I'm not like every other girl he's been with, the ones who expect more. I know I can't change him. Sophie said he was unobtainable, that he was a womaniser. And that girl at the party said Robert has sex three times and then says it's better if they keep it casual.
Well, we had sex three times.
So that means he'll do his disappearing act when he wakes up.
Maybe I'll just beat him to it.
What would happen if I stayed? I briefly try to imagine it. Let's say that he doesn't dump me when he wakes up. Then what? We go back to London, still living together, and what friends? Lovers? Dating? It would be awkward, he'd be tense and distant, and I'd be nervy and worried, and our easy friendship would be truly over, he would just dump me in the end. After everything that's happened, I can't do that. I need to protect myself.
For the first time in my life, I'm going to be decisive.
And I'm going to leave him before he can leave me.
I slither down the bed slowly, out from under his arm. Robert's breathing doesn't change. I tiptoe into the bathroom as silently as I can, turn the shower on and stand under it motionless, my face upturned, letting the water beat down on my face.
I know I am right.
Everything with Dave combusted because I ignored everything I knew about surviving singledom. I wasn't in control, I wasn't detached, and I certainly wasn't fucking bulletproof. I recite Robert's original surviving singledom tips, whispering them to myself under the shower.
Be cool Be detached Act brutal Stay in control Bulletproof Always leave them before they leave you.
I'm going to leave without waking him, fly home to London, and by the time he gets back, we'll be over this blip. Our friendship has survived blips before, after all. It was just a one-night-stand.
How's that for detached?
I finish showering quickly, apologising to my poor hair for yet another traumatic yanking-the-comb-through-conditioner experience, and smear some moisturiser on my red stubble-rashed cheeks. Then I dress quickly, and throw all my clothes and toiletries into my suitcase. Robert doesn't stir.
Should I leave him a note to say I'm totally fine about what happened last night? That everything is cool between us?
I rip a page out of my notebook, grab a pen from the desk, and think for a second.
Fun night. Thanks for everything. Heading home to London. See you later.
That about sums it up, right?
I stop, just as I'm leaving the room, to watch him sleeping. His hair is flopped out over the pillow and his jaw is even more stubbled than usual. He looks like a superhero playing truant: strong and warm and God, so tempting.
For a second, I pause, and take a step back towards him. Maybe I could just get back into bed. Kiss him awake and . . .
But then I remember that if I don't do this now, then he definitely will. I'd rather leave than be the one left behind.
I hurry down to the hotel lobby, pay my bill making a mental note to not resign before these expenses are approved by work, haha and request a transfer to the airport. I'll sort my flight out once I'm there. I take out my now-charged phone, still containing tens of texts messages I need to return, and once in the car, start replying one by one. Every text that I send is the same.
I'm fine . . . gastric flu is a mean little bitch. Home tonight. See you this weekend? X ps Dave and I broke up.
I can't wait to get home, I tell myself. I'll do washing, I'll call the girls, I'll sort my career out . . . I'd better make a to-do list.
Flipping to a new page in my notebook, I start writing a list. I want to Google Katherine and Ronan, and their company, Intuition Films. I think I have dry-cleaning to pick up, too, and I need to order some more contact lenses. It's Dad's birthday in two weeks, so I must buy a present. Ah, the satisfactory diversion of a list.
Fuck me, I feel strong all of a sudden. No, I feel . . . bulletproof.
I get to the airport, march straight up to the British Airways desk and ask to change my flight. Fortunately for me, there's one in an hour, so if I hurry through security, I can just make it.
By the time I'm on the plane, I'm exhausted again. I don't know how much sleep I got last night, but it can't have been more than a few hours. I wonder if Robert's still sleeping. He'll be relieved when he realises I'm gone, so he doesn't have to deal with it. He really will.
I start making notes on ideas for the documentary. I need to find out more about it, but off the top of my head I can think of a dozen specific stories that illustrate the idea of the luxury myth. I close my eyes as the wheels lift off the tarmac, and by the time the seatbelt sign has been turned off, I'm asleep. I don't wake up till we land in London.
Chapter Forty Three.
'And you haven't spoken to him since then,' says Plum.
'Nope,' I say.
'Is he back?' says Sophie.
'Yep,' I say.
'Are you avoiding him?' asks Charlotte.
'Nope,' I say.
'Won't it be totally weird to still live with him?' asks Plum.
'Absolutely not,' I say. I look at each of their concerned faces in turn, and then over at Henry, who is bashing his face against a French-fry-stuffed double cheeseburger. He stops, mid-chew, and looks over at me guiltily. It's Thursday, and we've met up at The Bountiful Cow in Holborn for a catch-up dinner. It's the first time I've properly seen everyone since I got back from Hong Kong last week. Thank God, every non-work moment has been all about Sophie's wedding. (Discussing seating arrangements is, it turns out, highly calming.) 'Look, guys, it's not a big deal,' I say, picking up my half-eaten burger and handing it to Henry, who layers it carefully into his existing burger. 'He got home from Hong Kong a few days ago. I'll run into him in the house at some point.' Sophie makes a worried face. She's convinced I'm hurting his feelings, but I know I'm not. 'Soph, Hong Kong meant nothing to him either, I guaranfucking-tee it. I was the nearest thing in a 32-B. That's all.'
'If you say so,' says Sophie cautiously, exchanging another look with Plum and Charlotte.
'What?' I snap. This exchanging-looks thing is so exasperating when, you know, I'm not involved.
'Why did you leave?' they say in unison. Plum adds 'the fuck' between 'why' and 'did'.
'It was a one night stand!' I reply. 'That's what you do. One person leaves. And I'd rather leave than be the one left.'
'But . . . he flew all the way to Hong Kong for you,' says Charlotte.
The girls start talking all at once. 'He looked after you when you were sick.' 'He's so gorgeous.' 'You get along so well. You'd be a great couple.' 'Poor Robert! Imagine how he felt, waking up alone!' 'He could be your motherfucking soulmate!'
'And he's a total dude,' interjects Henry, burger finished and paying attention at last.
I close my eyes and sigh. They just don't understand. All of them are born-again incurable romantics, who lucked into happy relationships, despite having no singledom survival skills to speak of.
And they don't know Robert like I do.
'He was thrilled to wake up all alone in Hong Kong so he didn't have to deal with me. I made his life a hell of a lot easier,' I say. 'And Plum? There is no such thing as soulmates sorry, "motherfucking soulmates".'
There's a pause. I know they're exchanging another look, but I keep my eyes on my fries.
'Is it alright if Dan joins us?' says Plum eventually.
'Luke's coming too,' says Sophie. 'He'll be here in 20 minutes.'
'So when does the new job start, anyway?' says Plum.
'Monday. And I'm resigning tomorrow,' I say, taking a sip of wine. My appetite has dropped off a cliff since I was sick in Hong Kong, but my thirst remains undiminished. 'Suzanne's back from wherever the fuck she's been. That'll be . . . interesting.'
'You'll be fine,' says Charlotte supportively. 'Suzanne has to give you immediate gardening leave. Imagine the information you have access to. It could be devastating for the company.'
I nod mutely. Naturally, I've spent the past few days making a copy of every file that could possibly come in handy. But I won't even say that out loud.
I smile to myself, thinking about my new job. Ever since Katherine formally offered me a job at Intuition Films, her production company in Soho at, surprisingly, a salary not too far below my current one I've felt energised and positive about my career. I could never imagine even saying that before.
It's only a six-month contract. Katherine said, 'Let's take it to the end of this project, and then see how we are.' But I know I can parlay the contract into a real career. They want me straightaway. And I can't wait to get started.
Last time I saw Suzanne was just before I went to Hong Kong, when she gave me the full banshee treatment. And now I get to tell her professionally and politely, of course to 'step it up' her arse. I can't wait to tell Robe- ah, never mind.
Dan and Luke arrive, and we get caught in ordering another round of drinks.
'How are you, sweetheart?' asks Luke quietly, when everyone is distracted by Henry loudly forcing Charlotte to order a dessert so he can really eat two.
'Fine, I'm fine,' I say quickly, smiling at him. I only saw him briefly during wedding planning sessions on the weekend; he said placement brings him out in hives.
'Dave called me last night, told me the full story about Bella and him getting back together over Christmas,' Luke says quietly. Not the full story, I think to myself. You'll never know that. I haven't told anyone what Robert told me about the family holiday scandal, and I don't intend to.
'I can't . . . I don't know what to say,' Luke looks at me guiltily. 'She's my sister but I didn't see that coming. What a fucking mess. As for the Robert thing Sophie told me, I hope that's OK-'
'It's fine,' I interrupt him firmly. 'I promise. I'm completely fine.'
'How can you always be fine so motherfucking quickly?' hisses Plum, who's clearly been eavesdropping. 'And by the way, have you thought about the fact that you'll see Dave-' She pauses, and pretends to spit over her shoulder 'and Bella at the wedding in like, three weeks?'
'Of course I have,' I say, aware of Luke and now, oh great, Sophie and Plum staring at me worriedly. I'm determined not to let my romantic nightmares (read: massive fuck-ups) affect their wedding day. Think about it: because of me, half the wedding party isn't speaking to the other half. Talk about a shit bridesmaid. Dan, Henry and Charlotte are now all staring at me too. God, sometimes I wish we all weren't quite so close. 'It's not a big deal. We're all grown-ups. There won't be a scene. I'm not upset anymore.'
'Well, I fucking am,' comments Plum. 'I never liked the guy. Dave never bothered to talk to me on nights out I wasn't a friend or a potential shag, so I was a non-entity. I hate that.'
I flinch. I wish I'd noticed that. 'Well, I don't think seeing them will upset me, anyway. Dave was a mistake, that's all.'
Plum interrupts. 'But the fucknuckle cheated on you and lied to you.'
'Thanks for the recap,' I say. 'But honestly, it's just, uh, it's over and done with. I'm fine. I lost my head, not my . . .' I pause, embarrassed, but I can't not finish the sentence now. 'Not my heart.'
'That makes sense,' nods Sophie, and quickly changes the subject.
This probably doesn't make sense, but when I do think about the three months I was with Dave, I feel like that whole period the crazy nerve-wracking insecurity, the desperate dash to Hong Kong, the devastating lobby revelation all happened to someone else. Someone who wasn't me. Not the real me.
When I think about it, though, this happens all the time. Everyone I know has dated a bastard, and why? What makes women so smitten with men like that? Men who never call; who always keep us waiting; who don't introduce us to their friends; who refuse to stay at our house; who are bored by any topic not involving them; who never do much to make us feel secure or special or loved; men who, in summary, aren't mean, exactly, but aren't exactly nice, either? I can't think of one truly kind thing Dave ever did for me (not counting in bed) except make me laugh. And laughing is while crucial not enough. Not by itself. He's a real what's that term I heard someone use recently? Cockmonkey. That's what Dave is. A cockmonkey.
And moreover, he's a sad cockmonkey. Because he's been in love with someone else for years, and felt unable to be with her. No wonder he was cold and hard inside: he had to be.
Anyway, I have better things to think about.
Who would have thought it could be so satisfying to figure out what you want in life, and try to make it happen? You know, I always used to imagine that happiness was all about accomplishing your goals that you could only be satisfied after ticking off every little thing on a long list of things to do. But now I'm not so sure. I think that going after your dreams is even better. Because when I wasn't striving to achieve anything, I wasn't excited to wake up every day. But I am now.
'I'm not playing a drinking game!' I hear Plum shouting from the other end of the table. 'My entire life is a drinking game, Dan. And the rules just keep getting more and more complicated.'
'It's not a drinking game,' he replies, and starts singing. 'Plum Enchanted Evening . . . ha! I win.'
'Ummm . . . Dan! I feel like a woman,' she says.
'What are they talking about?' I ask Luke. We're all staring up at them, and Plum is laughing hysterically and smacking the table with her hand.
'I think it's a game involving inserting someone's name into a song title,' he says.
'I read about a game like that in a book once,' I say.
'Sophieeelin' good,' sings Luke. 'Duh-duh. . . . duh-duh . . .'
'Luke, luke, luke, luke of earl . . .' she replies. They high five.
'Oh, baby do you know what that's worth? Oo, Henry is a place on earth,' sings Charlotte, her voice trailing off hopelessly towards the end.
'That was rubbish,' says Henry. 'Charlotta shakin' going on!' he starts playing the drums on the table.
'That's not her name!' shouts Plum.
'Suck it, Plum!' replies Henry.
Everyone starts arguing all at once. Nothing rhymes with my name, I think sadly. And no one is even trying.
'Abigail away, 'gail away, 'gail away,' sings Plum. I look up and she meets my eye with a smile. Trust Plum to be the one to realise how much it sucks when you're single and everyone pairs up to play a game. Then I realise what song it is.
'Are you telling me that the only song that my name fits in is by fucking Enya?'
Charlotte turns to me. 'There's a guy at the bar looking at you,' she says.
'Not interested,' I say immediately. 'I'm not playing that game anymore.' And I'm not. I don't even look up to see what he's like.
'You fucking what?' says Plum, in shock.
'I'm going to enjoy being single,' I say.
'You are?' says Charlotte, trying not to look surprised. I ignore the subtle stress on 'you'. Now the entire table is listening to me. Again.