I sit back and look at Robert. He raises his eyebrows. I shake my head to tell him not to get involved. ‘Please go away,’ I say coldly.
Leather Jacket takes a step back and forward in that drunken staggering-on-the-spot way. ‘Bitch.’
A split second later, Robert has stood up and grabbed Leather Jacket guy by the lapels. ‘Hey. Fucknuckle. She said no. So fuck off.’
Leather Jacket tries to push Robert away, but Robert’s taller and stronger than him and won’t let go. I’m not sure what Robert intends to do with him now that he’s got hold of him, and Robert doesn’t seem sure either. For a second I have the urge to giggle. He said fucknuckle!
Then it all becomes a bit messy. As Robert and Leather Jacket are shoving each other, Leather Jacket’s two friends finally notice what’s going on and hurry over, one shouting ‘Jesus Christ, Damien, not again!’ One friend stops next to me, while the other starts hitting Robert in the arm and gets a couple of good swings in before a bartender finally restrains him. A second bartender grabs Leather Jacket, who wrestles himself away and tries to get Robert in a headlock, resulting in a protracted, imprecise and slightly pathetic scuffly-dance between the three of them for several seconds. I take a second to gaze around the pub, shocked that no one else is trying to stop them, but everyone is silent and entranced. How ridiculous fighting looks. Seriously.
Shaking off the bartender one last time, Leather Jacket punches Robert, rather untidily, in the neck. Robert retorts by punching him, very precisely, in the face. Blood immediately explodes from Leather Jacket’s nose.
Two seconds later, Robert faints and crashes to the floor. Gasping, I hurry over and crouch down next to him, looking up quickly to see Leather Jacket and his mates being dragged outside by the bartenders. Someone passes me a bottle of water, and I kneel next to Robert’s head and try to pull him up. He looks like a black and white photograph of himself. My heart feels like it’s stopped beating, all I can think about is Robert.
‘Robert, oh please be alright, Robert . . .’ I whisper, stroking his forehead. God, he’s got lovely hair and such smooth, warm skin.
The rest of the pub is completely silent, looking at Robert passed out cold on the floor and me huddled over him. Robert blinks a couple of times, and opens his eyes. ‘Abby . . .’ he says croakily.
He’s fine. I sigh with relief. ‘I take it you faint at the sight of b—’
‘Don’t say the b-word,’ he whispers, and takes a sip of water. Someone else brings over a glass of lemonade. Then, like someone turning the music back up, everyone in the pub realises that the drama is over and starts talking amongst themselves again. We are forgotten.
One of the bartenders comes back to chat to us. ‘Sorry. We were keeping an eye on those guys all night, we knew they were trouble,’ he says. ‘Are you OK, mate?’
Robert is now leaning against a table leg, sipping lemonade. Somehow, I’ve ended up perched next to him stroking his hand and hair, like some kind of tipsy Florence Nightingale. ‘I’m fine . . . but I think I need some air. Abigail, will you take me walkies?’
‘Well, my nerves are still completely shot,’ I comment 20 minutes later, when we finally leave The Punchbowl.
‘Your nerves?’ echoes Robert disbelievingly.
He’s had two pints of water and a lemonade, and I’ve had a large whisky (just to calm the nerves). His face has colour again, and we’ve decided to wait for Luke, Sophie and Dave in a bar in Notting Hill that Plum keeps talking about.
‘Fresh air is good,’ says Robert, when I suggest a taxi, or that perhaps, for his sake, we ought to go home. (Dave can always join us there, right?) ‘I want to walk. It’s not that cold.’
I keep my arm around him as we’re walking along the top of Hyde Park towards Notting Hill. At first, I was supporting him because he was a little woozy. I felt like he needed looking after. But then it was just comfortable: we walk well together.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I say. ‘Do you want me to go and find that guy and beat him up for you?’
‘No,’ says Robert, laughing. ‘Thanks. You’re my knight in shining four-inch-heels.’
We stop in two pubs on the way, getting a lemonade for Robert and a whisky for me, then pretend to go for a cigarette and just keep walking with our drinks. We deposit the stolen glasses at the next pub.
‘This is one of the naughtiest things I’ve ever done,’ I say, as we wait for our drinks at the second pub.
‘Apart from the viola bow,’ he says.
‘Obviously apart from that,’ I nod as the drinks arrive. ‘Mmm. Lovely warm whisky.’
‘I think you’ve probably had enough,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say, wrenching my glass away. ‘My whisky. Mine.’ Robert grins. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I ask again. He doesn’t say anything. ‘You’re embarrassed to have lost control for a split second, aren’t you? You are!’ I start laughing.
‘Ah, you find yourself hilarious, I’m glad someone does,’ he says.
By the time we reach the Portobello Star, the whisky has made everything warm and fuzzy. We find a place to stand, smushed against the wall down at the back of the bar with a lot of West London too-cool types and start chatting – or rather, we both listen to my drunken gushing.
‘I love hipsters,’ I say, as Robert hands me an orangey-whisky cocktail (name? Who can tell!). ‘I want to be with a man with a beard before I die. I think it would be warm and cuddly, like kissing a man-shaped teddy bear . . . Oh! That girl is pretty,’ I say. ‘Look at her, she’s just your type. Your two o’clock. I mean my two o’clock, your nine o’clock. I mean . . .’ I crack up at myself. ‘I can’t even tell the time! Ah, you’re missing out on beautiful chicks, Roberto . . .’
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