his chin over my shoulder unsteadily.
‘Whisky,’ I say. ‘You are one messy drunk.’
‘I’m not,’ he says indignantly, and belches pungently. ‘Oops. Damn wine.’
I look down and see that he’s just drunk my entire glass of white wine.
‘Nice move, hotshot. That was mine. The water is yours.’
Robert sighs, hiccups and assumes a hangdog expression. ‘I’m sawry . . .’
Luke and I exchange glances as Sophie comes up.
‘How’s it going down here?’
‘Disastrous,’ I say.
‘Soph-AY!’ exclaims Robert delightedly. He pushes past Luke and I to hug her, but loses his balance and tackles her to the floor, knocking over a table and chair on the way. The noise is almighty. Everyone in the pub immediately falls silent and looks over.
‘Ow,’ says Sophie, blushing scarlet as she gets up, trying to look extremely sober and disapproving so everyone knows she’s not the drunk idiot in this situation.
Robert is lying groggily on the floor, looking mildly confused. He is clearly the drunk idiot in this situation.
‘We have to get him out of here,’ I say to Luke and Sophie, looking over at the bartenders who are talking amongst themselves. ‘We are two seconds away from being kicked out.’
‘Agreed,’ says Luke, and leans over to hoist Robert up. The three of us drag/support him out of the bar and into the cool night air. God, he’s heavy. I immediately light a stressed cigarette.
‘Oh! Yes. Cigarette for Robert,’ says Robert, pushing us off him and trying to walk alone.
‘No,’ I say. God, drunk people are annoying. ‘We’re taking you home and putting you to bed.’
‘Naughty!’ exclaims Robert, and promptly falls over again.
By the time we find a black cab willing to take us home, it’s past 11 pm. I text Plum on the way, saying an emergency came up and I had to leave. We carry a nearly-asleep Robert to bed (‘On his side!’ I say. ‘He might choke on his own vomit.’ ‘He’s not Jim Morrison,’ replies Sophie. ‘I thought it was the lead singer from AC/DC?’ I say. ‘It was Jimi Hendrix, but is this important right now?’ says Luke) and then we retire to the living room.
‘What a car crash,’ I comment, opening a bottle of wine and getting out three glasses. I haven’t heard from Plum yet, but I think I should probably go back to the party.
‘You should have seen him when it happened,’ says Luke. ‘Poor bastard. She annihilated him.’
‘I can’t imagine it,’ say Sophie and I in unison.
‘Tell me the whole story,’ I say.
‘Ah, look, Robert will tell you himself one day,’ says Luke uneasily.
‘God! I hate the way you won’t gossip,’ says Sophie despairingly.
‘Sorry, darling,’ says Luke, grinning at her. She smiles hopefully back, and he relents. ‘The short version is: Rob and Dave and I were friends at school. Our dads all went to university together, and we all used to go on holiday in the same village in France and have BBQs together every night, that sort of thing. And Rob always had a thing for Louisa, who is Dave’s big sister . . . With me so far?’
Sophie and I nod.
‘Then they finally got together when we were about 22. It was pretty serious, he proposed when he was hammered, then came down the following weekend and proposed properly. With a ring and everything. She said no and broke up with him,’ – Sophie and I gasp – ‘and he ploughed his study and came down to work in the City instead – I think just to be closer to her . . . and then she continued to string him along. For years, she turned to him whenever she broke up with someone. He moved to Boston to study, to get away from her, but still, he’d fly back whenever she asked.’
‘Bitch,’ say Sophie and I in unison.
‘I know,’ says Luke. Like most men, Luke’s very good at gossiping, despite pretending to hate it. ‘And when he was 26, they began seeing each other properly again, and after six months, he proposed. Again.’
‘No!’ hiss Sophie and I in unison again.
‘Yep. And she said no. Turned out she’d been cheating on him the whole time. With the guy who is now her husband. It wasn’t a car crash. Rob was roadkill.’
‘NO!’ we shout.
‘Poor darling Rob . . .’ says Sophie sadly. ‘No wonder he’s so allergic to commitment now.’
‘Wowsers,’ I say. ‘That’s so awful.’
‘Oh, God, pity is the last thing he wants,’ says Luke, groaning. ‘I should never have said anything. He’s a very private guy.’
‘I’ll never say a thing,’ I say.
‘Me either,’ says Sophie. ‘Cross my heart.’
She makes a very serious cross-my-heart sign, and then a zipping-her-mouth-and-throwing-away-the-key gesture.
My phone beeps. It’s a text from Plum.
Where are you??? We’re going to Chloe . . . I need you! Get the fuck back here x
‘Can I be bothered to go all the way back down to South Ken?’ I ask.
‘No way,’ says Sophie.
A second text. From Henry.
Abigay. Please come back. I need you to help me be bulletproof too.
They’re in league. I sigh and look up at the guys. ‘My public needs me. I must venture forth once more. It’s only 20 minutes. Will you come?’
‘I’ll call a cab,’ says Luke. ‘We’ll drop you on the way home.’
By the time I get back to Chloe, a basement bar and club in South Kensington, it’s nearly midnight. Sophie and Luke drop me on the corner, and trying not to feel self-conscious, I stride towards the 30-people-long queue.
‘Um,’ I say, to get the list bitch’s attention. (I’m not being rude. It’s what they call them.) She turns to me and blinks heavily-mascara-ed eyes. She’s blonde, older than she wants to be, with major attitude.
‘I’m on the list,’ I say tentatively. ‘Abigail? Wood? My friends are inside?’
‘I don’t have your name, join the queue,’ she turns away abruptly.
I’m contemplating begging or bribing, and wondering how you do either of those things, when—
‘Imma!’
