sir,’ I say. He walks back inside and I sit down nonchalantly.
Everyone makes an ‘oooooo’ sound.
‘Shut up,’ I say. I can’t help smiling. Confidence, engage! Experience, add one point!
‘Did he get your number?’ asks Plum.
‘No,’ I say. Everyone except Robert murmurs ‘oh’ disap-pointedly. Confidence, dash yourself against the nearest rock! Experience, minus two! See? I do suck at being single! ‘This is weird, guys. Stop it.’
‘Play a long game,’ says Robert. ‘He’ll be after you next time you’re inside.’
‘OK,’ I say glumly.
‘Why are you being so fucking helpful, Rob?’ says Luke suddenly. ‘This is completely unlike you.’
Everyone looks at Robert. He stares into space for a second and then frowns, ‘You’re right. I have no idea. Back later,’ and stalks off towards The Westbourne.
‘Have you spoken to the folks this weekend, Abs?’ asks Sophie. Our parents have retired to a little village in the south of France, which is just as idyllic as it sounds, and twice as boring. When they moved there six months ago, our mother rang us both once a day, sometimes twice. Then, thankfully, Sophie got engaged, and Mum threw herself into Mother Of The Bride work with fervour. She started a MOTB blog and even tweets about it, much to Sophie’s horror.
‘Yep, she’s organising an expat MOTB tweet-up,’ I say.
‘A what?’ say Luke and Plum in unison.
‘A meeting of Twitterers. Tweeters. Whatever,’ I say.
‘It’s her new career. She’ll be dying for you to get married next,’ says Sophie.
‘She’ll be waiting a while, at this rate . . . Oh my God, I’m the elder sister spinster,’ I realise. ‘How depressing.’
‘It’s not your fault Sophie is a child bride,’ says Plum.
‘And it’s not my fault that Luke is ancient and wants to settle down,’ replies Sophie.
‘I’m not that old,’ protests Luke half-heartedly. ‘But it is past my bedtime. Can we go home please? I need to tuck my hangover into bed.’
Plum and I decide to go home too. It’s nearly dark now, and getting that chilly September Sunday feeling.
‘Should I wait for Robert?’ I wonder aloud. We all look over. He’s pouring a bottle of wine for two uber-cool girls in jumpsuits, who are laughing at something he has just said. Wowsers, how does he do it?
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ says Luke.
Before we leave, I walk back into The Cow to go to the bathroom in the basement. On my way back up the stairs, Skinny Jeans is coming down. We do a polite little side-step-side-step dance, and I smirk and head past him without saying anything.
‘What . . . that’s it? No conversation? After all we’ve been through?’ he says, and we pause on the same step.
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? I am sorry,’ I say. ‘What would you like to discuss?’
He chuckles and looks me right in the eye. ‘Your phone number.’
High five! Robert really is good at this. Looks like someone isn’t failing at being single after all. (That someone is ME. In case you’re wondering.)
‘I’m Mark, by the way,’ he says. ‘Abigail,’ I nod. You don’t look like a Mark, I think. I’m going to call you Skinny Jeans.
At home, I potter around for a while, remembering to drink water and eat crumpets to soak up the booze. I try to read in bed, but almost immediately fall into a slumber with Jilly Cooper’s Polo open on my chest. When I wake up it is midnight, and I can hear voices downstairs. I wake up long enough to focus on them. It’s Robert and a girl. Good for him, I think to myself, then turn off my light and fall back to sleep.
I’m finally embarking on my second-ever date. YES! I know. I’m happy for me, too. I’m not quite as nervous as I was last week. You can tell I’m not as nervous tonight, right? I had a mini confidence crash earlier, but I closed my eyes and took deep breaths till it passed. I just have to fake it, that’s what Robert said. Fake it till you feel it.
It’s Josh from HR, the guy I met when I was out with Henry and Plum on Saturday night. We’re meeting at the Albannach bar, just off Trafalgar Square, for a couple of drinks. Robert recommended I make it drinks, not dinner, as it saves time if you decide you don’t like them. If you like them, you can do dinner on date two. I shared that piece of genius with Plum.
‘But that makes the date so much shorter, so they have less time to get to know you and decide they like you!’ she exclaimed in dismay.
I thought for a second, and replied, ‘Shouldn’t you be deciding if you like them, not the other way around?’
Silence.
Perhaps I’m wrong. As previously established, I don’t have much ‘experience’ or ‘confidence’ in dating. (Harrumph.) Plum is seeing the guy she met at The Westbourne tomorrow night, by the way. And no, I haven’t heard from Skinny Jeans guy yet.
I’m early, so I sit in Trafalgar Square for a little while and text people. To Sophie: Yes to shopping on Saturday. How was the wedding place?
To Henry: Remember to chew.
To Plum: Any news from Westbourne Guy? Thank you for clothes help.
Plum helped me work out what to wear tonight over a series of long, highly specific emails today. The result – a pretty, pale pink mini-dress with brown platform sandals – feels both comfortable and confidence-boosting. ‘Pretty with a punch, in the form of the unexpectedly chunky sandals,’ said Plum. I think that might be my special flavour. Pretty With A Punch. Hell yeah, I speak style.
I wait for a few minutes, but no one texts right back. I’ll take out my powder and check my make-up. Yes, good: smokey eye, nude lip gloss, check teeth, yes, good, fine. Right. Time to go . . .
Boom! In a split-second, my stomach goes from mild nerves to hyperactive butterflies – no, that’s far too pretty for how it actually feels. My stomach is moths. Flappy, molty-winged moths. Deep breaths, Abigail. You can do this. It’s just a date. You won’t mess it up this time.
Oh God, I think I’m sweating again.
Text! From . . . oh, Robert.
From Robert: You left your keys here.
I check my bag to make sure. Yep. No keys. Shit.
To Robert: Oops. Are you at home all night?
From Robert: At The Engineer for a few drinks. Call in on your way home.
How
