respond to a speech like this. Is everyone else really doing this? Is Charlotte doing this? I haven’t noticed, but then again, I’ve been a bit distracted over the past six months.
She sighs. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. Where were you?’
‘Um, Charlotte was upset—’
‘You’re not here to help Charlotte. You’re here to figure out how to make money.’
I bite my lip. She’s right.
‘I need someone who can create volume, stimulate sales. I don’t need someone who just sits back and reads. You’re too passive.’
I flinch.
She isn’t done yet. ‘I expect more. Step. It. Up.’
I am nodding so hard that my neck is starting to hurt. The ‘you’re too passive’ remark particularly stings.
I clear my throat. ‘Yes, thank you, I know, I know.’
Suzanne narrows her eyes. ‘It’s up to you. The question you need to ask yourself is, what do I want?’
I stop nodding and stare at her for a second. It’s that fucking question again. She raises an overplucked eyebrow and looks at me.
‘What do you want, Abigail?’
I open my mouth to speak and shut it again. I have no answer, none at all. What’s wrong with me? For a second I fight the urge to cry. What the fuck do I want?
‘That’s all,’ she dismisses me. I walk out, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. What a day. And it’s not even lunchtime yet.
The last thing I’m in the mood for is my date with that Skinny Jeans guy tonight. But I’m damned if I’m going to miss out on a chance to get the dating experience I need. I’m meant to be meeting him at 8 pm. I think I should have a couple of drinks at home first to get me in the mood.
Friday morning, 8 am.
My phone wakes me up, which is lucky, since I’m (a) meant to be at work by 7 am every day (b) not in my own house (c) naked.
I’m on the edge of a double bed with strange pale blue sheets, and as I turn my head to figure out how the hell I came to be here, I spy a naked man sleeping next to me. It’s Skinny Jeans guy.
I gasp in shock, fall onto the floor and scramble around the bedroom frantically looking for my phone. My heart is beating violently, my head pounding at the same pace, oh God, oh God – ah, it’s in my bag. Under my bra.
I look at the caller ID. It’s Plum.
‘Fuck!’ I whisper, instead of hello.
‘So, how was it?!’ she says excitedly.
‘Wrong tense,’ I mumble, as I crawl frantically around the bedroom on my hands and knees looking for the rest of my clothes. Knickers! On the bookshelf. Sweet.
‘Don’t tell me you’re at his house?’ Plum starts to laugh hysterically.
‘I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything,’ I mumble.
‘What the fuck happened?’
I grab my jeans from their hiding place half under the bed, whispering furiously. ‘We were on our date, in a bar, and I called Robert for advice, and he suggested I have a shot for liquid confidence, and I did, but then I think I had too many . . .’ I writhe on the floor to pull on my jeans without standing up, accidentally drop the phone and pick it up quickly.
‘So! Do you like him?’ asks Plum chattily.
‘No, yes, I don’t know, I have to get out of here, I have to call in sick . . .’ I decide against putting my bra on and stuff it in my bag. My top is, oddly, folded on the floor. Why would I do that, I wonder? Then again, it is one of my favourite tops. I just bought it on the weekend with Plum and she suggested I wear it on my date. It’s the most perfect, dove-grey asymmetric top from Cos and I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d bought it in black, I might go – oh, shit. Back to the nightmare.
‘OK. Sorry. Get home and call me. I’ll call in sick for you,’ she says.
‘God, I love you,’ I whisper.
We hang up, and I open the bedroom door silently and crawl out on my hands and knees, my handbag strap firmly in my mouth. Skinny Jeans hasn’t even stirred. I wonder why he isn’t at work. What does he do again? I try to remember. Ah, yes – he works for a film production company. His day doesn’t start till 10 am.
I find myself in a living room, and spy the detritus of last night: an overflowing ashtray, empty wine bottles and – oh please God no – a bottle of whisky. My jacket is on the couch, along with my shoes. I put them on, fumbling over the stupid finicky fucking shoe straps on these YSL-via-Zara beauties, and stand up for the first time today. I nearly faint from the sudden rush of blood/oxygen/booze to my head. I feel simultaneously hot and cold, nauseous and fuzzy, and I’m trying not to think about the fact that maybe, yes, I might, possibly, yes, I probably, definitely had sex with Skinny Jeans last night.
The used condom on the floor next to the bed kind of gives it away. Three cheers for safe sex.
I close the front door as quietly as I can and, squinting helplessly as the grey morning burns my eyes, look around for some kind of sign that will let me know where I am. Think woman, think . . .
I hurry to the end of the street to look at the street sign. It says W10, what’s that? North Kensington? Ladbroke Grove? I don’t know! It’s so fucking quiet! There’s no traffic noise, nothing . . . I walk as fast as I can to the end of the road and look up and down the next road. Which way should I go? The street at the bottom looks busier, so I speedwalk towards it, silently vowing to never leave the house without sunglasses and Panadol again. And a personal chauffeur and car.
I reach the end of the road and pivot around and around on one leg like a drink-defiled netball player, desperately looking for a street sign. Chamberlayne Road, that sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Kensal Rise? I think so.
Where the fuck is a black cab? Please God, please send me a black cab. One finally turns up, and I bleat ‘Primrose Hill’ as I get in, collapse on the back seat, and take a deep, shaky sigh.
What the fuck happened last night?
The first hour or so was fine. We met at Negozio Classica, made chatty, flinty, witty repartee that was one part fun and one part hard work, and one part petrifying nerve-wracking hell, and shared two bottles of wine. I was in a bad mood about my disastrous day at work, so I definitely drank faster than I usually would have. (Too passive, my arse, I remember thinking, as I flirtily ordered a second bottle of wine from the waiter.)
Then we went on to a restaurant called Taqueria where I was overjoyed to discover they had margaritas and other potent libations of the Tex-Mex persuasion. Robert’s right, I thought happily, as the waiter whisked away my picked-over tacos and delivered my fourth tequila-based cocktail, dating is fun.
Skinny
