. . .’
‘Like what?’ say Sophie and I in unison. I’m shocked: I had no idea Henry felt he needed pulling help so badly.
‘Like, you should wear something to make you stand out. It’s called “peacocking”. Like my red belt, see? Or, there’s this thing called a “neg”. So I might say, “I love your hair, but you should wear it up more”. It’s a negative compliment – so it confuses the girl and makes her want to impress you.’
‘That is ridiculous,’ I say, at the same time that Luke says ‘I get it . . .’
Henry sighs. ‘It’s not working for me so far.’
‘“Confuses” the girl?’ Sophie repeats. ‘What, like we’re farm animals that need herding?’
‘Like drawing a circle in the ground and putting a chicken in it,’ I suggest. I’m trying not to look at the Tick Boxer guy to see if he’s reading my note.
Henry ignores us and looks at Robert for validation. ‘I bet you do that, right, Rob?’
‘Uh, no, I’m sure it’s a great book, but no,’ says Robert.
‘What do you do?’ Henry persists. ‘What’s your secret?’
‘No secret. I just ask questions, and listen to the answers,’ says Robert. ‘Conversation is pretty much all it takes.’
‘Well, I can’t do that,’ says Henry. ‘I can’t get past the asking-for-a-number stage. I need the girl to make the first move.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I comment drily. I cannot imagine ever making the first move.
‘Make eye contact and if she’s looking at you, go and talk to her,’ says Robert. ‘If she’s looking, she’s interested.’
‘Are you saying that girls need to be visibly available for dating, and guys need to be proactively ready?’ I say, trying to fit this into my working knowledge of Robert’s surviving singledom techniques. ‘That’s sort of primal, isn’t it?’
‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ Robert grins at me and shakes his head. ‘Don’t analyse everything so much.’ He turns to Henry. ‘You’ll be fine. Try it the next time you’re out.’
‘I’m not that guy,’ says Henry. I wonder if most men feel like Henry does. I can’t imagine it.
‘We’ll go to a bar after this,’ says Robert reassuringly.
‘You can be my wingman!’ says Henry excitedly.
‘Right. I need a make-up pit stop,’ I say, standing up and still not looking towards Tick Boxer at the bar. ‘Sophie?’
‘Roger that,’ she nods, and we get up to go to the bathroom together.
As we’re in the bathroom side-by-side, silently make-upping, Sophie turns to me. ‘Look, I’ve just got to ask. Do you fancy Robert?’
‘No!’ I say, surprised. ‘Not at all!’
‘Really?’ says Sophie.
‘He’s not my type. Far too . . . tall. And he’s a player, did you not hear the advice he was giving Henry? He’s only friend material.’
‘But you get along so well . . .’ says Sophie.
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘He doesn’t fancy me, I don’t fancy him. We’re just friends.’
‘Robert doesn’t have female friends,’ she says. ‘Luke told me. And everyone fancies him. Even me. A little.’
‘Well, not me,’ I say, zipping up my bag and taking one last look in the mirror. Dismissing the conversation, I head for the door. Come on, Adam The Tick Boxer guy. Let’s see what you’ve got.
‘No milk, no eggs, no bacon, nothing,’ says Robert, leaning into the fridge. ‘Fuck this. We’re going out.’
It’s Saturday morning, a week after the The Pantechnicon Rooms evening, and I’ve just returned from spending the night at Harry The Tick Boxer’s house. Robert’s just returned from a night with – actually, I don’t know. (I’ve stopped asking their names.) I’m mildly stubble-rashed, a little tired, and, after a shower and new clothes, feeling rather pleased with myself.
‘Look at you, practically skipping around the house,’ says Robert, grinning.
‘Thank you so much for your advice,’ I say happily. ‘I think it’s made all the difference with Adam The Tick Boxer. I’ve been cool. Detached. Funny. Ended dates first. And he likes me and I like him! It really worked!’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat.’
We walk down to The Engineer and enjoy a lovely, almost completely silent breakfast (eggs Benedict for him, pancakes with bacon and maple syrup for me), reading newspapers someone else has left behind. Neither of us is feeling chatty, which suits me fine. I’d rather be alone with my thoughts. Which are mostly about Adam The Tick Boxer.
As mentioned, he’s lovely. And smart and genuine and funny. He works for an IT company. He rock-climbs. He has a movie poster of The Fifth Element on his bedroom wall. He lives with his brother in a flat in Ealing, which, let me tell you, was a bitch to get home from this morning. And he likes me. Me!
I’ve seen him three times since we met in The Pantechnicon Rooms last Friday. Three! In a week! And this morning I even felt comfortable enough to invite him to Henry’s brother’s goodbye party tonight. He has other plans, but he is going to meet me quickly beforehand. Isn’t that nice?
‘I feel like shopping,’ I say absently. The pancakes are all gone now, even the syrup-soaked crumbs. ‘The girls are all busy though, and I can’t shop alone with a slight hangover. I’m just a bit . . . meh.’
Robert’s amused eyes meet mine, and he pretends to sniff the air. ‘Is that . . . apathy I smell?’
‘Yes!’ I exclaim, pretending to smell my wrists. ‘It smells like British trains.’
‘I’ll go shopping with you,’ he says.
‘Wowsers, that’s verbal Rohypnol,’ I say. ‘Seriously. It’s the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.’
‘Right then, funny girl, let’s go,’ he says, standing up.
We head to Westbourne Grove and windowshop, spending an inordinate amount of time in Reiss – it seems to be Robert’s sartorial homeland – then eat some absolutely delectable Ottolenghi cupcakes that we nickname ‘Heaven for babies’.
‘Because what’s better than heaven? Heaven for babies,’ nods Robert sagely. I pause. ‘So, this is like – a dead baby cake?’
Robert immediately spits the bit of cake in his mouth onto the ground.
Then
