he croaks, shocked out of his hangover coma. He sits up, still wearing his clothes from last night. Through the gloom I can make out puffy eyes, stubbly cheeks and wild man hair. Then he realises it’s just me, and flops back down with another grunt. ‘What time is it?’ he whispers hoarsely.
‘It’s high time you got up. I brought you water, a Bloody Mary – good for hangovers I hear – and peanut butter crumpets,’ I say, holding up the tray.
‘This isn’t a hangover,’ he croaks. ‘It’s the plague.’
‘Poor baby,’ I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing him the water first. He takes a feeble sip and hands it back to me.
‘I wonder what time I got home last night,’ he muses. ‘And how.’
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’
‘The Anglesea Arms . . . it’s a pub in Chelsea. Drinking whisky. Why? Did I see you?’
‘Let’s talk about that later. For now, just recover. Can I open a window? This room smells like a boys’ school.’
‘How do you know what a boys’ school smells like?’ asks Robert through a mouthful of peanut butter.
‘My boarding school only accepted girls in the last two years. It stank like unwashed hair and pubic teenage lust.’ I draw the curtains open a few inches, and then push up the windows.
‘My eyes!’ screams Robert. The more I get to know him, the sillier he is. He tucks the duvet high under his armpits like the wolf in Red Riding Hood, and continues to eat and slurp. ‘And I don’t have dirty hair, by the way. I wash it every day. And condition it.’
‘Figures. You scream like a girl, too. I’m bored. Will you play with me today?’
‘Ah, if I had a pound,’ says Robert.
‘I had so much fun last night,’ I continue. ‘And two men asked for my number. The party was officially my bitch.’
‘Come and sit here and tell me absolutely everything,’ says Robert. ‘And if I close my eyes, don’t be alarmed. I’m just resting them.’
I perch on the edge and start chatting about last night, carefully skipping over the and-Robert-turned-up-shitfaced-and-we-hadto-take-him-home bits, because I don’t want him to be reminded about Louisa and get upset again. Fifteen minutes later I’m sprawled across the entire bottom third of the bed, checking my hair for split ends.
‘You’re taking over my bed. You are like a Labrador,’ says Robert.
‘Labradors have split ends?’ I say.
‘Glad the upset over Adam didn’t last, anyway,’ he says, finishing the last of the Bloody Mary with a satisfied sigh.
‘Adam who?’ I say.
Robert grins, but I’m actually not joking. It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Adam The Tick Boxer. Of course! I was upset about him. Oops.
‘If you loved me, you’d get all the papers and maybe a car magazine as a little treat, and some croissants and a latte,’ he says. ‘I’m sick and need looking after.’
‘Alright. But only because you’re teaching me how to be a bastard.’
‘What? Oh, right. No problem. God, I feel like I was beaten up last night.’
We spend the next few hours watching a Curb Your Enthusiasm mini-marathon. I consume yet more coffee and simultaneously read glossy magazines, clipping out pages that will help me further refine my sartorial instincts. (I like to multitask while I watch TV.)
Robert, showered and still feeling rotten, is curled up in his duvet. He’s trying to read the paper but holding it up is proving difficult, and he keeps putting it down with a deep sigh. I’m surprised he’s not holding onto a teddy and sucking his thumb, the big baby.
‘You know, you can’t sulk your way out of a hangover,’ I say.
He looks at me and grunts.
I love being single, I muse, as I reach for US Vogue. I can do whatever I want. Even if that means nothing. Anyway, there’s no one else around today. I’ve texted Plum, who is starry-eyed about Dan, and has floated off to visit her sister in Richmond, safe in the knowledge that questions about her love life won’t bother her today. Henry ended up in a house party till 6 am and isn’t taking calls. My sister and Luke have gone to see his parents in Bath.
‘Are you making a collage?’ asks Robert. I am carefully cutting out the latest Miu Miu ad.
‘I stick pictures I like on the inside of my wardrobe to help me decide what to wear,’ I say brightly. ‘It’s my new idea. Good, huh?’
‘How much time do you spend thinking about what to wear?’ says Robert. ‘Honestly. How many minutes a day. Ballpark.’
‘I can’t count that high,’ I say. ‘It’s one of life’s most surprisingly smashing pleasures, though . . .’
‘Smashing,’ says Robert, without looking up from the paper. ‘Why is it you say quaint little things like “cripes” and “smashing”? It’s like hanging out with Julian from the Famous Five.’
I ignore him. I love Julian from the Famous Five.
His phone beeps and he looks at it quickly and deletes the text. He’s been swatting off texts all day. ‘Ah, the trials of a man in demand,’ I say. ‘Ladyfriends after a little action, are they?’
‘I think any action would kill me today.’
‘Poor Lady Caroline.’
‘No, darling, Lady Caroline only texts me when she’s drunk and bored. That was Janey. She only texts me when she’s tired of shopping.’
‘She sounds awesome.’
‘She is for me,’ he says, flashing me a grin.
Toby and Rich both text and ask how I’m enjoying my Sunday. I’m happy they texted, but I’d be happy if they hadn’t too. I’m not faking this either. I am cool and detached.
‘You’re not replying?’ says Robert in surprise, as I look at Rich’s second text and put the phone down with a little snort of laughter.
‘Maybe later. Keeps them on their toes.’
‘Attagirl. Adam who, indeed.’
I stick my tongue out at him, pick up the paper and realise with a shock that yesterday was Peter’s birthday. How could I have forgotten that? How can you share your life with one person for so many years, cook and plan holidays and talk to his mother on the phone, and then move on and be a complete person with a completely different life, all by yourself, within months? Does it mean I never loved him? Or just that I was ready to change? Or is it just the power of the human id? (Or is it ego? I can never remember.)
‘I’ve got cabin fever,’ I comment at 4 pm.
