ask him out for a drink?’
‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Making it a formal drink would be weird. We only ever hung out by accident – because we were both, you know, at home at the same time.’
‘You hung out by accident every night and weekend?’ says Plum.
‘Perhaps our friendship would never last past one of us getting into a relationship. Perhaps we were always going to drift apart,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ agrees Plum. ‘You know, I’ve slept with all of my male friends. Except Henry.’
‘Poor Henry,’ I say. ‘My mum’s dying for me to marry him.’
‘Yeah but come on . . . it’s Henry,’ says Plum. ‘Anyway, he’s in love with Charlotte. Dan and I met them for brunch on Sunday. They’re such good fun. Do you think she’s smarter than him?’
‘I haven’t thought about it,’ I say, trying to ignore the stab of jealousy I feel: I got the text about brunch, but when I suggested to Dave that we join them, he said ‘I already did the friend thing, and anyway, there’s only one thing I’m interested in eating this morning, and that’s’ – well, anyway. He wasn’t interested.
‘Hmm. Dan’s probably smarter than me, but I’m funnier,’ she says. ‘Abigail! Are you listening?’
‘I am!’ I say. ‘I am so glad things are going so well for you.’
‘So am I,’ she says. ‘All those idiots were turning me into a basketcase. And crazy is so not a good look for me.’
I press ‘refresh’ on my computer for the eighteenth time since we started talking, and glance at my phone. Nope, nothing.
Plum clears her throat. ‘I have to go, my fake tan is dry and my eyebrows aren’t going to pluck themselves.’
We hang up, and I go back to staring at my screen again. It’s 8.22 pm. Time to go home and wait.
He’s never waited this long to call before. What if something’s happened?
I take a cab home, rather than the tube, which is an unnecessary expense but I don’t want to go underground and lose phone reception. (I know how dismal that sounds, but I’m being honest.)
I take a shower with my phone propped up on the closed toilet seat in case he rings. (He doesn’t.) Then I blow-dry my hair and put on my favourite jeans and a casual-but-totally-sexy nude-coloured top and my cosiest socks with the phone constantly in my line of vision so I can pick it up easily if he rings. (He doesn’t.) Then I head downstairs for a glass of red wine. With my phone. (As you probably guessed.) In case he rings. (He doesn’t.)
I lie down on the couch, wine in hand, legs hanging over the edge, staring into space.
It’s past 9.30 pm now. Where could he be? What if he’s drunk somewhere, flirting with another girl? What if he’s passed out and won’t even call me till tomorrow? What if he’s changed his mind about whatever it is that is going on between us? What if—
Shut up, Abigail. Calm down. This attitude is so not you. It’s (don’t say it, don’t say it) desperate.
The front door bangs. Robert’s in the front hallway, taking off his protective moped gear.
‘Hi!’ I say.
‘Hey,’ he replies.
It’s been ages since Robert and I last hung out – since before France, now that I think about it – and I suddenly feel elated to see him. I swing my legs off the couch and stand up, smiling brightly.
‘Wine?’ I say.
‘Ah, why not,’ he says, sighing, and coming into the room. He’s still wearing his suit and looks a bit rumpled and stressed.
‘You need a haircut,’ I say.
‘A shower is more important right now. Very long day. Back in ten.’
He turns and heads straight for his room. I wonder why he’s so stressed. He still won’t tell me what he does. I’ve stopped asking.
The living room feels somehow bare and unloved tonight, and not a very nice place to come home to.
So I tidy up, fluffing all the big red cushions and banging the couch into shape, and turn on the fire and the lamps around the room to try to make it feel cosier. Then I open up a packet of pretzels and put it into a bowl for us to have with the wine. There are some tea lights sitting in mismatched tumblers behind the sink, so I put them on the coffee table too. Then I realise they look like an attempt at romance, so I quickly blow the candles out and put them back behind the sink, just as Robert gets back.
His hair is all wet from the shower and he’s wearing odd socks with his oldest, most threadbare pair of jeans, and his favourite blue shirt that has too many holes in it. It’s done up wrong, but I decide not to tell him that. He looks like himself again. I can’t help beaming at him. And not because he’s distracting me from Dave not calling. It is just so good to see him.
‘You cooked!’ he says, looking at the pretzels and wine with a grin.
‘Never say I don’t look after you,’ I reply, taking a seat and picking up my glass. He stretches and sits down in his chair with a huffing sound, picking up his glass of wine and holding it up to me. Our eyes meet for the first time since he got home.
‘Happy almost-Christmas,’ I say.
‘Happy almost-Christmas,’ he nods, and takes a long sip. ‘Ah. That’s better.’
There’s a pause as we smile at each other. I like his face, I think involuntarily. And not because of the whole handsome thing. I just like it. I probably can’t tell him that without sounding like a fool, however, so I take a sip of wine.
‘How’s Dave?’ he says.
‘He’s good, fine, he’s good,’ I say quickly. I don’t want to linger on the subject in case Robert says something I don’t want to hear. ‘How’s, uh, how’s . . .’
‘They’re fine,’ he says crunching a handful of pretzels thoughtfully, which is very hard to do. ‘They’re all fine. How’s work?’
I look at him and raise an eyebrow. Work is one thing I don’t want to talk about. ‘Business as usual, then,’ says Robert. ‘I thought you were faking work confidence?’
I shrug. ‘You can’t fake something for that long. Eventually you have to admit the truth, and I hate . . . Christmas decorations!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s what’s missing.’
‘Huh?’
‘I was thinking this room felt a bit bare . . . it needs Christmas decorations!’
‘Hmm. I’ve got my sister’s old stuff somewhere from before she moved to Dublin . . .’
Robert goes to the hallway
