LITMIR.BIZ

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sex.’ Not that I’d mind a bit of sex, I think to myself. But not like the Skinny Jeans one-night-stand. He’d have to be gorgeous and we’d need some kind of, what’s the word? . . . Oh yes. A spark.

      ‘Good. Most things in life are only as difficult as you allow them to be.’

      ‘What the devil do you do, anyway? Why are you always giving me advice? Are you a careers consultant or something? A life coach?’

      Robert shakes his head.

      ‘Are you a lawyer? You have that bossy lawyer thing going on.’

      ‘Nope,’ he says.

      ‘Are you a spy?’ I say. ‘That makes sense. You won’t tell me what you do, you’re a control freak, you went to Cambridge . . .’ I shiver as we walk past the church and the October wind hits us.

      ‘Yes. I am a spy,’ he says, putting his arm around me. It’s like being tucked under the arm of a very large, warm bear. For a second, I press my head against his chest as we walk, then I realise it’s an almost girlfriend-like sign of affection, so I pull away and go back to linking arms.

      Just as we reach Carluccio’s, Robert’s phone rings again.

      ‘Lukey!’ Robert says with a grin. Oh, goody, I think, I want to talk to Sophie. There’s a pause. ‘Pretty tender. Your future sister-in-law has been looking after me.’ Pause. Robert’s face drops. ‘You did?’ Pause. ‘I did?’ Pause. ‘No. She didn’t.’ Robert looks at me, his face now a blank. ‘Yeah. Fuck, thanks. Sorry about that . . .’ Pause. ‘Well, yeah. Talk later.’

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you had to carry me home last night?’ he asks. His voice is perfectly neutral, and his green eyes have gone very opaque. I look into them uneasily. What is he so upset about?

      ‘I didn’t want to worry you. You were in a miserable state over Louisa . . .’

      Robert throws a hand up as if to stop me, like he can’t even bear to hear her name. ‘You should have fucking told me, Abigail. Christ!’

      ‘But I thought it would upset you! Let’s eat cake and talk about it.’

      ‘I don’t want fucking cake.’ Shit, he’s furious. He won’t even look at me.

      ‘I was going to tell you later. I didn’t want to make your hangover even worse,’ I say. ‘I had no idea it would upset you this much. You’re totally overreacting. I was trying to be a good friend.’

      ‘No,’ he says furiously. ‘I’m going home. Just leave me alone. You’re my fucking flatmate, Abigail.’

      Is it me, or is the unspoken end to that sentence ‘and not my friend’? I can’t believe that he’d throw a tantrum like a huge fucking baby, and I’m about to say something to that effect when he starts walking away. I stand in the street for a few seconds, watching Robert hail a cab, get in and slam the door, feeling like I’ve been slapped. You stupid prick, I think. The ‘you’re my fucking flatmate’ call was designed to hurt me, and it does.

      I take a moment to centre myself. I didn’t do anything wrong. He blew it completely out of proportion. He’ll realise that.

      But I can’t go home now. I don’t want to see him. That’s why Plum never socialises with her flatmates. So home is still private and a place to escape to.

      I sigh, and take my phone out of my bag to call Henry, the only person who might be free. He takes a long time to answer.

      ‘You have won dinner with Abigail Wood, one of London’s hottest bachelorettes!’ I exclaim. ‘You lucky boy. The Windsor Castle, Notting Hill, in one hour.’

      ‘Abigay!’ says Henry. ‘I can’t. I’m busy.’

      ‘With whom? Someone with chesticles?’ I say coquettishly.

      ‘Well, actually, yeah,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Oh, OK,’ I say contritely. Robert’s advice is obviously working. ‘Well, um, have fun.’

      The day is now devoid of all cosiness. It’s grey and empty and Sundayish. I don’t want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. Lonely Single Girl Syndrome has never seemed such a likelihood.

      I start walking, because standing still is making me cold. Wanker, I think with every step. Silly, silly wanker. I know he only reacted that way because he’s a control freak, but he tried to hurt my feelings and it worked.

      I walk back down through Regent’s Park, which is far less delightful now that I’m alone. Everyone else is walking with friends and partners and babies. Even a dog would be good company right now, I think fretfully. I am just not enjoying myself. The happy peace I felt earlier is gone.

      Fuck it, I suddenly think. It’s my home too. I pay rent. Robert can just deal with me being there. Stupid man, losing his temper because he’s embarrassed about the way he acted over Louisa. I know that’s all it is, but he’d better fucking apologise.

      When I get back, Robert is in his usual position on the couch, legs on coffee table, reading the papers. I decide not to say hello (screw him!) and stride up to my room. I sit on the bed and sigh. It was such a perfect day up till we started fighting. Now I have cold, hard Sunday blues.

      Then there’s a knock on my door.

      ‘Yes?’ I say, as though it could be anyone else but Robert.

      ‘Can I come in?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say, turning to face him. He’s a picture of hungover, stubbled contrition.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I was a dick. I’m sorry.’

      ‘A total dick.’

      ‘A total dick,’ he repeats. ‘Will you forgive me?’

      ‘Say that I’m your friend as well as your flatmate,’ I say petulantly.

      ‘You are a brilliant friend and flatmate,’ he says, coming in and sitting next to me on the bed. ‘I’m sorry that I was so drunk last night and you had to see me like that. I was embarrassed when Luke told me, that’s all.’

      ‘There’s more to it than that,’ I say.

      He sighs. ‘I was angry that I let myself get like that. And I took it out on you.’

      ‘Yeah, you lashed,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘You were lashy.’

      ‘I promise not to lash out again,’ he says ruefully. ‘I promise to tell you next time you turn up shitfaced to a party that you’re not invited to,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it would upset you so much.’

      ‘Thanks for looking after me,’ he says. ‘Last night and today. I’ve had a really good weekend apart from that.’

      ‘Anytime,’ I say. ‘And I’ve had a really good weekend too. Even though whatsisname dumped me.’

      We pause.

      ‘Do you want a hug, or something?’ I say. ‘Because that’s probably asking too much.’

      ‘Let’s go to the pub. Steak, chips and red wine. Yes?’

       Chapter Fifteen

      Six weeks is a long time when you’re single.

      It’s been just six weeks since Adam the Tick Boxer, the little fucknuckle, dumped me, but I could walk into any busy bar in London right this second, certain that I’m likely to meet a guy. Certain that if I make eye contact he’ll probably come and talk to me, probably ask for my number and probably text within 48 hours. Plus – and this is key – certain that if he doesn’t, I’ll have a good time anyway.

      Sound arrogant? I think of it more as a victorious circle of self-assurance, where if you’re breezily confident that

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