and out . . . and in again. 'Scuse me,' he adds, getting up.
We all turn wordlessly and watch him walk up the steps to inside The Cow, where I can see a pretty, model-esque blonde wearing a bowler hat and pretending not to see him.
'He's not that attractive,' says Plum decisively. She's evidently decided, in the face of his utter non-flirtation with her, to stop throwing herself at him. 'And he's a smartarse.'
'That must be why you've stared at him nonstop since he sat down,' says Sophie. Plum flicks a piece of ice at her.
From my seat, I can see Robert quite clearly. He's standing at the bar, still wearing my cat-eye sunglasses, and is grinning down at the bowler-hat girl. Then he takes them off and leans in, as though he didn't hear what she said the first time.
Robert doesn't have the sleazy, shark-like twinkle of other lothario types. He just seems calm and certain about well, everything. It's obviously charming to other women. I'm clearly immune to it.
I tune back into the conversation for a few seconds. 'Italy, I think, and then driving to Provence-' Sophie is saying. Luke gazes lovingly at her when she talks, it's so cute. They met when he walked past a pub in Soho, saw her through the window, went in and drank alone at the bar till he had the courage to go and talk to her. And that was it.
I hope it's that easy for everyone, i.e. me.
Robert soon returns, putting his phone back in his pocket. He must have just got her number, I think to myself. Smooth.
'Have you recovered from your disastrous date, Abigail?' he asks. He maintains very steady eye contact, I've noticed. I bet that's part of the whole calm thing.
'Yes, thank you. So, are you taking bowler hat to dinner?'
'Who? Her? No. She's not dinner material.'
'What is she then? Tell me you don't booty call. It's so five years ago.'
'I'm not that kind of boy,' he says, sipping his drink thoughtfully. 'They booty call me, if anything . . . No, she's a fancy-afew-drinks-if-you're-out-at-about-10 pm text.'
'A short-term investment,' I suggest. 'You're a bit of a bastard, aren't you? I suppose your singledom rules will make me a bastard, too.'
'They're just survival skills, Abigail,' he replies easily. 'Don't overthink them. So. What did you get up to last night? Give your number out to all and sundry?'
'Yeah, I got stickers printed up,' I reply. His know-it-all attitude is kind of annoying. 'Aren't you tired of talking about my dating life?'
'I find it interesting,' he says. 'Like a parallel universe of naivety and optimism.'
I glare at him for a moment, and then start to laugh. 'Fine. His name is Josh,' I whisper, so Plum can't hear. 'He works in HR, and I met him at the bar, and we snogged on the dance floor. My first snog since Peter and I broke up!' I pause. 'I wish I could remember it better.'
'Wow,' says Robert. 'I haven't snogged on a dance floor in years. Did you feel his excitement thrusting against you?'
'Ew,' I say. 'Seriously, ew.'
Robert laughs. He has one of those laughs that makes everyone else feel like they might be missing out on something funny.
'Que?' says Sophie.
'I, um, met a guy last night. Robert reduced it straight to sex, immediately,' I say petulantly. 'Deviant.'
'Who's the guy?!' says Sophie excitedly.
'No one, no one, I haven't heard from him yet, he probably won't even call,' I say, glancing at Plum, who is carefully lighting a cigarette. She left soon after we got to the bar last night: no one was chatting her up so she couldn't see the point in staying.
'Doesn't it seem a shame to spend all night chatting to just one person?' asks Robert.
'No,' I say, though now that I think about it, there was a tall guy at the bar who I thought kept looking at me. I wish I'd talked to him a bit, too.
'I knew it,' he says smugly.
It's kind of annoying how he can read my mind. 'You want me to' I pause and look for the right word 'multitask my flirting?'
Robert nods. 'Meet, greet, move on. Unless you just want, you know, a one-night-stand.'
'Men don't think like that,' says Plum, who looks a bit upset. I know she's thinking about a guy she met a few months ago. She talked to him all night, thought a thunderbolt went off, went home with him and shagged till 5 pm on Sunday. She hasn't heard from him since.
'Enough about this,' I say hurriedly.
'But I thought you were the fuckmerchant!' she blurts at Robert.
He shakes his head. 'Casual relationships. Very different thing.'
'You make it sound so noble,' I say.
Robert ignores me. 'I bet, if you two did exactly what I say, you could meet a guy within the next hour.'
'How?' interrupts Plum. 'Write my number on the back of the boys' toilet door?'
'Go over to The Westbourne,' that's another pub just about 30 feet up, always surrounded by enthusiastic outside drinkers on days like this. 'Walk in the side entrance and order two pints of beer and a vodka and tonic at the bar. Carry them out the main door-'
'But how can I carry three drinks?' asks Plum. 'I'll drop them.'
'Exactly. Pause when you get outside, like you can't see your friends. It's packed, so that's not surprising. Act like you're having trouble holding all the glasses. Someone will offer to help you. Talk, laugh, flirt. Job done.'
'Will that really work?' I ask, as Plum heads off.
'No reason it shouldn't. The first step to being chatted up is being visible,' says Robert. 'She's a pretty girl and she swears exceptionally well . . . Of course, she's also transparently high-maintenance, and that's her Achilles' heel.'
'What's mine? Achilles' heel, I mean?'
'Lack of confidence,' says Robert instantly. Ouch.
'I have confidence,' I protest feebly. (This, of course, isn't the correct response when someone accuses you of lacking confidence. The correct response is a derisive 'blow me'.) 'Dating is just out of my comfort zone.'
'Well, you also often look preoccupied, like you're arguing with yourself. It gives you a fuck-off aura.'
'Suck my aura,' I say sulkily.
Robert smirks.
'It's not my fault,' I say, after a pause. 'You need experience to be confident at anything. Driving. Putting on make up. Flipping pancakes. I have no experience at being single. How could I possibly be confident at it?'
'We're working on that,' he says. 'You're next.'
I sigh. I really don't want to set myself up for another terrible Paulie-date.
'Relax,' he says. 'You'll be fine. It won't be like Paulie. Experience, remember?'
His mind-reading trick is getting really annoying.
'There she is!' exclaims Sophie a few minutes later. I look over. Plum is sauntering over the road towards us, an enormous grin on her face. She holds her fist in front of her chest and flips up her index and little finger in the heavy metal, devil sign.
'Victory is mine, beetchez. First, a man at the bar gave me his card,' she says, sitting down. 'And I met two guys outside. One went to make a call, and the other asked for my number and asked if I would like to meet for a drink on Wednesday!'
Sophie and I reach over to give her surreptitious high-fives.
'Ditch the card,' says Robert. 'It's lazy. If he was really keen, he would have asked for your number.' Plum obediently tears the business card in two and drops it in the ashtray.
Paulie gave me his card. No wonder the date sucked.
Plum sits back, smiling peacefully to herself. Funny how happiness is tied in to feeling wanted, isn't it? Or not feeling unwanted, anyway.
'Abigail, your turn,' Plum grins at me.
Oh God no. I couldn't bear to have everyone watch me fail.
'No point,' I say quickly. 'The guys at The Westbourne have seen Plum do exactly the same three-drinks-lost thing. If I did it, it'd look weird.'
'Forget The Westbourne. Try the bar here. Go in, order five drinks,' says Robert. 'Stand next to someone decent. When the drinks arrive, look perplexed. He'll offer to help.'
'I don't want to,' I say in a faux-whingey voice that I hope hides how nervous the idea makes me feel.
'Go on, darling,' says Sophie. 'I need a drink, anyway.'
'There's nothing to be nervous about, Abigail,' says Robert.
Sighing, I walk into The Cow, stepping over a couple of sprawling dogs and the long legs of a model on the way in.
I size up the bar. There are three guys standing together, all wearing knee-length khaki combats that remind me of Peter, so I dismiss them instantly. A curly-haired woman is next to them gossiping with the bartender. I decide to stand next to two guys studying a wine list down the other end of the bar. God, nerves suck.
'Montepulciano,' one is reading. He's cute, wearing skinny jeans and a slightly too-tight T-shirt. 'Or Valpolicella.'