Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess
They’re lovely. Saigon-style crepe, hmm, not sure about that . . . Har gau, they’re a favourite of mine. Soft-shell crab! I love crab, my sister hates it, she once had food poisoning in Singapore. I’m not—’
‘Excuse me, I think we’re ready to order some wine,’ interrupts Paulie, gesturing towards the waitress at the door.
‘Wine! Great,’ I say, and take a deep breath. You’re being a dickhead, Abigail, I think firmly. Sort it out. But I can’t. I’m a rolling snowball of nerves and stupidity, gathering momentum every second. ‘I seem to be impervious to alcohol recently, since I left my, uh, in the last few weeks. I mean, I drink, you know, a lot, but I don’t get hangovers lately. It’s like I’m an alcoholic goddess!’ Did you just say that Abigail? You absolute idiot.
‘Cheers to that,’ says Paulie, and drinks half his glass in one gulp.
I take a deep breath and smile, and drain half my martini in the next sip. Please God. Let this be over soon.
Two hours later, I crash through the front door, staggering a little to take my heels off. My flatmate, Robert, is stretched out on the couch, legs up on the coffee table, watching TV.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ I say.
‘Hey,’ he replies, glancing at me and back at the TV.
I shuffle into the living room, carrying my shoes, and plop down on the other couch.
‘I just had my first date, ever, in my whole entire life,’ I say chattily. I close one eye to focus on the TV. It’s an old The Simpsons, the episode with the monorail. ‘They use the M as an anchor to get the doughnut and then there’s an escalator to nowhere,’ I say helpfully.
‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ Robert runs his hands through his hair absent-mindedly. It’s longish and dark, and sticks up in the most gravity-defying way I’ve ever seen. I wonder if he uses product and if so, which one. ‘Beer?’
I look down and see a small bucket next to the couch, filled with ice and beer. The fridge is exactly nine feet away.
‘That is supremely lazy.’
Robert glances over again and grins. ‘Well, aren’t you chatty tonight?’
‘I’m a little drunk,’ I confess, sliding down the couch and manoeuvring my foot to pinch a beer bottle between my toes. Those last two martinis were goooood. We finished the wine, and Paulie switched to beer, and I thought hell, why not?
‘Good date?’ he asks, not taking his eyes off the TV.
‘Yeah,’ I say, moving my foot to bring the bottle up to my hand. Good eye-foot coordination. ‘He seems really nice. A bit reserved. He’s getting up early for a conference call so we called it a night after dinner.’
‘Oh, so it was a bad date,’ Robert says decisively, throwing me the bottle opener. I catch it perfectly and smile to myself. I cannot play any sports, at all. In fact, team sports make me panic – what if I let people down? (The pressure!) Yet I can always catch anything thrown at me. If only I could market this talent in some way, I’d never have to analyse results again. I could work in a bar, like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, and just throw bottles all – wait. I focus on what Robert just said.
‘Bad? No!’ I say. ‘It was fine. I was a little, uh, nervous, but then the conversation was easy. I found out lots about him, he seems very nice.’
‘Did you ask him lots of questions?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ask you any questions?’
Pause. ‘No . . .’
‘Did you laugh a lot?’
Even longer pause. ‘We had a few . . . light moments.’
‘Bad date,’ he says again. ‘No kiss, right?’
I admit, that part confused me. When the hell are you meant to kiss? How can you tell if they want to? I tried to look at Paulie meaningfully, but I couldn’t catch his eye, and then he opened the cab door and kind of stood behind it, so I just got in and waved goodbye.
God. That is a disaster, now that I think about it.
‘How did you know that?’ I ask.
‘Lip gloss,’ he replies.
‘Well, aren’t you Sherlock fucking Holmes?’ I say. I feel a bit deflated. ‘I think he’ll call me, anyway.’
‘Right,’ says Robert flatly.
‘He could be my soulmate,’ I say lightly.
‘He isn’t,’ he says. ‘I promise.’
‘Oh, poo on you,’ I say, taking a sip of my beer.
‘Nice comeback,’ he says.
Luke, my sister’s fiancé mentioned that people sometimes find Robert a bit moody. He should know: Robert is one of his best friends. Robert and I haven’t spoken much until now. I’m probably out of practice at making new friends, and sometimes I think I wouldn’t know small talk if it hit me in the face. But tonight, the booze is helping.
I close one eye and gaze over at Robert. His legs are so long that he can easily reach the coffee table. I try to reach my toes out to it and fail. Robert notices and reaches forward to pull it towards my hopeful toes.
‘Thanks.’ Maybe I should say what’s on my mind. ‘It’s not my fault that I don’t know this dating stuff, you know. I’m a dating virgin. I’d never gone on a proper date before tonight.’
‘Mmm,’ says Robert, which I take as further encouragement.
‘I mean, I went to the movies and things with Peter at the start, obviously. But we’d been friends for so long that it felt natural . . . and we didn’t even go on an official first date. I mean, it was university. We were drunk at a party and snogged and voilà, instant boyfriendage. And now it’s seven years later and I’ve forgotten how to be single. What can I do about it?!’
Robert doesn’t respond.
‘I was just being polite by asking Paulie all those questions. What else could I talk about? He’s a total stranger! Better than awkward silence,’ I pause, thinking of more reasons. ‘And I was trying to be nice, and, um, and interested in his life. It’s good manners.’
‘I’m sure he appreciated your good manners,’ says Robert.
This is not the type of cosy flatmate chat I used to enjoy with Plum and Henry and everyone at university, I must say. Perhaps he’s never lived with a girl before. Luke shared a flat with him until he met Sophie and kicked Robert out, which is when he bought this place. It’s a funny little place over three stories, with bare floorboards and very masculine furniture. Leather couches and a couple of low wood tables. I described it to Plum as ‘butch chic’.
He’s obviously not keen on becoming best friends, I muse. He probably only needs a flatmate to help pay the mortgage. He must be old. Luke’s 30, but Robert looks older. He seems to permanently need a shave.
‘How old are you?’ I ask.
‘Old enough to know not to talk to a man during The Simpsons,’ he replies.
We watch The Simpsons episode till it ends, and then Robert starts flicking the TV channels. We go past an episode of Family Guy.
‘Oohh! Family Guy. Yes please,’ I say. Robert flicks back.
I’m starting to sober up.
‘After martinis, beer is like bread, I swear,’ I comment during the ads. ‘It really soaks up the alcohol.’
Robert doesn’t respond.
Family Guy starts again. My mind