LITMIR.BIZ

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but I think I should probably go back to the party.

      ‘You should have seen him when it happened,’ says Luke. ‘Poor bastard. She annihilated him.’

      ‘I can’t imagine it,’ say Sophie and I in unison.

      ‘Tell me the whole story,’ I say.

      ‘Ah, look, Robert will tell you himself one day,’ says Luke uneasily.

      ‘God! I hate the way you won’t gossip,’ says Sophie despairingly.

      ‘Sorry, darling,’ says Luke, grinning at her. She smiles hopefully back, and he relents. ‘The short version is: Rob and Dave and I were friends at school. Our dads all went to university together, and we all used to go on holiday in the same village in France and have BBQs together every night, that sort of thing. And Rob always had a thing for Louisa, who is Dave’s big sister . . . With me so far?’

      Sophie and I nod.

      ‘Then they finally got together when we were about 22. It was pretty serious, he proposed when he was hammered, then came down the following weekend and proposed properly. With a ring and everything. She said no and broke up with him,’ – Sophie and I gasp – ‘and he ploughed his study and came down to work in the City instead – I think just to be closer to her . . . and then she continued to string him along. For years, she turned to him whenever she broke up with someone. He moved to Boston to study, to get away from her, but still, he’d fly back whenever she asked.’

      ‘Bitch,’ say Sophie and I in unison.

      ‘I know,’ says Luke. Like most men, Luke’s very good at gossiping, despite pretending to hate it. ‘And when he was 26, they began seeing each other properly again, and after six months, he proposed. Again.’

      ‘No!’ hiss Sophie and I in unison again.

      ‘Yep. And she said no. Turned out she’d been cheating on him the whole time. With the guy who is now her husband. It wasn’t a car crash. Rob was roadkill.’

      ‘NO!’ we shout.

      ‘Poor darling Rob . . .’ says Sophie sadly. ‘No wonder he’s so allergic to commitment now.’

      ‘Wowsers,’ I say. ‘That’s so awful.’

      ‘Oh, God, pity is the last thing he wants,’ says Luke, groaning. ‘I should never have said anything. He’s a very private guy.’

      ‘I’ll never say a thing,’ I say.

      ‘Me either,’ says Sophie. ‘Cross my heart.’

      She makes a very serious cross-my-heart sign, and then a zipping-her-mouth-and-throwing-away-the-key gesture.

      My phone beeps. It’s a text from Plum.

      Where are you??? We’re going to Chloe . . . I need you! Get the fuck back here x

      ‘Can I be bothered to go all the way back down to South Ken?’ I ask.

      ‘No way,’ says Sophie.

      A second text. From Henry.

      Abigay. Please come back. I need you to help me be bulletproof too.

      They’re in league. I sigh and look up at the guys. ‘My public needs me. I must venture forth once more. It’s only 20 minutes. Will you come?’

      ‘I’ll call a cab,’ says Luke. ‘We’ll drop you on the way home.’

       Chapter Thirteen

      By the time I get back to Chloe, a basement bar and club in South Kensington, it’s nearly midnight. Sophie and Luke drop me on the corner, and trying not to feel self-conscious, I stride towards the 30-people-long queue.

      ‘Um,’ I say, to get the list bitch’s attention. (I’m not being rude. It’s what they call them.) She turns to me and blinks heavily-mascara-ed eyes. She’s blonde, older than she wants to be, with major attitude.

      ‘I’m on the list,’ I say tentatively. ‘Abigail? Wood? My friends are inside?’

      ‘I don’t have your name, join the queue,’ she turns away abruptly.

      I’m contemplating begging or bribing, and wondering how you do either of those things, when—

      ‘Imma!’ shouts a male voice. ‘She’s with me!’

      I look around to see where the voice is coming from, but can’t see anyone.

      The list bitch, her face blank, points me down the stairs leading to the basement courtyard.

      As I walk down the stairs, I try to ignore the tiny thrill from (a) going to a club I’ve never been to before (b) going to a club at all because Peter and I never ever did and (c) skipping the queue.

      A few intrepid smokers are down in the courtyard, risking the rain.

      ‘I hope I get a thank you for that,’ says the same voice, and I look up into the eyes of a rather handsome blonde guy smoking a cigarette.

      ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That was you?’

      ‘Indeed,’ he nods. He talks like Roger Moore, sort of posh and knowing. ‘Cigarette?’ Why not. ‘Imma isn’t the friendliest, but that’s her job.’

      ‘I bet she’s a real bleeding heart the rest of the time,’ I nod, trying to smoke coolly and ignore the headrush.

      ‘Oh, she is,’ he says. ‘Nurses a sick grandmother. Adopts kittens. The works.’

      ‘I should get her number. We could hang out.’

      He grins. ‘I’m Toby, by the way.’

      ‘Abigail.’

      We smile at each other. I’m enjoying this, somehow I feel far less nervous than usual. All I have to do is maintain steady eye contact and not babble.

      The rain intensifies, and Toby pulls an umbrella out of his blazer pocket.

      ‘You were a Boy Scout, weren’t you,’ I say, arching an eyebrow.

      ‘Well, I tried to be a Brownie, but they wouldn’t let me. Bastards,’ he says sadly. I can’t help but smirk. (Darn, flirting is easy tonight!) ‘So, Miss Abigail. What brings you here?’ he asks.

      ‘My friends are inside,’ I reply. ‘We were at a party earlier but I had to tend to someone who was unexpectedly taken drunk. I mean, ill.’

      Toby grins. ‘I hate it when my friends do that. Let them sleep on the street, I say. Teaches them a lesson.’

      I nod. I don’t know what else to say, so I think I’ll end the conversation. How’s that for detached? ‘Well, I’d better go and find everyone,’ I say, stubbing out my cigarette. ‘Thanks again for the door help. And the cigarette.’

      ‘My pleasure,’ he says.

      I walk away, not looking back. I am bulletproof. Hell yeah.

      Once I’m inside, it doesn’t take long to find everyone.

      ‘AbiGAY!’

      Ah. Henry and Plum are standing near the bar in a big group of people that I recognise from the Hollywood Arms earlier.

      ‘What the fuck happened to you?’ says Plum. ‘We thought you’d been kidnapped.’

      ‘Sorry,’ I say apologetically. ‘Robert needed to be taken home.’

      ‘Are you sexing your flatmate?’ asks Henry loudly.

      ‘No,’ I say. ‘And that’s not a verb, Henry.’

      ‘I thought verbs were doing words,’ he replies. ‘And sex is a DOING word.’ He turns to high-five one of his rugby friends.

      ‘What

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