I say, instead of hello.
‘Already? You’ve decided already?’
‘He’s too passive,’ I say. ‘And he loves Nintendo Wii more than anything in the world.’
There’s silence on the other end of the phone, and then Sophie starts laughing. ‘You really have turned into a bastardette,’ she says.
‘I know!’ I say happily.
‘I’m not sure it’s a good thing.’
‘Don’t hate the player,’ I say, quoting something Robert said the other day. ‘Hate the game.’
‘Do you think he wants to see you again?’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘But I told him I wasn’t looking for a relationship.’
‘Oh God, are you crazy? That’s like catnip to men,’ Sophie says, laughing.
‘Not my problem.’
‘Instead of looking for reasons not to see him again, why not look for reasons you should?’
‘Why waste my time?’
‘The Nintendo Wii stuff doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘What matters is that spark. You need to take a risk sometimes . . .’
‘But I am looking for the spark!’ I protest. ‘That’s why I always kiss them. And there was no chemistry. I could have been shaking his hand, it was so unexciting.’
‘That’s not what the spark is,’ says Sophie. ‘The spark is the feeling that you’d rather be talking to him than any other person in the world.’ She pauses. ‘The kiss is important too. But you could have that kiss chemistry with someone who is totally wrong for you. Remember Brian? Worst boyfriend ever, but his kisses were . . . God, they were awesome.’
‘Well, there was no spark or chemistry of any kind,’ I say. ‘Good to have the blind date experience out of the way though. Cheers for that.’
‘You’re going to run out of men soon,’ she says.
‘I bet you a tenner I kiss someone with whom I have a real spark by the end of the year.’
‘Deal.’
We hang up. I’ve just received a text from Robert.
I’m in the pub. Last orders. Chop chop.
I grin, and lean forward to redirect the driver.
Tonight I’m going to wipe my date slate clean and find some fresh men to play with.
I’m going speed dating.
‘Why don’t you come?’ I say to Robert over breakfast. ‘Speed dating! Don’t you want to try it? It’s run by a workfriend of Plum’s. Lots of posh PR girls . . .’
‘I did try it,’ says Robert. ‘More coffee . . . Years ago. When everyone else was trying it. It sucks arse.’
‘Well, bully for you,’ I say, taking my mug. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re still single, with that attitude.’
‘Not single, baby,’ he says, smiling lasciviously and stirring honey into his porridge. ‘Multiple.’
‘You are beastly,’ I say sniffily.
‘Why are you talking like the lost Mitford sister?’ asks Robert.
‘I’m rereading The Pursuit of Love,’ I say, thrilled that he noticed. ‘It’s utter bliss.’
‘Are these chopped almonds on my porridge?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Full of happy fat and very good for you.’
‘My digestive tract has been delighted ever since I stopped having a ham and cheese croissant for breakfast,’ admits Robert.
‘What a shock,’ I say, hopping down from my chair. ‘Right. Ready to go? I’m just going to clean my teeth again.’
‘Cleaning your teeth both before and after breakfast is a little weird, you know,’ he shouts after me as I head up the stairs.
‘So is having four ladyfriends on the go at once,’ I shout back. ‘But no one is judging you. Except God.’
Last night’s blind date with Jon is long forgotten. It’s a crisp November morning, the sun is just coming up as we get on the moped, and London is so new and fresh that I feel like singing. For all that everyone always goes on about summer, and heat, and parks, and ice-cream, London can be a real armpit in August. Dawn in autumn, on the other hand, feels clean, and when the sky is clear and the sun is promising to do its very best to shine, the whole city sparkles.
My I-love-London attitude is helped by the fact that I always get a lift to work with Robert on his moped, rather than taking the tube. (In winter, the London underground becomes a warm, pungent hug of humanity-infused air.) I love the moped, and I’ve even purchased my very own helmet. It’s black. I am thinking about adding little glow-in-the-dark stars. Unless that’s childish. In which case I won’t. I’m 28 in January, after all.
‘You’re going to need proper protective weather gear soon,’ says Robert, as I zip up my warmest coat.
‘You’re protective weather gear,’ I say with a dazzling smile.
Robert grins to himself and gets on. I prop myself on the back, and off we go. It’s chilly, but such a smashing way to get around London. The hours I used to spend waiting for buses and trains! What a waste of time.
I do miss tube flirtations though. (Accidental eye contact, grin to yourself, repeat.) But the moped is an improvement in every other way. I feel very safe sitting behind Robert. And very warm. His body temperature is, I swear, about five degrees warmer than mine at any given time. He’s so broad and tall, and I hang on to him like a baby koala all the way to work. With Robert, I’m always sure he knows what he’s doing.
We’re at Blackfriars in minutes, and Robert nods goodbye and heads towards Liverpool Street. I still don’t know what Robert does for a living, you know. He will not discuss it.
Today, I have to announce the quarterly figures to the trading floor. This is usually my least favourite part of the job (it’s seriously intimidating), but new cool-and-bulletproof me is faking that I LOVE it. And to tell you the truth, whether as a result or by coincidence, I am almost looking forward to it today. So I stride down the corridor, past Suzanne’s office, with a spring in my step and sit at my desk for a few minutes.
Then I take the lift up to the trading floor. I read out the above-average results, and say that we expect the stock to go up. I have a little tummy-wobble of nerves just before I start speaking, but apart from that I’m fine. I even finish with a big, beaming smile. Wow. Fake it till you feel it, indeed.
As I walk back to the lifts, a guy bounds ahead of me. He presses the button
