Authors: Gemma Burgess
A Girl Like You (23 page)
‘Sorry. It was a very long time ago. Do you want a burger?’
‘Oo! Yes. Burger. And a beer. And a shot.’ I need to erase the image of teenage Dave and Bella kissing.
‘Sure you shouldn’t slow down?’
‘I’m totally fine. When I start doing splits on the dance floor then you’ll know I’ve had enough,’ I say. Where is Dave? Argh, the Daveticipation . . . It’s nearly 8 pm: he’ll be here within four hours. He has to be.
After we eat, we decide to go to The Punchbowl, another Mayfair pub a few minutes away.
Robert is showing me photos on his phone of his niece Merry, who is four, and Tom, who is two and who has the hugest smile you’ve ever seen. ‘He’s the spitting image of myself at that age, by all accounts,’ says Robert proudly. ‘I always figured you as a grump from birth.’ I glance up at him and grin. ‘Don’t worry, I know you’re the Stay Puft marshmallow man underneath. It’s a big grouchy facade.’
Robert makes a huffing-laugh sound. ‘So is your so-called inability to know what you want in life.’
‘Really,’ I retort. ‘I think you know exactly what you want. You’re just too scared to admit it because then you’d actually have to do something about it.’
My face falls. Wow, that was pretty fucking insightful. But I don’t want to think about it.
‘Too far? Did I go too far?’ he says, grinning at me. ‘Yes, too far,’ I say, frowning up at him. ‘That cut me. Deep.’
‘Sorry, Abby, darling.’ He puts an arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You can say something cutting to me, if you like.’
‘OK, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re still hung up on some absolute bitch who was never good enough for you anyway,’ I say, pushing his arm off me. ‘I mean, some people are asshats. You have to let it go. You can’t control everything in life.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ he snaps. ‘That’s great, from the girl who can’t take a risk.’
We stare at each other angrily for a second and then start laughing.
The Punchbowl is the pub owned by Guy Ritchie, and has a more dilapidated air than the cosy-cool The Only Running Footman. The crowd in here seem like they’ve been here for weeks, sort of glamorous faux-ruffian types who are probably perfectly respectable and work in music or film, plus the inevitable Mayfair tourists and a few New Year black tie types who seem to have forgotten they’re meant to be at another party.
Robert heads off to find us a table, and I order two vodka and sodas. Yes. Simple and soothing. It’s 9 pm. Dave could turn up at any second, he could be surprising me, he might be texting Robert right now to find out where we are . . . The idea makes me smile.
‘You should smile more often,’ says a voice to my left. I turn and see a tall guy – mid-30s, slightly scruffy – in a minging leather jacket. ‘It makes you much prettier.’
Why do men say things like that? It’s not even a compliment, it’s saying we’re ugly when we’re not smiling. I turn back to the bartender and pay for my drinks. ‘Guess I’ll have to find you at midnight and make you smile,’ he continues. ‘Guess so,’ I agree, carrying the drinks over to the table. As if. ‘I came here with Antonia once,’ comments Robert. ‘It wasn’t a good match.’
‘I can imagine,’ I say, picturing Antonia’s all-white Euro ensemble in here. ‘Did she wear the white fur gilet? What is that? Albino kittens?’
‘No, baby wabbits,’ he says, and pauses as we clink glasses. ‘God, it probably
is
made from wabbits. Gross.’
‘What happened that time you saw her in the airport?’ I say, hoping he’s feeling more open than usual.
‘What? . . . oh. That time. Well, I said “hi Antonia, how are you?”. Then she told me what a total bastard I was, how miserable she’d been over me, how if I didn’t care I shouldn’t have flown out to Milan to see her when she was upset about her dog dying—’
‘You did?’
‘She was upset!’ he says, grinning. ‘I didn’t think that was
that
romantic.’
‘Well, it is. The knight in shining armour act is an obvious aphrodisiac.’
‘I did hope I might get some sex,’ he admits. ‘You’re such a gent. So then what happened?’
‘And so then I said, I am sorry, it was unfair of me to expect you to be fine with it. And I shouldn’t have dumped you by text—’ I gasp in horror ‘—I’m sorry for not answering your phone calls and for refusing to talk about it. I was wrong.’
‘God, Robert, I can’t believe I ever took dating advice from you. You’re such a prick.’
‘I apologised to her! And she forgave me. And it wasn’t dating advice. It was singledom advice. Huge difference.’
I glare at him. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘I said I was sorry. Your lectures made me see the error of my ways . . . or rather, the error of how I deal with the aftermath of my ways.’ He smiles angelically.
‘A lifetime of bad habits can’t be changed overnight. I feel like I should slap you on behalf of the sisterhood.’
‘Go for it.’
I raise my hand and slap him firmly across the cheek – not enough to hurt – and he pretends to start crying. I start giggling, I can’t help it. ‘Such a reprobate, and yet I adore you,’ I say, laughing despite myself. ‘You do?’ he says, brightening. ‘But I sure as hell wouldn’t want any woman I know going near you with a 10-foot pole.’
Robert’s face falls for a second. Then he smirks. ‘How did you know my pole is 10 feet? Right. Me to the bar.’
‘Another cleansing vodka for me, please.’
Hmm definitely a bit tipsy, applying lip gloss is tough. I’m almost drunk enough to call Dave. I try to weigh up the joy of hearing his voice versus the joy of winning today’s phone call powerplay. Perhaps I’ll just—
‘Are you OK?’ I look up. It’s Leather Jacket man. ‘I’m fine.’ I look back at my drink. I want him to go away. ‘I saw you slap your boyfriend,’ says Leather Jacket.
I start laughing. ‘That was a joke! He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘You shouldn’t spend your New Year’s Eve with someone like that. Come and sit with us.’
‘No, thank you,’ I say, smiling as coldly as I can, considering I’m in a really good mood. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘I think you’d enjoy it. Why don’t you give me your number, we can go out sometime. I promise not to give you any reason to slap me.’
He’s being too pushy, and he’s slurring slightly. I look up at him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m seeing someone.’
‘Yeah, someone you just slapped.’
‘Everything alright here?’ says Robert, coming back with our drinks.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You watch yourself, man,’ says Leather Jacket to Robert, poking him in the chest with an outstretched finger. ‘She’s too good for you.’
‘I know that,’ says Robert amiably, sitting down. Leather Jacket throws me a baleful glance as he walks away.
‘He’s a fucknuckle too. Like most men.’
‘Except Dave, presumably,’ says Robert. I check my phone for the fifth time since we got here. Nope, nothing. ‘Do you have any New Year resolutions?’ says Robert. ‘I don’t believe in them.’
‘They’re not imaginary,’ he replies. ‘For example, I resolve to not be a bastard to women.’
‘How noble,’ I say. ‘I resolve to not have someone be a bastard to me.’
Robert pauses and seems on the verge of saying something. ‘Dave—’
My phone buzzes. Dave! ‘He just texted me!’ I say delightedly, interrupting him. ‘He says . . . “With Luke and Sophie now. On the way to London. With you by next year.” . . . I wonder why he’s with them? And why they left so late?’
‘Dave stayed at Luke’s last night. They had car trouble today, apparently.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I say, ignoring the sudden stab of nervy jealousy. Luke’s house? Was Bella there, too?
‘You didn’t ask,’ he replies, taking another sip of his drink. Why couldn’t Dave just text me that there was car trouble? Does he not care that I’ve been waiting all day to hear whether I’d see him tonight? Isn’t that kind of inconfuckingsiderate? I sigh. At least he’ll still be here by midnight.
‘Scuse me,’ slurs a voice, and I look up. It’s Leather Jacket man. ‘I would like you to come and sit with us.’ I look up and over at his table, where his two friends are sitting. The table is littered with shot glasses.
‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘I think you should stay away from this guy.’ The words at the end all run into each other. Awayfrmthsguy.
I sit back and look at Robert. He raises his eyebrows. I shake my head to tell him not to get involved. ‘Please go away,’ I say coldly.
Leather Jacket takes a step back and forward in that drunken staggering-on-the-spot way. ‘Bitch.’
A split second later, Robert has stood up and grabbed Leather Jacket guy by the lapels. ‘Hey. Fucknuckle. She said no. So fuck off.’
Leather Jacket tries to push Robert away, but Robert’s taller and stronger than him and won’t let go. I’m not sure what Robert intends to do with him now that he’s got hold of him, and Robert doesn’t seem sure either. For a second I have the urge to giggle. He said fucknuckle!
Then it all becomes a bit messy. As Robert and Leather Jacket are shoving each other, Leather Jacket’s two friends finally notice what’s going on and hurry over, one shouting ‘Jesus Christ, Damien, not again!’ One friend stops next to me, while the other starts hitting Robert in the arm and gets a couple of good swings in before a bartender finally restrains him. A second bartender grabs Leather Jacket, who wrestles himself away and tries to get Robert in a headlock, resulting in a protracted, imprecise and slightly pathetic scuffly-dance between the three of them for several seconds. I take a second to gaze around the pub, shocked that no one else is trying to stop them, but everyone is silent and entranced. How ridiculous fighting looks. Seriously.
Shaking off the bartender one last time, Leather Jacket punches Robert, rather untidily, in the neck. Robert retorts by punching him, very precisely, in the face. Blood immediately explodes from Leather Jacket’s nose.
Two seconds later, Robert faints and crashes to the floor. Gasping, I hurry over and crouch down next to him, looking up quickly to see Leather Jacket and his mates being dragged outside by the bartenders. Someone passes me a bottle of water, and I kneel next to Robert’s head and try to pull him up. He looks like a black and white photograph of himself. My heart feels like it’s stopped beating, all I can think about is Robert.
‘Robert, oh please be alright, Robert . . .’ I whisper, stroking his forehead. God, he’s got lovely hair and such smooth, warm skin.
The rest of the pub is completely silent, looking at Robert passed out cold on the floor and me huddled over him. Robert blinks a couple of times, and opens his eyes. ‘Abby . . .’ he says croakily.
He’s fine. I sigh with relief. ‘I take it you faint at the sight of b—’
‘Don’t say the b-word,’ he whispers, and takes a sip of water. Someone else brings over a glass of lemonade. Then, like someone turning the music back up, everyone in the pub realises that the drama is over and starts talking amongst themselves again. We are forgotten.
One of the bartenders comes back to chat to us. ‘Sorry. We were keeping an eye on those guys all night, we knew they were trouble,’ he says. ‘Are you OK, mate?’
Robert is now leaning against a table leg, sipping lemonade. Somehow, I’ve ended up perched next to him stroking his hand and hair, like some kind of tipsy Florence Nightingale. ‘I’m fine . . . but I think I need some air. Abigail, will you take me walkies?’
‘Well, my nerves are still completely shot,’ I comment 20 minutes later, when we finally leave The Punchbowl.
‘
Your
nerves?’ echoes Robert disbelievingly.
He’s had two pints of water and a lemonade, and I’ve had a large whisky (just to calm the nerves). His face has colour again, and we’ve decided to wait for Luke, Sophie and Dave in a bar in Notting Hill that Plum keeps talking about.
‘Fresh air is good,’ says Robert, when I suggest a taxi, or that perhaps, for his sake, we ought to go home. (Dave can always join us there, right?) ‘I want to walk. It’s not that cold.’
I keep my arm around him as we’re walking along the top of Hyde Park towards Notting Hill. At first, I was supporting him because he was a little woozy. I felt like he needed looking after. But then it was just comfortable: we walk well together.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I say. ‘Do you want me to go and find that guy and beat him up for you?’
‘No,’ says Robert, laughing. ‘Thanks. You’re my knight in shining four-inch-heels.’
We stop in two pubs on the way, getting a lemonade for Robert and a whisky for me, then pretend to go for a cigarette and just keep walking with our drinks. We deposit the stolen glasses at the next pub.
‘This is one of the naughtiest things I’ve ever done,’ I say, as we wait for our drinks at the second pub.
‘Apart from the viola bow,’ he says.
‘Obviously apart from that,’ I nod as the drinks arrive. ‘Mmm. Lovely warm whisky.’
‘I think you’ve probably had enough,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say, wrenching my glass away. ‘My whisky. Mine.’ Robert grins. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask again. He doesn’t say anything. ‘You’re embarrassed to have lost control for a split second, aren’t you? You are!’ I start laughing.
‘Ah, you find yourself hilarious, I’m glad someone does,’ he says.
By the time we reach the Portobello Star, the whisky has made everything warm and fuzzy. We find a place to stand, smushed against the wall down at the back of the bar with a lot of West London too-cool types and start chatting – or rather, we both listen to my drunken gushing.
‘I love hipsters,’ I say, as Robert hands me an orangey-whisky cocktail (name? Who can tell!). ‘I want to be with a man with a beard before I die. I think it would be warm and cuddly, like kissing a man-shaped teddy bear . . . Oh! That girl is pretty,’ I say. ‘Look at her, she’s just your type. Your two o’clock. I mean my two o’clock, your nine o’clock. I mean . . .’ I crack up at myself. ‘I can’t even tell the time! Ah, you’re missing out on beautiful chicks, Roberto . . .’
‘You’re beautiful,’ he says.
I laugh at that, as obviously I must look like a shiny-faced drunkard, and he shakes his head and starts laughing too. I like Robert so much, I think. I feel warm and fuzzy and very happy. He’s such a lovely man. I hope he finds true love.
‘I hope you find true love,’ I say. Oh dear, I
am
pissed.
Robert smiles. How dark green his eyes are, I think. So steady. I feel like I might see double if I keep staring at them. ‘I hope I do, too.’
‘You’re supposed to wish me true love back,’ I retort.
‘You have Dave,’ he reminds me. ‘Though I’m surprised you’re not pissed that he’s so late.’
‘Oh yeah. Dave . . .’ I say, checking my phone. Nope, nothing, although Robert texted him when we decided to come to this bar. I sigh deeply, my mood suddenly plummeting. ‘He’ll be here soon . . . He doesn’t like to be text-terrogated, and he doesn’t like to make plans. So I have to just wait for him. Always, always waiting for him . . . Which is bullshit, right?’ I drink all of my cocktail in one gulp.
Robert nods and then catches himself, and stops.
‘And he said he wanted to be my girlfriend and, and, and ever since, ever since . . .’ I reach out and, after a couple of attempts, put my empty glass down on the table behind Robert, and try to get the thoughts in my head straight. ‘When I hear from him or he’s around, I feel alright, more than alright . . . good. I feel good. Plum says I am chasing emotions. But sometimes, not.’ Robert is smiling at me, but I’ve got almost double-vision now. One-and-a-half vision at least. ‘Oh, Robert. I am tired of this powerplay, I am not the player, I am not playing the powerplay. You know?’
‘Are you in love with him?’ asks Robert. I only just hear him saying it, the bar is so loud.
‘I don’t know,’ I sigh. ‘I don’t, um, don’t know,’ I look up at Robert and start laughing.
‘I don’t know seems to be my catch—’ I hiccup – ‘my catchphrase.’
‘That’s a terrible catchphrase,’ he says, with a grin.
‘My dad says, the right person, I’ll just know. Most annoying thing in the world.’ I can’t tell Robert about how my brain short-circuits whenever Dave touches me, and that it’s that reaction, above anything else, that makes me feel he might be the right man for me. I can’t even remember what that feels like, or even what he looks like. I can’t remember anything right now.
‘You’re not making sense,’ says Robert.
I look up at him and grin happily. What were we just talking about? I forget.
Suddenly the DJ stops the music, and the crowd starts counting.
‘Ten! Nine! Eight . . .’ Robert and I join in, in that excited and totally unselfconscious way that you do when you’ve been drinking for hours.
‘ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ screams the crowd.
I grin at Robert and stand on tiptoe to reach up and give him a smacking Happy-New-Year cheek kiss, when someone elbows me violently in the back and I’m shoved forward, my mouth landing forcefully on his.
‘Whoops’, I think, and go to say it, but I can’t, because all of a sudden his arms are around me and his lips are on mine and we’re kissing, properly kissing, and his lips are so warm and my heart starts beating wildly and I don’t want to stop and everything around me goes whoooooooooosh . . . Seconds, minutes – I don’t know – later, we break apart. The instant that Robert’s lips are off mine, I put my hands on his chest and push him away from me, trying to catch my breath. Or my thoughts. Whichever comes first. (Neither do. The slackers.) My heart is hammering so loudly in my chest that it almost hurts.
‘Happy birthday,’ he says. He looks as surprised as I am.
‘I . . . I—’ I’m horrified. I keep meeting his eyes and then looking away. I didn’t push him off me fast enough, we shouldn’t have kissed, I didn’t stop it, Dave, his friend, my boyfriend, oh God . . .
‘I’m sorry,’ he says immediately, reading my face.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say. I feel completely sober all of a sudden. ‘I’m going . . . I’m going . . . to the bathroom.’
I pick up my bag and turn to push my way through the crowd.
A glance in the mirror is every drinking girl’s nightmare: my make-up is AWOL on my red face, my eyes are glittering weirdly, and my eyeliner is very badly smudged.
‘Fuck,’ I say. My mind is racing. Fuck, I just kissed Robert, my best friend, my boyfriend’s best friend, fuck, Dave, my boyfriend, is he my boyfriend? He must be, he said he was, fuck, I just kissed Robert, I liked it, did I like it?
At least I’m sober.
‘Fuck,’ I say aloud again.
A girl comes out from the toilet cubicle behind me. She’s very pretty, and wearing a tiny green dress with her hair in a funky beehive. Why do I look so drab, I think irritably. My jeans and plain top looked so classic and fresh when I put them on, now I look like a nun. A J Brand-wearing drunk nun who just cheated on her boyfriend and jumped on her best friend. Fuck. I look in the mirror again, and notice that the girl washing her hands next to me is crying silently.
‘Are you alright?’ I say automatically.
‘Fine, fine,’ she says, and wipes away a tear.
‘My boyfriend and I broke up on Boxing Day,’ she adds, her voice choked with tears.
‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘That’s so awful. Are you having an awful night?’
She shrugs, heaving an enormous make-up bag onto the sink. ‘I knew I’d cry at midnight, so I brought my entire make-up bag,’ she says, laughing through a small sob.
‘I’ve got eye drops,’ I say helpfully. ‘And . . . mints, and powder, and perfume, and Benefit High Beam, and, let me see . . .’ I open my make-up bag and put it next to hers on the sink. ‘Just help yourself. At least you don’t look like you came straight from a triathlon, like I do.’
‘I’ve got foundation,’ she says, grinning at me. ‘And a Q-tip that you can use to fix your eyes.’
Ah, the power of make-up to bring girls together. I don’t want to think about Robert, or what just happened, or what’s about to happen. So instead, as we pass Bobbi Brown Shimmer Brick and MAC Smoulder back and forth, I counsel my new friend Millie on her break-up, which she said she could see coming all through Christmas, especially when he gave her a book with the ‘3 for 2’ Waterstone’s sticker left on.
‘Who got the other two books?’ I say.
‘That’s what I want to know!’ she says and we cackle with laughter.
‘Well, frankly, I think you are much better off without him,’ I say, handing her MAC Nuance blush.
‘I know,’ she agrees, handing me some Benefit Hoopla bronzer. I never wear bronzer. Hey ho. In for a penny.
‘And,’ I say a moment later to my new, tanned reflection. ‘I think that you’re going to meet someone tonight. Someone,’ I pause to add some more to my nose and chin ‘to make you forget all about him.’
‘You know what I want?’ she says. ‘I want a fling. It was an intense five months with that dickhead. I want something casual. With lots of sex.’
I pause, and look at her. ‘Then I have just the man for you.’ We traipse back down the stairs together. Yes, I will introduce Millie to Robert, and that will make him happy, then I will go home and to hell with it, I’ll call Dave and tell him he’s missed me, I mean, that I’ve missed him, and that he needs to come over and have sex with me and that will fix everything. Yes. Good plan.
Then I look over to where Robert is waiting for me and see my sister and Luke and . . .
Dave turns and, grinning, grabs me and lunges into a huge kiss. Immediately, the electrical reaction is back, like someone flipping a switch in my body. I’m tingling all over, but I’m also horrifically conscious of Robert watching us. Robert, who I just kissed. Oh God, did that really happen? It doesn’t seem real . . .
‘Happy New Year, angel,’ murmurs Dave, standing me back up and looking into my eyes. Holy blue eyes. Can he read my guilt? I blink and look away. ‘And apparently happy birthday. Right, now that’s done, I’m getting drinks.’
I am quickly enveloped in a happy birthday hug from Sophie and Luke, who are ranting about their nightmare drive from Bath with pit stops for wine and how Sophie and Dave are annoying drunks and Luke is an ‘annoying sober’.
I haven’t dared to look at Robert yet. Instead, I pull forward Millie and introduce her.
I notice Dave appraising Millie’s body with a practised eye. I wish I looked hotter tonight. I want him more than ever. I don’t even care why he’s late anymore. (But oh God, please let it not be because of Bella.) It’s so good to see him that the relief has overtaken everything else . . .
I want Millie to talk to Robert, but when I finally look over at him, he’s expressionless, staring into space. Luckily, Millie takes the initiative, and puts her hand on his arm, smiling up at him.
‘Robert, Abigail tells me that you protected her virtue earlier . . .’
‘Uh, yeah,’ he says, without looking at me. ‘I did.’
‘What? Story!’ says Sophie.
Robert and I manage to tell the entire Punchbowl punch-up story, together, without our eyes meeting even once. We both leave out the fainting bit automatically. I don’t want to drop Robert in it, and he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it either.
God, I feel self-conscious. If they’d walked in 15 minutes earlier . . . No, don’t think about it.
‘Well, that all sounds very chivalrous,’ says Dave, who returned with drinks halfway through the story.
‘Well done, Robbie. What a brave boy you are.’
‘He was, actually,’ I say, suddenly irritated by Dave’s usual jealous ribbing. ‘It was amazing.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ says Millie, smiling up at Robert. He looks down at her with a little grin on his face. Good, he’s back to normal. Great.
‘Birthday lunch tomorrow?’ Sophie says to me.
‘Yes please,’ I say. ‘But no singing. No cake. None of that shit. Henry and Charlotte will be back too.’
‘Half of our mates are at a ball tonight,’ says Luke. ‘So they might come along tomorrow.’
‘What ball?’ I say.
‘A charity ball. Organised by Louisa’s husband,’ says Luke in a low voice. ‘Dave refused to go, said it was a waste of his money. He caused a massive fight.’
‘It
is
a waste,’ says Dave, placing a lazy hand on the back of my neck and stroking it. I fight the urge to purr, then glance at Robert, and for a moment our eyes meet. I look away quickly. ‘I’m not giving my hard-earned money to the impoverished hamster association.’
‘It’s the RSPCA,’ says Sophie.
‘You know that.’
‘I like to choose the animals I help,’ he replies. ‘Dogs, yes. Cats, no. Horses, yes. Parrots, no. And I’ve always thought the RSPCA was a front for a vice ring of some kind.’
‘You just don’t like her husband,’ says Luke.
‘Well, he’s a wanker,’ says Dave. ‘And a ponce. That’s why I try to undermine him at every given opportunity.’ He pauses. ‘It’s actually a beautiful thing.’
He glances at Robert, who has turned to talk to Millie and hasn’t heard a thing. In a flash I realise that despite the competitive put-downs, Dave and Robert really are best friends. They may operate an official policy of ‘don’t get involved’, and he couldn’t stop the way his sister behaved with Robert, but he’s clearly been a complete prick to her and her husband ever since.
Seeing this twisted display of friendship and loyalty makes me suddenly adore Dave even more.
‘You secretly love Robert, don’t you,’ I whisper.
‘I do,’ he nods back, and winks at me. ‘But don’t tell him.’
I flashback to Robert and the kiss(es) again, and am knocked out by guilt.
Good, loyal, and frankly, adorable Dave. Bad, disloyal, horrible Robert and me.