singledom on the way.
‘I need to hang out with guys more,’ said Henry. ‘I think you chicks are the reason I never get any action.’
‘You don’t think it’s because you tend to wake up with bites of unchewed kebab in your mouth?’ I said.
‘One time!’ shouted Henry. He paused. ‘I could murder a kebab now, actually.’
‘I am so over that crowd,’ I said, applying lip gloss. ‘They all think I’m an evil bitch for dumping Peter.’
‘Me too,’ said Plum, taking the lip gloss from me. ‘But only because I’ve slept with all the decent men.’
‘You didn’t sleep with me!’ exclaimed Henry, slapping Plum away as she tried to put lip gloss on him too.
‘I snogged you at my 21st, sweetie,’ she replied. ‘And it wasn’t great kissing, so I didn’t bother to defile you.’
‘Maybe you’re a bad kisser,’ he said. ‘Because I’m awesome.’
There was a pause, probably as we all wondered if we were, in fact, bad kissers.
‘I’m starting to think I’m bad in bed because men keep dumping me after I sleep with them,’ said Plum glumly.
‘I heard that you were bad in bed, actually,’ said Henry. Plum punched him, quite hard, in the shoulder. ‘Ow.’
‘I have only kissed or slept with one person since my teens,’ I said. ‘So both of you can just shut up.’
Poor Henry, I reflect. My mother would be so happy if I fell in love with and/or married him. So would Plum’s. But we’ve known him too long. I don’t even think of him as having a willy. I sort of imagine he has a mound down there, like a Ken doll.
Today, I’m dragging Plum to meet my sister and her fiancé at a pub called The Cow in Notting Hill.
‘I fucking hate Sundays,’ says Plum, lighting a cigarette as we walk towards the pub. She’s in a mood. ‘Every Sunday I go to bed alone and wake up on Monday alone and think, oh, another week, a whole week till the weekend when I might, maybe, get to meet someone new, someone who isn’t a total cockgobbler . . .’
‘Plum!’ I exclaim. ‘That is melodramatic. And untrue.’ Her hung-over negativity scares me. Is that attitude inevitable? Will I end up like that? I did meet someone last night, between you and me, but I don’t want to bring it up now and make Plum feel worse.
‘Churchill had a black dog. I have singledom,’ she says, exhaling theatrically. ‘I will die alone.’
‘Plummy—’
‘It’s enough to make me completely desperate—’
‘Don’t! Don’t say that word,’ I exclaim. I don’t want to catch her Sunday blues. ‘I don’t like it.’
Plum looks at me strangely. ‘Alright. Jeez. Oh, there they are. Sitting outside. Yay.’
Luke is half-Dutch, and inherited white-blonde hair from his Dutch mother so it’s easy to spot him in a crowd, like a little ray of light. He and Sophie met a year ago and got engaged two months ago. Just before I left Peter. I’d tell you that their perfect, blissful love had no impact on my Peter decision, but well, I’d be lying. It was a major catalyst. Sophie wanted to marry Luke, I didn’t want to marry Peter, the contrast was too huge to ignore.
‘About time!’ says Sophie, standing up to hug and kiss us hello. I note, as usual, how she seems to glow with happiness whenever Luke is around. That’s what love should be like. Maybe I’m just not capable of it. Argh. Love.
Time for a drink.
‘So tell me about last night,’ I say a few minutes later, Corona in hand.
‘Another fucking 30th. A dinner party,’ says Sophie. Luke is 30, so their social life seems to be ‘another fucking 30th’ every weekend. ‘Started with wine and nibbles, ended with straight men doing synchronised dance routines to Backstreet Boys songs.’
‘I rocked out like AJ McLean,’ adds Luke. His phone buzzes. ‘That’s the hotline . . . ah. Dave can’t make it. He’s unable to get out of bed, apparently.’
‘Anything exciting happen last night?’ asks Sophie. ‘I mean men. You know I mean men.’
I grin, and shrug coolly. I want to get the subject off men so Plum doesn’t get even more depressed. I’m also trying out the don’t-think-about-him-don’t-talk-about-him attitude I’ve been working on since Robert’s post-Paulie peptalk.
‘Bonjour tigre,’ says Plum under her breath. I look up. It’s Robert, striding towards us, up Westbourne Park Road, talking on his phone.
‘That’s my flatmate,’ I say. ‘Robert.’
‘Fucking hell,’ she says quietly, glancing at Sophie and Luke to see if they’re listening, but fortunately they’re cooing at each other like pigeons. ‘He is gorgeous.’
Robert is clearly trying to end the phone conversation. He’s wearing a kind of cool, albeit wrinkled, khaki shirt. Combined with the furrowed brow and stubble, I have to admit he looks pretty good. He’ll need Botox soon if he doesn’t stop frowning, though.
‘Right . . . Is that all? . . . Well, thanks for calling . . . I don’t know yet. It’s six days away . . . I will. Yes.’ He finally hangs up, shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, and turns to us.
‘Luke, you look fantastic. Hello Sophie, Abigail,’ he says, leaning over to give me a kiss hello. His stubble is longer than usual, and he smells slightly of whisky.
‘Long night, huh, sailor?’ I say, wrinkling my nose.
‘You have no idea,’ he says. His voice is very husky. ‘God, even my eyebrows hurt.’
‘You bad man, why are you in the same clothes that you were in last night?’ asks Sophie. Robert winks at her. Plum is practically panting.
‘Robert, meet Plum. Plum, Robert,’ I say.
‘Hello, Plum,’ says Robert, sitting down at the table next to me. ‘What a delightful name. It’s one of my favourite stone fruits.’ Hung-over Robert is infinitely more relaxed than After Work Robert, I notice. I wonder if his job is stressful.
‘So you were out last night? Were you dancing too? Hung-over today? I hate hangovers, don’t you? I had one earlier but it’s gone now!’ babbles Plum, as she frantically flicks her hair. I glance at her in shock. Is that her idea of subtle body language? And is Robert really that gorgeous?
‘No questions, please. I need a drink,’ he says. Luke hands him the beer he has waiting for him. ‘Thanks. Christ, it’s sunny. I’ll pay you a thousand pounds for your sunglasses, Abigail.’ His eyes are dark green, I notice, with irritatingly thick eyelashes. Why do men always get them? Is it the gene pool’s idea of a joke?
I hand over my sunglasses, which are sort of Fifties and cateyeish, and to my surprise he happily puts them on and beams at us all.
‘Do
