Authors: Gemma Burgess
A Girl Like You (30 page)
‘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.
‘Yep,’ I say breezily. ‘I tried so hard to avoid Lonely Single Girl Syndrome before,’ (out of the corner of my eye I see Dan mouth ‘what?’ at Plum) ‘but I think it’s now time to embrace it. Singledom is safe.’ I stand up, handing Sophie money for the bill for later. ‘I’m off. Early start for Abigail tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure?’ says Sophie, standing up to hug me goodbye. ‘Is this because the boys are here? I can tell them to leave if you want girl time,’ she whispers.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘Honestly. Tomorrow’s a big day. I’m resigning, remember?’
The next morning isn’t worth talking about until 10.42 am, when I’m sitting with Helen from HR and my boss Suzanne, who repeats the following two words several times, with increasing aggression and incredulity each time.
‘Documentary research.’
‘Yep,’ I beam. ‘On the recession and luxury markets.’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave the building immediately,’ smiles Helen. She’s warm and chatty, with a soul of steel.
‘No problem,’ I say, smiling warmly back.
‘Get your stuff. Security will be with you in 10 minutes,’ snaps Suzanne.
Man, she is so pissed off. I feel like clapping my hands.
‘Great! Thank you so much. Cheers. Thanks!’ I say brightly. I stand up and fight the urge to execute a nimble-footed-mountain-goat-leap out of the room. I walk back to my desk as fast as I can without running, jump behind Charlotte and shout ‘BOO!’ She jumps and starts to giggle nervously. People don’t shout ‘boo’ in this office. Ever. I quickly whisper what happened in the meeting, just as the security guard arrives. It’s Steve from the front desk.
‘Hi, Steve,’ I say, beaming at him.
‘Ready to go?’
‘Will you carry me out of here like Richard Gere and Debra Winger in
An Officer and a Gentleman
? Maybe I can wear your hat?’
Steve laughs so loudly at this that the entire floor looks over. Grinning, I pick up my bag. There’s nothing else I need. I took the few personal things I had home last week.
‘I’ll call you later,’ says Charlotte tearfully, hugging me.
‘I’ll miss seeing you every day. But you’re dating Henry now so you won’t get rid of me. It was all part of my evil plan to make you a best friend.’ Charlotte grins, and as her work phone rings, reaches over to answer it. She’s way better at this job than I ever was. And she actually likes it. As Steve walks me out of the building, I cannot stop smiling. I feel so happy.
‘See ya, Steve!’ I say, hugging him goodbye. He looks slightly surprised, but grins and hugs me back.
‘Bye bye, Abigail. You take care.’
He leaves me to take a deep breath of lovely clean, cold air. It’s sunny and blue-skied. The perfect day to be post-employed.
I’m no longer a research analyst. I’m not working for an investment bank. I don’t start work before 7 am every day, or make announcements to testosterone-fuelled trading boys.
What an utterly brilliant feeling.
Smiling to myself, I take out my iPod and start listening to Phoenix, till I remember Robert introduced me to them, and then put on my 60s mix. No memories there.
Smile firmly plastered back on my face, I walk towards Fleet Street, and then up to Covent Garden. The piazza in Covent Garden is so beautiful and yet it’s somewhere Londoners practically never go, I muse. I walk up, my heels catching on the cobblestones, looking at the buskers and the tourists.
I’m not sure what to do with a free day. I haven’t had one since . . . ah. Hong Kong. Since I flâneured.
And automatically, my mind goes back to Robert. I’m trying not to think about him, as you’ve probably picked up. There’s just no point. What’s done is done. And every time I wonder if maybe, just maybe I shouldn’t have run out and left him in the hotel room, I tell myself to shut the hell up.
He hasn’t exactly been knocking down my door, begging to talk about it either, you know.
I wander in and out of shops and try to engage myself in people watching, but it doesn’t take. I’m not peaceful inside. I should be – I’ve quit my job, I’m starting a career that I’m excited about, I’m finally free of my stupid self-imposed dating pressure and the ensuing disease that was Daveticipation . . . yet some-thing’s not right.
Then I get a text. It’s from Robert.
Heard the job news from Luke. Well done. You deserve it. JimmyJames is sleeping on the couch for a few weeks. Hope that’s OK. R
I’m stung by the formality of signing off with ‘R’. As though I wouldn’t know who he is, wouldn’t have his number saved anymore. I bite my lip, and draft a reply.
Thanks . . . No problem about JimmyJames . . . happy to have him around!
I deliberate for a second. Is that an appropriate response? What else can I say? Are you OK about Hong Kong? Are you upset with me? Is our friendship over? Can we ever go back to how things were? Should I be more friendly, say how excited I am about the job? No, I shouldn’t. He clearly doesn’t want to be friendly. I’ll even take out the thoughtful ellipses. I edit my text:
Thanks. No problem re JJ. A.
Send.
I walk all the way home, head up to my room and work on my documentary research for a few hours, texting Sophie and Plum in an attempt to arrange something to do tonight. But no one’s free. I could go to a party that one of the university lot is throwing, or I could force myself on any of the couples if I really wanted to, but I don’t. So I keep working.
At about 8 pm, I hear noises downstairs. Robert and JimmyJames!
Inviting them to share a takeaway would be a good way to start mending our friendship, surely? I apply some lip balm and walk downstairs. Be cheerful, I tell myself. Be relaxed.
Robert and JimmyJames are lying on the couches watching a football match.
‘Hi guys,’ I say, smiling as brightly as I can, leaning against the doorframe. ‘Hi,’ Neither looks up from the TV. ‘How are you, JimmyJames?’
‘Alright, Abigail, my darling?’ says JimmyJames, turning his head to wink at me. ‘Thanks for letting me crash. I promise you’ll hardly know I’m here.’
‘No problem! Would you like Thai for dinner? I’m about to order . . .’
‘Nah, we’ve got pizza on the way,’ says Robert, without even turning his head. He picks up the remote control and turns the volume up.
‘OK,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. There’s a cold feeling in my chest. I’ve lost my appetite all of a sudden. I get a yoghurt from the fridge, and eat it standing up at the kitchen bench. The ads come on, and Robert comments on the Cadbury’s ad, but I can’t quite catch what he’s saying. JimmyJames laughs and agrees. It’s like I’m not here. I can just see the back of Robert’s hair and his long legs stretched out on the coffee table. I remember what it feels like to have my hands . . .
Stop it.
I put the empty tub in the rubbish bin, and walk upstairs. Neither of them says a word to me.
Fine. If he wants to be cold, I can be cold too.