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. . . God, they were awesome.’

      ‘Well, there was no spark or chemistry of any kind,’ I say. ‘Good to have the blind date experience out of the way though. Cheers for that.’

      ‘You’re going to run out of men soon,’ she says.

      ‘I bet you a tenner I kiss someone with whom I have a real spark by the end of the year.’

      ‘Deal.’

      We hang up. I’ve just received a text from Robert.

      I’m in the pub. Last orders. Chop chop.

      I grin, and lean forward to redirect the driver.

       Chapter Sixteen

      Tonight I’m going to wipe my date slate clean and find some fresh men to play with.

      I’m going speed dating.

      ‘Why don’t you come?’ I say to Robert over breakfast. ‘Speed dating! Don’t you want to try it? It’s run by a workfriend of Plum’s. Lots of posh PR girls . . .’

      ‘I did try it,’ says Robert. ‘More coffee . . . Years ago. When everyone else was trying it. It sucks arse.’

      ‘Well, bully for you,’ I say, taking my mug. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re still single, with that attitude.’

      ‘Not single, baby,’ he says, smiling lasciviously and stirring honey into his porridge. ‘Multiple.’

      ‘You are beastly,’ I say sniffily.

      ‘Why are you talking like the lost Mitford sister?’ asks Robert.

      ‘I’m rereading The Pursuit of Love,’ I say, thrilled that he noticed. ‘It’s utter bliss.’

      ‘Are these chopped almonds on my porridge?’

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Full of happy fat and very good for you.’

      ‘My digestive tract has been delighted ever since I stopped having a ham and cheese croissant for breakfast,’ admits Robert.

      ‘What a shock,’ I say, hopping down from my chair. ‘Right. Ready to go? I’m just going to clean my teeth again.’

      ‘Cleaning your teeth both before and after breakfast is a little weird, you know,’ he shouts after me as I head up the stairs.

      ‘So is having four ladyfriends on the go at once,’ I shout back. ‘But no one is judging you. Except God.’

      Last night’s blind date with Jon is long forgotten. It’s a crisp November morning, the sun is just coming up as we get on the moped, and London is so new and fresh that I feel like singing. For all that everyone always goes on about summer, and heat, and parks, and ice-cream, London can be a real armpit in August. Dawn in autumn, on the other hand, feels clean, and when the sky is clear and the sun is promising to do its very best to shine, the whole city sparkles.

      My I-love-London attitude is helped by the fact that I always get a lift to work with Robert on his moped, rather than taking the tube. (In winter, the London underground becomes a warm, pungent hug of humanity-infused air.) I love the moped, and I’ve even purchased my very own helmet. It’s black. I am thinking about adding little glow-in-the-dark stars. Unless that’s childish. In which case I won’t. I’m 28 in January, after all.

      ‘You’re going to need proper protective weather gear soon,’ says Robert, as I zip up my warmest coat.

      ‘You’re protective weather gear,’ I say with a dazzling smile.

      Robert grins to himself and gets on. I prop myself on the back, and off we go. It’s chilly, but such a smashing way to get around London. The hours I used to spend waiting for buses and trains! What a waste of time.

      I do miss tube flirtations though. (Accidental eye contact, grin to yourself, repeat.) But the moped is an improvement in every other way. I feel very safe sitting behind Robert. And very warm. His body temperature is, I swear, about five degrees warmer than mine at any given time. He’s so broad and tall, and I hang on to him like a baby koala all the way to work. With Robert, I’m always sure he knows what he’s doing.

      We’re at Blackfriars in minutes, and Robert nods goodbye and heads towards Liverpool Street. I still don’t know what Robert does for a living, you know. He will not discuss it.

      Today, I have to announce the quarterly figures to the trading floor. This is usually my least favourite part of the job (it’s seriously intimidating), but new cool-and-bulletproof me is faking that I LOVE it. And to tell you the truth, whether as a result or by coincidence, I am almost looking forward to it today. So I stride down the corridor, past Suzanne’s office, with a spring in my step and sit at my desk for a few minutes.

      Then I take the lift up to the trading floor. I read out the above-average results, and say that we expect the stock to go up. I have a little tummy-wobble of nerves just before I start speaking, but apart from that I’m fine. I even finish with a big, beaming smile. Wow. Fake it till you feel it, indeed.

      As I walk back to the lifts, a guy bounds ahead of me. He presses the button and turns around, and I see it’s the same guy who asked me about whips and bridles all those weeks ago. The jackass. The lift opens and he holds it open for me, grinning broadly. I get in, and still grinning, he steps in next to me.

      ‘Hey,’ he says casually. ‘Going down? . . . I mean, uh, which floor?’

      ‘Sixth,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘So, I had the craziest night last night,’ he says. ‘Cuckoo Club till 4 am.’

      ‘Wow,’ I say.

      ‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Uh, great report, by the way. A couple of my clients will be pleased to hear about this. Perhaps we could, uh, meet up—’

      ‘There’s a full report on the way,’ I say. ‘You can read about it.’ Silence.

      The lift gets to my floor and I get off without looking at him.

      As we walk to our desks I see a very tall, broad-shouldered man coming out of Suzanne’s meeting room. He reminds me of Robert from this distance.

      ‘Abigail,’ barks Suzanne. I walk over with a ready smile. I quite like standing up next to her, as I’m about nine inches taller than her and she doesn’t scare me quite as much. ‘This is Andre.’

      I turn to smile at him, and he fixes me with a charming grin. ‘Nice to meet you.’ French. Long eyelashes. Charm oozing from every pore.

      ‘Andre is going to be in the London office a lot over the next few months. He’s currently in the Paris office and is heading to China in February.’

      ‘Smashing,’ I say, meeting Andre’s warm, chocolatey gaze without flinching.

      Suzanne continues to talk about the project he’s here for, and I concentrate on not breaking eye contact with Andre first. The longer I hold his gaze, the more he’s trying not to smile. I wonder if it’s unprofessional of me to date you, when you’re living here, I think idly to myself. To hell with it, I want to. And I bet you do, too.

      ‘Andre!’ barks Suzanne, and Andre is forced to break the stare first, as she introduces him to one of the other managing dir ectors on our floor.

      ‘Shall we luncheon today?’ suggests Charlotte as I sit back at my desk. ‘And who the devil is that?’

      ‘Yes we shall,’ I reply. ‘And that is Andre.’

      It’s now been over six weeks since Charlotte broke up with whatever-his-name-was, and she’s undergone a dramatic transformation. Drab Charlotte is gone. She’s highlighted her hair a buttery shade of blonde that makes her skin look luminous rather than washed out, started wearing make-up and heels, and stopped wearing ponchos. As a result she seems to stride and stand out, rather than sit and slouch.

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