lying on a pillow, kissing Skinny Jeans and looking over at his bedside clock as it hit 5.03 am.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!’ I shout.
‘Get up!’ shouts Robert up the stairs.
I reach into my drawer and pull out my dissolvable vitamin Cs and Solpadeine stash, pop them into the remaining water and swirl them around till they’re all dissolved. Sipping it, I lean over and switch on my iPod player. Quite randomly, it’s ‘Get Over It’ by OK Go. How appropriate.
Ah, the joy of a hot shower. I lather up with as much soap as I can and scrub my head with my poshest shampoo, and spend a careful ten minutes on my bed hair with a wide-tooth comb and half a bottle of conditioner.
‘Where are we going?’ I yell down the stairs at him. ‘What should I wear?’
‘Something sharp,’ he replies. Something sharp?
I open my wardrobe doors. Come on, Abigail. It’s time to start speaking clothes. Not what Plum tells you to wear, not what Peter used to like you to wear . . . but what you want to wear.
I feel like looking invincible and effortless tonight, because I feel just the opposite on the inside. So I take out my new Topshop jeans that make me feel extremely tall and thin, and pair them with a super-lightweight white vest. I add a blazer and a long, skinny red scarfy thing, and put on a pair of boots that add a good four inches to my height.
Invincible. But effortless. Yes.
Halfway through blow-drying my hair, Robert knocks on my door.
‘Room service.’ He walks in with a Bloody Mary and two crumpets smothered liberally with peanut butter. ‘I thought you might want to line your stomach.’
‘How did you know I love crumpets?’ I say, delightedly. ‘I thought I’d run out.’
‘You’ve always got a crumpet attached to your face on weekends, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out . . .’ he says. ‘I picked them up on the way home. And everyone loves Bloody Marys.’
‘Thank you . . . but I don’t think I should drink again. Ever.’
‘A Bloody Mary isn’t drinking, it’s like nature’s Solpadeine.’
I look at him expressionlessly and sip the Bloody Mary.
‘Wowsers, that’s good . . . You’ve shaved,’ I comment.
‘You told me to,’ he replies. ‘Did you just say “wowsers”? Like Inspector Gadget?’
The next half hour is a mix of chewing, slurping, makeupping and smiling. I almost feel better. The Bloody Mary is extremely spicy. The peanut butter is chewy and just a tiny bit salty. And my make-up is – God bless it – working wonders. I need a little extra highlighter and concealer tonight, but apart from that I look surprisingly alright. I’ve had about 10 hours sleep, I guess.
I suddenly feel inexplicably cheerful.
I wonder what Robert has planned for us tonight. I hope it’s fun.
I check my phone for the first time since this morning. Seven missed calls and four texts. I love feeling popular. The texts are from Sophie, Josh From HR and ohfucktwofromSkinnyJeansguy. I listen to a message from Mum, asking me about my bridesmaid dress preference. No one else left a message. Everyone I know is too impatient to bother leaving a voicemail.
Sophie: So I hear you’ve been a very bad girl. Details.
Josh From HR: Hi!!! What are you up to this weekend? Fancy a catch-up? Maybe dinner in SW17? xxx
Skinny Jeans: Devastated. I am devastated that you would leave me like this. x
Skinny Jeans: Well, you can ignore me, but I had a great night. Let me know if you fancy it again some time.
‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ I say to myself, and flop facedown on my bed and moan. I feel sick again.
If I was going to have the first one-night-stand of my life, wouldn’t it be good if I could actually remember it?
And yes, by the way, it was definitely a one-night-stand. I’m too mortified given my drunkenness, and I don’t want to see him again, anyway. He’s kind of cute, but his anecdotes centred largely on getting stoned. I kept thinking, Stick it out, Abigail, this is experience, this is experience . . .
I’m going to be brutal, as per Robert’s instructions. Josh From HR is just ew, and Skinny Jeans . . . I can’t face it. So I won’t. For some reason, the decision to ignore them both makes me feel stronger and in control.
I flip through the rest of my texts from last night. They’re all from Robert, all in reply to apparent text questions from me. From the end of the night, backwards:
1.32 am I am sleeping Abigail.
12.37 am Don’t worry about it. Lots of people get caught snogging in bar toilets.
12.20 am Have a glass of water. I don’t speak drunk.
11.57 pm Maybe he doesn’t know what comatose means.
11.41 pm Everyone’s seen Pretty In Pink. He’s lying. PS I can’t believe you’d choose Stef.
11.37 pm Try this, then. Ducky versus Blaine – who should Andie have picked?
11.16 pm How about this: You look like the kind of guy who sings in a choir. Am I right?
10.24 pm Dater’s block, huh. Very funny. Try complimenting him on something he’s wearing in a slightly sarcastic way.
9.43 pm Relax. Are you even having fun? Did you have a shot? Remember, you can always leave.
We were kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets?
I never want to see Skinny Jeans again. It will be easy because I am never going to get off my bedroom floor. I will die here. Of mortification.
I moan at the ceiling pathetically for a few seconds.
Ooh, text.
It’s Henry.
Abigay. What are you doing tonight and can I join?
I invite him along, and resume my position.
It’s at this second that I remember that I have not had a bikini wax since quite a long time before Peter and I broke up. My moan turns into a loud squeal of anguish.
‘What now?’ Robert is in my doorway again.
‘Nothing,’ I say sulkily. ‘My friend Henry is coming along, by the way.’
‘Tell Uncle Robbie what’s wrong,’ he says, coming into the room and crouching down next to me.
I sigh, and meet his amused eyes. ‘I just realised that I have not had a bikini wax in a long time. It’s pretty bad. I should have had a sign on my knickers saying Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.’
