over to The Westbourne,’ that’s another pub just about 30 feet up, always surrounded by enthusiastic outside drinkers on days like this. ‘Walk in the side entrance and order two pints of beer and a vodka and tonic at the bar. Carry them out the main door—’
‘But how can I carry three drinks?’ asks Plum. ‘I’ll drop them.’
‘Exactly. Pause when you get outside, like you can’t see your friends. It’s packed, so that’s not surprising. Act like you’re having trouble holding all the glasses. Someone will offer to help you. Talk, laugh, flirt. Job done.’
‘Will that really work?’ I ask, as Plum heads off.
‘No reason it shouldn’t. The first step to being chatted up is being visible,’ says Robert. ‘She’s a pretty girl and she swears exceptionally well . . . Of course, she’s also transparently high-maintenance, and that’s her Achilles’ heel.’
‘What’s mine? Achilles’ heel, I mean?’
‘Lack of confidence,’ says Robert instantly. Ouch.
‘I have confidence,’ I protest feebly. (This, of course, isn’t the correct response when someone accuses you of lacking confidence. The correct response is a derisive ‘blow me’.) ‘Dating is just out of my comfort zone.’
‘Well, you also often look preoccupied, like you’re arguing with yourself. It gives you a fuck-off aura.’
‘Suck my aura,’ I say sulkily.
Robert smirks.
‘It’s not my fault,’ I say, after a pause. ‘You need experience to be confident at anything. Driving. Putting on make up. Flipping pancakes. I have no experience at being single. How could I possibly be confident at it?’
‘We’re working on that,’ he says. ‘You’re next.’
I sigh. I really don’t want to set myself up for another terrible Paulie-date.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine. It won’t be like Paulie. Experience, remember?’
His mind-reading trick is getting really annoying.
‘There she is!’ exclaims Sophie a few minutes later. I look over. Plum is sauntering over the road towards us, an enormous grin on her face. She holds her fist in front of her chest and flips up her index and little finger in the heavy metal, devil sign.
‘Victory is mine, beetchez. First, a man at the bar gave me his card,’ she says, sitting down. ‘And I met two guys outside. One went to make a call, and the other asked for my number and asked if I would like to meet for a drink on Wednesday!’
Sophie and I reach over to give her surreptitious high-fives.
‘Ditch the card,’ says Robert. ‘It’s lazy. If he was really keen, he would have asked for your number.’ Plum obediently tears the business card in two and drops it in the ashtray.
Paulie gave me his card. No wonder the date sucked.
Plum sits back, smiling peacefully to herself. Funny how happiness is tied in to feeling wanted, isn’t it? Or not feeling unwanted, anyway.
‘Abigail, your turn,’ Plum grins at me.
Oh God no. I couldn’t bear to have everyone watch me fail.
‘No point,’ I say quickly. ‘The guys at The Westbourne have seen Plum do exactly the same three-drinks-lost thing. If I did it, it’d look weird.’
‘Forget The Westbourne. Try the bar here. Go in, order five drinks,’ says Robert. ‘Stand next to someone decent. When the drinks arrive, look perplexed. He’ll offer to help.’
‘I don’t want to,’ I say in a faux-whingey voice that I hope hides how nervous the idea makes me feel.
‘Go on, darling,’ says Sophie. ‘I need a drink, anyway.’
‘There’s nothing to be nervous about, Abigail,’ says Robert.
Sighing, I walk into The Cow, stepping over a couple of sprawling dogs and the long legs of a model on the way in.
I size up the bar. There are three guys standing together, all wearing knee-length khaki combats that remind me of Peter, so I dismiss them instantly. A curly-haired woman is next to them gossiping with the bartender. I decide to stand next to two guys studying a wine list down the other end of the bar. God, nerves suck.
‘Montepulciano,’ one is reading. He’s cute, wearing skinny jeans and a slightly too-tight T-shirt. ‘Or Valpolicella.’
‘You can’t choose a wine just because you like saying the name,’ says the other, who’s wearing just a waistcoat and shorts. He’s carrying it off, surprisingly.
‘I think I’ll call my first child Montepulciano,’ replies Skinny Jeans pensively. ‘Monty, for short, obviously.’
I grin to myself at this, and duck my head to hide that I’m eavesdropping.
‘See? The lady in red thinks it’s a good idea,’ says Skinny Jeans. I glance down. I’m wearing a loose red mini dress and Converses. He means me! I don’t know what to say, so – cool! detached! – rather than gabble, I look over and smile mutely. Skinny Jeans is cute in a skinny, media-boy kind of way.
‘She thinks you’re a drunk,’ replies Waistcoat.
OK, now I need to speak.
‘Actually, I’m thinking that I always wanted to name my first child Mascarpone, but I may have to rethink that now,’ I manage to say.
‘You choose, then,’ says Skinny Jeans. He hands me the wine list and I scan it slowly, trying to think of something to say.
‘Quite the wine buff,’ comments Waistcoat. I look at him and raise an eyebrow. To disagree would look falsely modest, to agree would be idiotic.
‘The Brunelli is nice, if you want Italian,’ I say calmly. ‘Personally, I like Malbec.’ Actually, it’s the only wine I remember drinking recently.
‘Malbec it is,’ replies Skinny Jeans. ‘Care to join us?’
‘Alas, I cannot,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve got to get a round . . .’ I turn to the bar and see the bartender looking at me expectantly, and quickly order. I ignore the guys while I wait. Nerves, my nemesis (nemeses? Nemesii?) have overcome me, and I don’t know what to say. I hand over my money, take the change, feeling painfully self-conscious the whole time . . .
‘Need a hand with those drinks?’ asks Skinny Jeans.
‘Uh, yes, please. Thanks,’ I say.
‘Alfie, order the Malbec,’ Skinny Jeans says over his shoulder as he nods to me to lead the way.
‘Thanks . . .’ I say again, as we’re walking outside.
We reach the table, and Sophie and Plum beam at Skinny Jeans. Could they be any more obvious?
