I repeat, very loudly and clearly.
‘Yes, I have. And I need you to come and let me in.’
‘You need me to come and let you in?’
‘Yes. Fast. I’ll be in the pub.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can!’ I say, and turn apologetically to Josh. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go . . .’
‘I had a great time,’ Josh says. ‘I’d love to see you again,’ he stands up awkwardly and moves towards me. Cripes, he’s not going to try and kiss me at 8.20 pm in a Central London bar, is he? I make myself all elbows putting on my jacket, and turn away whilst picking up my bag.
‘That’d be great,’ I lie, and smile at him. ‘Don’t worry about walking me to the tube. I’ll be fine. No, no. Bye!’
Walk fast, woman, and don’t look back.
Why bother to make dates when they’re going to be that boring? Was I that boring when I was with Paulie? No, perish the thought.
Seriously, though: is dating always this difficult and/or dull? Why is everyone always talking about dating if it’s this turgid? Life with Peter was a non-stop rave in comparison.
Do you think I’m being terribly mean? Look, I can’t help it. Josh is a dweeb. He wasn’t funny or interesting. I just don’t fancy him. I did fancy Paulie, a bit. Having said that, Paulie got my name wrong and didn’t make much effort even before my nervous meltdown. Hmm.
If you were me, would you get the tube home? Me neither.
I get in a black cab and start giggling to myself in the back. Not one but two bad dates! At least that one wasn’t stressful. How silly the whole dating thing is! I mean, really. Oh well, experience equals confidence, right? I just – oh, more texts.
From Henry: If you were a real friend you’d blend all my food from now on.
From Sophie: Wedding dress hell. I’m getting married in jeans. How’s the date?
From Plum: Seeing the guy from The Westbourne tomorrow!! ARGH!
By the time I get to The Engineer, I’m in a really good mood. I walk in and see Rob in a corner talking to a very pretty girl with long dark hair. Interesting body language: she’s leaning forward in her chair, and he’s leaning right back. Something not fun is happening.
‘Hi!’ I say brightly, when I reach their table. The girl – the tanned, glamorous type that you see on holiday, the kind with no body fat and improbably full lips – turns towards me, and I see that she’s been crying. Her long fingers are curled around tatty little tissues. She seems unable to speak.
‘This is Antonia,’ says Robert shortly. I look at him, and back at her. His face is completely closed, giving nothing away. ‘I’m Abigail, Robert’s flatmate,’ I say. She blinks and looks away. ‘I’ll get a . . . bottle,’ I add, and turn towards the bar. Yikes. This is going to be awkward. Third-wheel-tastic. Should I just leave? I pretend to look around the bar and see Antonia storming out. Problem solved.
By the time I get back with the wine, Robert has sprawled himself over the two seats. He has a habit of taking up all the space at a table, or a sofa, or anywhere, I’ve noticed. Anyone else feels like they’re encroaching on his territory just by being in the same room. I push his feet off the chair with my knee, sit down with a dramatic flourish, and pour us each a glass of red. I feel slightly euphoric to have got away from Josh From HR so easily.
‘You need to shave,’ I say.
‘So, did you break his heart?’ replies Robert, ignoring my shaving comment. I notice again how green and steady his eyes are. He really nails the whole self-assured eye contact thing.
‘I don’t think so. We had nothing to say to each other.’ I sigh. ‘My second date in my whole life was a dweeb. And the first was a fucknuckle.’
‘You now think Bam-Bou Paulie was a fucknuckle?’ says Robert in surprise, his eyes lighting up in amusement.
‘I’m always more discerning in retrospect.’
‘Aren’t we all, Abigail darling?’
‘I’m not your darling. You clearly just broke your darling’s heart.’
‘Oh, no grief, please . . . she flew here from Milan. I didn’t ask her to. Fucking nightmare.’
‘I expect you led her on,’ I say.
‘I did not,’ he says defensively, running his hands through his hair. ‘I never do, I always say “this is just casual” and then before you know it, it’s where-is-this-going, what-am-I, and what-do-you-take-me-for . . .’
‘How awful it must be when the easy sex starts asking hard questions.’
‘Quite. I admit, it got a little too serious with Antonia . . . I mean, that’s been going on for months. My bad.’
I snort with laughter.
‘But the rest of the time, I’m totally honest that I am not looking for, uh, anything, and I end it within a month. I mean, that doesn’t make me a bad guy, does it?’
‘You’re such a cliché.’
‘How amusing, because you’re not at all. Newly single girl, late 20s, trying to bag a boyfriend . . .’
‘Shut up. And I’m not trying to “bag a boyfriend”. I’m just trying to survive singledom and make up for lost time.’
‘I’ve given you a few tips. You’ll be fine.’
‘Tonight was easy,’ I admit. ‘I had no problem walking out. I felt totally in control.’
‘Of course, Christ, you should always feel in control,’ says Robert in surprise.
I take out my notebook and write Stay in control on the list. Robert watches me with a bemused look on his face. As I look up our eyes meet, and I raise an eyebrow at him.
‘Nice dress by the way. It suits you.’
‘But what if I meet someone I like?’ I don’t want to talk about my dress, I want to talk about my dating.
‘Then you see them as much as you want. Whatever blows your hair back. The point is, you’re calling the shots.’
I hear my phone beep from my bag. ‘Ooh! Text,’ I say excitedly, reaching for my bag. ‘It’s the guy I met at The Cow on Sunday! Skinny Jeans guy!’
‘What’s he say?’ he asks, trying to read my tiny phone screen. ‘I haven’t seen a Nokia like that since Britney was a virgin.’
‘I like this phone, why change?’ I say, and clear my throat. ‘Ahem! He says . . . Princess Malbec Of The Cow. I need a recommendation for a wine bar. You seem like the boozy type who’d know somewhere good. Any ideas?’ I make an excited-grin face at Robert. ‘What should I reply?’
‘Well, what
