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I don’t worry about any of it.

      In other words, I’m dating like a man.

      I went out with Rich, Henry’s brother, twice before he left for Hong Kong. He’s nice, but almost too nice. Know what I mean? And I went out with Toby twice before I decided he was probably too much of a high-flying social bunny for me (he spent most of our dates talking to other people).

      Anyway, neither of them made my heart beat wildly with excitement. So why bother seeing them again?

      ‘Because you want to get to know them better?’ suggested Plum when I said this.

      ‘But that’s just it. I don’t,’ I replied.

      Once you get the hang of dating, it’s kind of hard to stop. What did I do with my Wednesday and Thursday nights before I dated? I don’t remember. (Fridays and Saturdays are still for friends. Obviously.)

      One of my dates, Mark, wore a T-shirt saying ‘I’m not a gynaecologist but I’ll take a look’ which rendered me helpless with laughter at such an error of judgement.

      Another date, Patrick, was ridiculously good-looking. I met him at a terrible nightclub called Embargo’s, and it wasn’t till he said he was hoping to go to Sandhurst next year that I said, ‘How old are you?’ and he said ‘Well, how old are you?’ I said, ‘Twenty-seven,’ at the same moment he said, ‘Eighteen.’ We both stared at each other for a few seconds and called it a night 10 minutes later.

      I snogged a guy called Tom at one of Henry’s rugby parties, and we went out once, but he ruined it for himself by texting me eight hopeful ‘Are you still out’ texts at 3 am the following weekend. (‘That just means he likes you! That’s a good sign!’ exclaimed Plum when I told her. ‘No,’ I said. ‘One drunk phone text means he likes me. Seven drunk texts means he’s an idiot.’)

      I also went out with an American called Chad (honestly, that was his name, though he didn’t laugh when I asked if I could call him Dimpled Chad) a couple of times, but he was rude to the waitress.

      And lastly, I went out with a charming guy called James twice, who read the Daily Mail. Enough said.

      So I ditched them, and haven’t thought about them since. Delete, ignore, continue.

      Plum and Sophie think I’m strange. Henry thinks I’m awesome, having taken similar advice from Robert.

      ‘It’s you and me, Abigay! We rock singledom!’ said Henry.

      ‘You are acting like a man,’ said Sophie. ‘A bastard man.’

      ‘A bastardette,’ corrected Plum. ‘A fucknuckle bastardette.’

      ‘Plum. Language,’ said Sophie.

      ‘Sorry.’

      I shrugged. ‘I’m just acting the way men act. Why pretend to like them when I don’t?’

      ‘Because you’ll hurt their feelings?’ said Plum.

      I thought about this for exactly one second. ‘I don’t care. I’m having fun.’

      It’s true. Who wouldn’t like to get dressed up and sit in a bar with someone who is at least slightly attractive, and who has never heard your best lines and stories before? If it’s a bad date, it’s a great story. If it’s a good date, then – hell. It’s a good date!

      Yes, I am still nervous, but I just keep smiling – cool! confident! – and it’s always fine. More than fine. Smashing.

      Tonight is a new experience in the dating spectrum: a blind date.

      It’s the brother of a guy Sophie works with. All I know about him is that his name is Jon, he’s 29, does something in media, and is apparently ‘really quite good-looking’.

      Sophie’s colleague was whingeing that Jon kept meeting absolute cows and ‘he just needs someone nice’. She texted and I thought, why not?

      It’s Thursday night, and we’re meeting in Soho. You’d think, since this is media-land, that Jon would know all the best places to go, but in the few texts that we’ve exchanged, he’s been star-tlingly ambivalent about venues.

      ‘He’s easygoing,’ protested Sophie, when I rang her to point this out.

      ‘You say easygoing, I say wishy-washy,’ I replied. ‘I want someone to take charge so I don’t have to decide everything.’

      ‘God, you’re turning into a ball-breaker,’ she said.

      I was thrilled. ‘Thank you!’

      Ball-breaker is such a nice change from always being called nice, dependable, sweet, subdued . . .

      We eventually agreed to meet at 9 pm at 22 Below, a cocktail bar in Soho.

      I put on my fail-safe date outfit: extremely high black heels, black tights and a short black dress. I add a white jacket, tied with a big, black Obi belt. (Pretty with a monochromatic punch.) Hair down, in case I need to hide behind it. There. I feel slim and tall and confident. And when it comes to dating, that’s half the battle already won.

      I head downstairs at 8 pm to get myself some crumpets with peanut butter (strong drinks on no dinner is not a good idea for me), and turn on the TV to ‘You Belong With Me’ by Taylor Swift. I love teen girl-pop. I was quietly obsessed with Avril Lavigne’s ‘Sk8ter Boi’ and ‘Girlfriend’ for years. (Immature, I know, but Plum loved Justin Bieber so I feel OK about it. Fucknuckle.) I stretch my feet out to the coffee table, admire my heels, and sing along loudly. I know every word.

      ‘That’s a fucking naff song,’ says a voice behind me. It’s Robert.

      ‘Don’t care,’ I reply.

      ‘Seriously. You’re too old to like teen pop.’

      ‘LOVE. LOVE teen pop,’ I correct him. ‘Right, I’m off. I’ve got a date.’

      I stand up and head to the kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher. Robert’s unpacking a little take-away box from Marine Ices. I know it is spaghetti napoletana without even looking at it, as it’s his standard dinner on weeknights.

      ‘You’re going to get sick if you don’t eat some vegetables soon,’ I tell him.

      ‘Thanks, Mum,’ he replies. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you just ate. You are the laziest cook ever.’

      ‘I had vegetable soup and a chicken salad at lunch,’ I protest, leaning over to flick his ear with my index finger as I leave the kitchen. ‘Anyway I cooked for Peter for years. I’m officially exempt from cooking until, well, until I feel like it again. What are you up to tonight?’

      ‘Not sure yet,’ he shrugs. ‘I could do with some sleep. Lady Caroline was exhausting last night.’

      ‘So I heard,’ I call, as I head out the front door.

      It’s much easier to make dates for a bit later in the evening, as you can call it quits after an hour at 10 pm and no one’s feelings are hurt, I reflect, as my cab pulls in to Great Marlborough Street. Jon told me he’d be outside 22 Below, and made some slightly lame joke about wearing a carnation.

      I text Sophie quickly.

      He’d better not have a ponytail or you’re dead.

      I pay for the cab and get out, and see a tall, skinny guy. He’s in a slightly crumpled suit and satchel, with a nervous expression on his face. Cute, with hair in a sticky-looking quiff.

      For a second, nerves overtake me, as they always do, and my heart puckers in apprehension. I’m about to make conversation with a virtual stranger? Easy, Abigail, breathe. It’s just a couple of hours. Cool and detached. Elusive and alluring. Bastardette.

      Jon walks forward and smiles. ‘Uh . . . Abigail?’

      ‘Jon!’ I reply, and we both half-giggle at the awkwardness of the whole blind-date

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