one of my favourite stone fruits.’ Hung-over Robert is infinitely more relaxed than After Work Robert, I notice. I wonder if his job is stressful.
‘So you were out last night? Were you dancing too? Hung-over today? I hate hangovers, don’t you? I had one earlier but it’s gone now!’ babbles Plum, as she frantically flicks her hair. I glance at her in shock. Is that her idea of subtle body language? And is Robert really that gorgeous?
‘No questions, please. I need a drink,’ he says. Luke hands him the beer he has waiting for him. ‘Thanks. Christ, it’s sunny. I’ll pay you a thousand pounds for your sunglasses, Abigail.’ His eyes are dark green, I notice, with irritatingly thick eyelashes. Why do men always get them? Is it the gene pool’s idea of a joke?
I hand over my sunglasses, which are sort of Fifties and cateyeish, and to my surprise he happily puts them on and beams at us all.
‘Do I look like Audrey?’
‘Audrey is boring,’ I say. ‘Katharine Hepburn was so much cooler.’
Robert gasps in mock horror. ‘How could you say that? I heart Audrey!’
‘How come I’ve never met you before?’ says Plum. She’s cool again. At least on the outside.
‘I was seeing a girl in Italy,’ he says, turning to her with a grin. The cat-eye glasses give everyone killer cheekbones. Including Robert. ‘Lots of weekends away.’
‘And another girl in Edinburgh,’ adds Luke. ‘And one in Bethnal Green, and one in Highgate . . .’ Robert shoots him a shut-up look and Luke responds with a wide – albeit slightly watery – grin.
‘Well, I’m free again now, so all’s well that ends well,’ Robert says.
Funny, how men call it being free and women call it being alone, isn’t it?
Soon Plum is talking about the lack of men in London. She’s either already pissed, or wants Robert to know she’s really, definitely, totally single.
‘I go out four motherfucking nights a week. I am in bars and parties and I’m not obese or revoltingly ugly. And yet I cannot meet a decent man. It’s just fucknuckle after fucknuckle, time after time . . .’
‘Seriously, can you please not swear for just one minute?’ says Sophie.
‘No I cannot! There are no fucking men in London.’
‘That’s just not true,’ says Robert.
‘Are you saying I am meeting men without my knowledge?’ Plum reaches out and pokes Robert in the arm.
‘No,’ says Robert matter-of-factly. ‘I’m saying you’re closed to opportunity. Take right now: you’ve got your back to the crowd. You can only see us. I’ve seen every woman who’s walked in . . . and out . . . and in again. ’Scuse me,’ he adds, getting up.
We all turn wordlessly and watch him walk up the steps to inside The Cow, where I can see a pretty, model-esque blonde wearing a bowler hat and pretending not to see him.
‘He’s not that attractive,’ says Plum decisively. She’s evidently decided, in the face of his utter non-flirtation with her, to stop throwing herself at him. ‘And he’s a smartarse.’
‘That must be why you’ve stared at him nonstop since he sat down,’ says Sophie. Plum flicks a piece of ice at her.
From my seat, I can see Robert quite clearly. He’s standing at the bar, still wearing my cat-eye sunglasses, and is grinning down at the bowler-hat girl. Then he takes them off and leans in, as though he didn’t hear what she said the first time.
Robert doesn’t have the sleazy, shark-like twinkle of other lothario types. He just seems calm and certain about – well, everything. It’s obviously charming to other women. I’m clearly immune to it.
I tune back into the conversation for a few seconds. ‘Italy, I think, and then driving to Provence—’ Sophie is saying. Luke gazes lovingly at her when she talks, it’s so cute. They met when he walked past a pub in Soho, saw her through the window, went in and drank alone at the bar till he had the courage to go and talk to her. And that was it.
I hope it’s that easy for everyone, i.e. me.
Robert soon returns, putting his phone back in his pocket. He must have just got her number, I think to myself. Smooth.
‘Have you recovered from your disastrous date, Abigail?’ he asks. He maintains very steady eye contact, I’ve noticed. I bet that’s part of the whole calm thing.
‘Yes, thank you. So, are you taking bowler hat to dinner?’
‘Who? Her? No. She’s not dinner material.’
‘What is she then? Tell me you don’t booty call. It’s so five years ago.’
‘I’m not that kind of boy,’ he says, sipping his drink thoughtfully. ‘They booty call me, if anything . . . No, she’s a fancy-afew-drinks-if-you’re-out-at-about-10 pm text.’
‘A short-term investment,’ I suggest. ‘You’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you? I suppose your singledom rules will make me a bastard, too.’
‘They’re just survival skills, Abigail,’ he replies easily. ‘Don’t overthink them. So. What did you get up to last night? Give your number out to all and sundry?’
‘Yeah, I got stickers printed up,’ I reply. His know-it-all attitude is kind of annoying. ‘Aren’t you tired of talking about my dating life?’
‘I find it interesting,’ he says. ‘Like a parallel universe of naivety and optimism.’
I glare at him for a moment, and then start to laugh. ‘Fine. His name is Josh,’ I whisper, so Plum can’t hear. ‘He works in HR, and I met him at the bar, and we snogged on the dance floor. My first snog since Peter and I broke up!’ I pause. ‘I wish I could remember it better.’
‘Wow,’ says Robert. ‘I haven’t snogged on a dance floor in years. Did you feel his excitement thrusting against you?’
‘Ew,’ I say. ‘Seriously, ew.’
Robert laughs. He has one of those laughs that makes everyone else feel like they might be missing out on something funny.
‘Que?’ says Sophie.
‘I, um, met a guy last night. Robert reduced it straight to sex, immediately,’ I say petulantly. ‘Deviant.’
‘Who’s the guy?!’ says Sophie excitedly.
‘No one, no one, I haven’t heard from him yet, he probably won’t even call,’ I say, glancing at Plum, who is carefully lighting a cigarette. She left soon after we got to the bar last night: no one was chatting her up so she couldn’t see the point in staying.
‘Doesn’t it seem a shame to spend all night chatting to just one person?’ asks Robert.
‘No,’ I say, though now that I think about it, there was a tall guy at the bar who I thought
