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a crisis. Or discover a shared love of Grease 2. (We did that, too.)

      And the best thing? She smiles and laughs all the time. That’s what I didn’t understand about her before: she wasn’t boring. She was just bored.

      ‘Perhaps I’m in denial,’ she said blithely last week, when we went for an after work drink together and accidentally ended up in a dodgy late-night bar near Temple, swapping our newly-single stories. ‘But life really seems better without him. I’d rather be single than in an unfulfilling relationship.’

      ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, raising my glass to hers.

      ‘Have you spoken to Alistair?’ she asks.

      ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m sure it’s crazy over there.’

      Charlotte doesn’t know that at Alistair’s leaving party, at a typical City wine bar under the nose of our entire floor of colleagues, he made a play for me. An enormous, fumblingly drunken play, that consisted of flirty smiles and meaningful eye contact (7 pm to 8 pm), questions shouted at me over whoever else I was talking to (8 pm to 9 pm), and attempts to hold my hand and grope my waist when I was waiting for drinks at the bar (9.05 pm to 9.15 pm). Then I stormed furiously to the bathrooms to calm down rather than shout at him in front of everyone.

      And he followed me. Right into the bathroom.

      ‘What is this, fucking Top Gun?’ I snapped. ‘Get out.’

      ‘Oh Abigail, I like you, so much, I want – I want to – you, with . . .’ he said, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable.

      ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You don’t.’

      ‘You don’t even know what I’m about to ask!’ he said, then looked around and started laughing. ‘Tampon machine!’

      ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘The answer is no.’ I walked out, leaving him shouting my name in the bathroom and haven’t seen him since. He emailed me a couple of days later, saying sorry and asking me out for a drink, but I haven’t replied. I think it’s the best way.

      Sophie and Plum think that was too brutal, considering he was a friend – I believe Plum’s term was ‘fucking harsh’ – and I’m sure Charlotte would not approve of my behaviour either. But it made sense to cut him off before he went any further, right? Am I fucking harsh? Or am I just taking cool and detached to the next, logical level?

      Perhaps most girls are just too nice. Perhaps we get dumped because we date guys who just aren’t right in the first place. For example, if I’d been properly brutal about Adam The Tick Boxer, I would have dumped him because he said he played Doom for 10 to 12 hours every weekend, which is – let’s face it – weird. Instead I ignored that, went out with him, got a bit emotionally attached and then, well, you know. Boom.

      ‘I’ve decided I’m ready,’ Charlotte says over lunch. ‘To start dating. A new boyfriend might be nice.’

      ‘Yay,’ I say, holding up my bottle of water to clink with hers. ‘Though wanting to date and wanting a boyfriend are completely different things. In my mind, anyway.’

      ‘Then . . . why are you dating?’ says Charlotte reasonably. ‘It’s fun,’ I shrug. ‘And I’m making up for lost time . . . But I’m not getting carried away with some asshat like Adam The Tick Boxer again.’

      Charlotte nods sympathetically.

      ‘That was a mini-disaster. I really fucked up,’ I add.

      ‘You did not fuck it up! You liked him,’ she exclaims. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t be cynical. You need to keep a positive mental attitude.’

      ‘This is a positive mental attitude,’ I say. ‘I can have fun and date without actually getting emotionally involved.’

      ‘OK,’ says Charlotte doubtfully. ‘If you say so.’

      ‘One day I might find someone . . . perfect,’ I pause, thinking about my fruitless search for a spark, and the someday-I’ll-fall-in-love-and-find-a-soulmate thought that Robert told me to ignore. ‘Until then, I’m having fun and staying in control.’

      Charlotte laughs. ‘I don’t think I can be as . . . strong as you.’

      ‘I don’t think I’m that strong,’ I say, surprised. No one’s ever called me strong. ‘I just try to ignore my brain when it tells me I’m a bit shit. Robert told me to fake being bulletproof until I felt it, and that worked . . . Hey, what are you doing tonight?’

      Charlotte shrugs. ‘Nothing. All my friends are in relationships, so Friday is usually quiet . . .’

      ‘Friday! Quiet!’ I am appalled. ‘Come to this speed dating thing with me.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ says Charlotte.

      I nod my head firmly. ‘Definitely. Without question. Plum just forwarded an email saying they were still short of girls – there’s too many men! So you really should come.’

      Charlotte bites her lip. ‘Well . . . alright.’

       Chapter Seventeen

      The speed dating tonight is being held at a Bloomsbury pub called The Perseverance, which is a singularly appropriate name for a speed dating venue.

      The attendees include Plum, me, Henry and now Charlotte. We’re meeting at The Lamb, a Victorian pub with the original, frosted-glass ‘snob screens’ so you can order a drink without people in different parts of the bar seeing your face.

      I hope everyone’s on good form tonight. Plum had four seemingly perfect dates with Dan, but he went to Atlanta for a work conference three weeks ago and she hasn’t heard from him since. She seems to have borne the disappointment surprisingly stoic-ally so far, i.e. she’s not talking about it.

      ‘Bonsoir,’ I say breezily as we finally locate Plum on a table at the back. Henry’s at the bar, getting drinks. I introduce Plum to Charlotte, and Henry returns with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. He’s wearing his glasses, something he never does on Saturdays and Sundays when I usually see him, and a suit.

      ‘Looking sharp, Henry! Champagne! What’s the occasion?’ I exclaim, kissing him hello.

      ‘I got a promotion today,’ he says. Henry works for an IT company, and from what I can understand, he is in ‘logistics’. Which seems to mean Sorting Shit Out.

      ‘Yay!’ We all chorus our congratulations and ask for details that we don’t understand. Henry pours the champagne and we toast to his promotion.

      ‘By the way, Henry, this is Charlotte,’ I say. I can tell by the slightly shy way Henry smiles at her that he thinks she’s cute.

      ‘Right then. I need tips from experienced speed daters,’ I say. ‘Plum, that’s you.’

      ‘My tip is to drink a lot beforehand,’ says Plum. She’s quite tense tonight. ‘Because it will be fucking excruciating.’

      ‘That’s not very helpful,’ I say, seeing Charlotte’s face fall.

      ‘I am going to ask “would you rather” questions,’ says Henry. ‘Like, would you rather smell like a goat for a year or shave your entire body, including eyebrows? Would you rather be a fairy or a mermaid? Would you rather eat steak or chicken if you had to eat one of them, at every meal, forever?’

      ‘Shave, fairy, steak,’ I say automatically.

      ‘No! Goat, mermaid, steak!’ shout Henry and Charlotte in unison, and then glance at each other with delight.

      ‘I’m a mermaid, can I sing underwater like Ariel?’ asks Plum.

      Henry doesn’t reply, because he’s grinning at Charlotte now. ‘No one ever says goat!’

      ‘I

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