LITMIR.BIZ

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smiles to herself. ‘Now, listen. I have to leave now, Abigail, because otherwise I’ll probably get drunk and make a fool of myself and go home with him.’

      I’m done with tonight, too. I only came back to support Plum. Getting asked out by Rich, rather than the high point of the night as it would have been a few weeks ago, is just a nice bonus. The high point of my night, in fact, was probably Henry’s mimed skipping.

      We head inside to say goodbye to Henry and Rich.

      ‘Abigail,’ says a voice behind me. I turn around. It’s Toby. ‘I realise you’re highly in demand tonight,’ he starts. I grin. ‘But I’m going to a restaurant launch party on Wednesday, and seeing as you make friends with the door people so easily, I thought you might like to come with me.’

      I don’t reply. Is it bad to make two dates in one night?

      ‘She doesn’t eat carbs on Wednesdays,’ says Plum coquettishly.

      ‘I promise to personally check every mouthful she eats,’ he says. ‘I can even pre-masticate, if you like. Like a Mummy bird.’

      ‘Well, everyone loves a man who’s into mastication,’ I say, I can’t think of a reason to say no, other than that it feels a bit naughty when I just gave Rich my number. But we had that little frisson outside. And he’s so good-looking . . . Before I can decide yes or no, Toby takes out his phone, and I give him my number. Batter up indeed.

      ‘We’re heading off now, so have a good night . . .’ I say.

      ‘You, too,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me goodbye on both cheeks. ‘May I arrange a car for you?’

      ‘No, uh, I’m good,’ I say, grinning awkwardly as we walk away. ‘Thanks, though.’

      ‘He’s gorgeous,’ hisses Plum, as we walk away. ‘Funny, charming, tall . . .’

      I wrinkle my nose. ‘He’s a bit smooth.’ Plum looks at me in shock, and I start laughing. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

       Chapter Fourteen

      The next day, at the end of a lazy morning on the balcony reading Cold Comfort Farm, drinking coffee and eating crumpets with peanut butter, I decide enough is enough. I need company and he needs food.

      ‘Knock knock!’ I say at Robert’s door, and immediately curse myself for sounding like both of my parents. ‘Robert?’ I say, pushing open the door. ‘You OK?’

      I hear a grunt, and tiptoe in. ‘Robert? There’s a girl outside who says she’s pregnant. She says it’s yours?’

      ‘What?’ he croaks, shocked out of his hangover coma. He sits up, still wearing his clothes from last night. Through the gloom I can make out puffy eyes, stubbly cheeks and wild man hair. Then he realises it’s just me, and flops back down with another grunt. ‘What time is it?’ he whispers hoarsely.

      ‘It’s high time you got up. I brought you water, a Bloody Mary – good for hangovers I hear – and peanut butter crumpets,’ I say, holding up the tray.

      ‘This isn’t a hangover,’ he croaks. ‘It’s the plague.’

      ‘Poor baby,’ I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing him the water first. He takes a feeble sip and hands it back to me.

      ‘I wonder what time I got home last night,’ he muses. ‘And how.’

      ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’

      ‘The Anglesea Arms . . . it’s a pub in Chelsea. Drinking whisky. Why? Did I see you?’

      ‘Let’s talk about that later. For now, just recover. Can I open a window? This room smells like a boys’ school.’

      ‘How do you know what a boys’ school smells like?’ asks Robert through a mouthful of peanut butter.

      ‘My boarding school only accepted girls in the last two years. It stank like unwashed hair and pubic teenage lust.’ I draw the curtains open a few inches, and then push up the windows.

      ‘My eyes!’ screams Robert. The more I get to know him, the sillier he is. He tucks the duvet high under his armpits like the wolf in Red Riding Hood, and continues to eat and slurp. ‘And I don’t have dirty hair, by the way. I wash it every day. And condition it.’

      ‘Figures. You scream like a girl, too. I’m bored. Will you play with me today?’

      ‘Ah, if I had a pound,’ says Robert.

      ‘I had so much fun last night,’ I continue. ‘And two men asked for my number. The party was officially my bitch.’

      ‘Come and sit here and tell me absolutely everything,’ says Robert. ‘And if I close my eyes, don’t be alarmed. I’m just resting them.’

      I perch on the edge and start chatting about last night, carefully skipping over the and-Robert-turned-up-shitfaced-and-we-hadto-take-him-home bits, because I don’t want him to be reminded about Louisa and get upset again. Fifteen minutes later I’m sprawled across the entire bottom third of the bed, checking my hair for split ends.

      ‘You’re taking over my bed. You are like a Labrador,’ says Robert.

      ‘Labradors have split ends?’ I say.

      ‘Glad the upset over Adam didn’t last, anyway,’ he says, finishing the last of the Bloody Mary with a satisfied sigh.

      ‘Adam who?’ I say.

      Robert grins, but I’m actually not joking. It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Adam The Tick Boxer. Of course! I was upset about him. Oops.

      ‘If you loved me, you’d get all the papers and maybe a car magazine as a little treat, and some croissants and a latte,’ he says. ‘I’m sick and need looking after.’

      ‘Alright. But only because you’re teaching me how to be a bastard.’

      ‘What? Oh, right. No problem. God, I feel like I was beaten up last night.’

      We spend the next few hours watching a Curb Your Enthusiasm mini-marathon. I consume yet more coffee and simultaneously read glossy magazines, clipping out pages that will help me further refine my sartorial instincts. (I like to multitask while I watch TV.)

      Robert, showered and still feeling rotten, is curled up in his duvet. He’s trying to read the paper but holding it up is proving difficult, and he keeps putting it down with a deep sigh. I’m surprised he’s not holding onto a teddy and sucking his thumb, the big baby.

      ‘You know, you can’t sulk your way out of a hangover,’ I say.

      He looks at me and grunts.

      I love being single, I muse, as I reach for US Vogue. I can do whatever I want. Even if that means nothing. Anyway, there’s no one else around today. I’ve texted Plum, who is starry-eyed about Dan, and has floated off to visit her sister in Richmond, safe in the knowledge that questions about her love life won’t bother her today. Henry ended up in a house party till 6 am and isn’t taking calls. My sister and Luke have gone to see his parents in Bath.

      ‘Are you making a collage?’ asks Robert. I am carefully cutting out the latest Miu Miu ad.

      ‘I stick pictures I like on the inside of my wardrobe to help me decide what to wear,’ I say brightly. ‘It’s my new idea. Good, huh?’

      ‘How much time do you spend thinking about what to wear?’ says Robert. ‘Honestly. How many minutes a day. Ballpark.’

      ‘I can’t count that high,’ I say. ‘It’s one of life’s most surprisingly smashing pleasures, though . . .’

      ‘Smashing,’ says Robert, without looking up from the paper. ‘Why is it you say quaint little things like “cripes”

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