Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess
‘I don’t think that the state of deadness – or the speed dating environment, for that matter – is conducive to texting.’
‘Drinks!’ says Plum, bursting back in with two very large vodkas.
‘Is that Robert? Hi, Robert!’
‘Is that Plum?’ he says. ‘Christ, she’s cheerful.’
‘I’m putting you on speaker,’ I say, and press loudspeaker. ‘Robert is my scriptwriter.’
‘Right then. To to the Josh guy, you say that you lost your phone,’ he says, his voice sounding all tinny over the loudspeaker.
‘Roger that,’ I nod. ‘But he might ask me out again.’
‘Then say that you’re, God, I don’t know . . . working through a few issues with a recent break-up,’ he says.
‘So she’s allegedly working through break-up issues by going to a speed dating night?’ says Plum dubiously.
There’s a pause. Plum and I stare hopefully at my mobile.
Robert clears his throat. ‘Let’s move on. Skinny Jeans. Just act like you’re mildly amused to see him again.’
‘That’s no help!’ I exclaim. ‘I need a script, Robert. What if he asks me why I left before he woke up? Or why I ignored his texts? I’m too embarrassed to tell him that I was too embarrassed.’
‘What?’ Robert starts laughing again. ‘Why do you care what he thinks?’
‘And what if Joe picks a fight again? I’m not good with people being mean! What if – I mean, what if—’
‘I can’t script non-specific “what if” situations, Abigail,’ says Robert. ‘You can handle this. Come on. Be a man. Pull yourself together.’
‘I’ve got an idea!’ exclaims Plum. ‘My earpiece. The Bluetooth thing on my phone. We can arrange your hair to hide it, and Robert can call my phone and listen in and suggest things to say.’
I gaze at Plum for a second. It’s the perfect solution.
‘Yes! Awesome idea!’ I say. Plum starts high-fiving me and jumping gleefully around the bathroom. I turn back to the phone. ‘Robert! Will you do it?’
‘Um . . . OK,’ says Robert slowly. ‘Can you really hide it, though? And I need to be able to hear what he’s saying, too.’
Plum brandishes a hairclip. ‘Side part, so all your hair is over your ear. Voilà.’
‘Got it,’ I say. ‘In that case I need another double vodka, please. My shout. Take my card. You know my pincode. Robert, I will call you back in a few minutes.’
‘Roger that,’ says Plum, and runs out of the bathroom. I get my make-up out of my bag and start reapplying. I need more warpaint for this battle.
Twenty minutes later, my hair is now in a (rather becoming, actually) bouffy side-swooped ponytail, entirely covering my right ear. Plum’s phone earpiece is tucked safely behind said side-swoop, and Robert is sitting on the couch at home with a bottle of wine, his voice beaming into my ear via the magic of Bluetooth. Or wireless. Or whatever it is.
‘Can you hear me? Testing, testing.’
‘Affirmative,’ I say into the bathroom mirror.
‘You can’t see a thing,’ says Plum admiringly. ‘God, I am brilliant.’
She’s bursting with sunny positivity. What a difference a date makes. I also notice that she’s backcombed her hair and done a sex-kitten-swish with her eye make-up. ‘Miaow,’ I say. ‘I know,’ she beams. ‘I’m seeing Dan tomorrow. But the admiring male gaze is good for the soul.’
‘Amen to that, sister,’ I say, and we clink glasses. ‘Robert, can you hear us talking?’
‘Loud and clear,’ says Robert. ‘And heavy on the oestrogen.’
‘OK,’ I say. My nerves have solidified into a tiny fist in the pit of my stomach. I can handle anything tonight throws at me . . . with Robert’s help. ‘Robert, thank you so much for doing this,’ I say. ‘I mean really. I owe you.’
‘Add it to my tab,’ says the little Robert voice in my ear. ‘OK, team,’ I say, as a bell rings outside. ‘Let’s go.’
We walk outside and upstairs to a private room, where Charlotte, Henry and the rest of the speed-daters have already congregated. Forty of London’s young singles, all in the one room. I can practically smell the hormones.
Keeping my head down, I take a seat at a table for two with a bottle of wine and two glasses. How thoughtful to provide a conversational lubricant, I think, pouring myself an extremely large glass, drinking half of it and then refilling it. There’s also a pencil and a sheet of paper with 20 numbered lines on. I’m supposed to make notes? Fuck that.
A girl at the front is calling out instructions to people, but I’m having trouble paying attention. I look around and see Charlotte and Plum at their own little tables, and give them little thumbs up and nods. The rest of the speed daters are all in different stages of nervousness and excitement. I can’t see any particularly good-looking guys, by the way. Which is good: the next hour is about surviving, not flirting.
‘You OK, Abby, darling?’ says Robert.
‘Smashing!’ I exclaim brightly, scaring a guy walking past who thinks I’m talking to him. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ If I’m not careful, I’m going to look absolutely cuckoo. Thinking this, I say ‘cuckoo!’ aloud, and I hear Robert laughing.
‘Hi, I’m Christopher,’ says a shaven-headed man in a suit, shaking my hand. ‘I think I’m your first victim.’
‘Tell him you’ll take it easy on him, but you like to draw first blood,’ says Robert. I crack up and Christopher looks at me oddly. ‘If you find that amusing, we’re going to have a great time.’ he says.
I raise an eyebrow at him. Two can play the arrogance card, my friend.
Then a bell rings again, and the speed date has officially started.
‘So, what brings you here tonight, Christopher?’ I say.
‘I’m a journalist. I’m reviewing this for Time Out,’ he says.
‘He’s lying,’ says Robert in my ear. ‘He’s trying to look cool.’
‘Really,’ I say. ‘Do you work with Kristina O’Shaunnessy?’
‘Yeah, I think she’s on another floor,’ he says smoothly. He is lying. I totally made that name up.
‘Do you live, um, in London?’ I say.
‘Oh God, I’m so bored already,’ says Robert.
‘Shut up,’ I say. Christopher looks at me oddly. ‘I mean . . . don’t shut up! Talk! Talk!’
Robert starts laughing in my ear and I’m having trouble holding it together. The rest of the speed date is a complete catastrophe, as all I can hear in one ear is Robert laughing, and Christopher, clearly thinking I’m mad, in the other.
Then the bell rings again. Christopher can’t wait to get away.
‘Listen, dammit, I need you to be serious,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘I’ll be sectioned if it continues like this.’
‘Sorry,’ Robert says. ‘OK, OK, I will be serious now.’
Then the bell rings again, and I look up, and it’s Josh From HR.
‘Abigail,’ he says awkwardly, sitting down.
‘Josh!’ I say loudly.
‘Who?’
‘From HR,’ I add quickly.
‘Got