LITMIR.BIZ

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he’s about to end – uh, whatever this is. But he hasn’t. Anyway, I can be distant too. Detached! In control!

      Sort of.

      The truth is: all of my newfound dating confidence and singledom tactics went out the window the moment we kissed. I’m sure that’s normal for the start of any relationsh— I mean, the start of anything.

      At least I’m not as nervous around him anymore. I actually feel more nervous when I’m not with him, if that makes sense. When he hasn’t got in touch, or when his last text or email was a bit cold or rushed, it’s all I can think about. I wait and worry and ugh, it’s awful. It’s been pretty bad today, in fact.

      Dave is drinking in a City pub with his work buddies. He has been doing that a lot recently, unsurprising given it’s December, which is a month-long booze-soaked celebration in London. Not me, of course. I’m staying at work late to impress Suzanne. I wonder if I should just go home. But what if he invites me to join? He could be just around the corner . . .

      I won’t let myself text him first, as per Dave’s speech about hating ‘text-terrogations’ in France. There is an art to being elusive through the medium of text, there truly is. Though it’s fucking difficult to practise that art when he’s not texting at all. And I’ve learned that he doesn’t like direct questions; if I’d asked ‘where are you going tonight?’ he simply wouldn’t have answered. It’s just one of his little quirks.

      Mind you, it’s always like this. When I think I can’t bear to wait any longer, that’s when he contacts me. It’s like he knows. I just need to be patient and confident and everything will be fine.

      I’ve never had to wait this long, though. I haven’t heard anything from him since I left his house this morning.

      I stare at my computer screen so long that the words start bending, and I shake my head to force my eyes to focus. I think I’ll call Plum.

      ‘Abigay!’ she exclaims when she answers the phone. ‘How are you, honeytits?’

      ‘Good, fine, good. What are you doing?’

      ‘I’m currently fake-tanning, so you are speaking to me naked.’

      ‘Charming. How’s work?’

      ‘Who cares? All I do all day is pretend to be happy and excited about things I hate.’

      ‘Well, that’s PR,’ I say absently. ‘That’s why they’re paying you the big bucks.’

      ‘I wish,’ she snorts. ‘I am already in my overdraft. At least having no money will make it easier to diet in January.’

      ‘That’s the spirit!’ I say. I pick up my mobile phone and gaze at it. Text me, Dave, goddammit.

      ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she says. ‘Something’s wrong. Everything alright with Dave?’

      ‘Fantastic!’ I say, trying to sound as bright and positive as I can. ‘I’ll see him later. I’ve seen him almost every night since France . . . not, um, dinner every night, I just mean, he calls me, and—’

      ‘I get it,’ says Plum. ‘You’re having a lot of sex. But it’s natural to feel a bit insecure. Have you had the where-is-this-going discussion yet?’

      ‘Hell, no,’ I say, aghast at the idea. ‘This is just casual. I’m not insecure.’ This is so not true. But I can hardly admit that to myself, let alone to Plum.

      ‘Well, I was totally open with Dan,’ says Plum. ‘On our fifth date I just said, look, I’ve been screwed around. I want a real relationship, so if you don’t, let’s forget about it now. And he loved that and said he did too.’ She pauses. ‘Sometimes you just have to take a risk.’

      ‘Are you fucking serious?’ I exclaim, before I can help myself. That’s the absolute opposite of everything Robert’s taught me, and the opposite of how I’m trying to act with Dave.

      ‘I like him,’ she says simply. ‘I really, really like him and I didn’t want to fuck around. I used to see getting a boyfriend as the holy grail to escape the sweaty moshpit of singledom – but that’s not how it works. You have to wait for the right guy. I met Dan and thought, oh there you are. It was different. I can’t explain it. . . .’

      My instant reaction to this is: for fuck’s sake. But then I pause and reflect for a second. Did I think ‘oh there you are’? Not really. Could I say that stuff to Dave? No way.

      ‘Kittenpants? Are you there?’ says Plum.

      ‘I’ve been single for like, five months after seven years of a relationshit. I want to keep this casual.’

      ‘You’re lying,’ she says. Marvellously direct, these Yorkshire girls. And perceptive.

      I pause. Then the words tumble out in a rush. ‘I’m scared it’s all going to go wrong. I can’t be like you. Oh Plummy, I hope it’s not a fling, I like him, I do – but pretending to be a bullet-proof bastardette is the only way I know to stay in control, or pretend to stay in control, my stomach is in knots all the time, and—’

      ‘Breathe,’ instructs Plum.

      But my brain goes racing on. I don’t know what I mean to him. Am I his girlfriend? Can a relationship happen without us talking about it? Are there stages? Is there an established time schedule I should know about, like after three months you’re properly together? Does it all depend on those three goddamn little words? Why is it so confusing? Why don’t I know where I stand? I am insecure! Why am I insecure? ‘Are you there?’ she says. ‘Yes,’ I reply, taking a deep, shaky breath. ‘If it ends, I’ll be fine. I’ll get over feeling like I’ve been plugged into an electrical socket every time I’m within a ten-metre radius of him, and you know, continue with my happy single life. I could do that. I could!’

      ‘Are you sure you’re not just addicted to the sex?’

      ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not. It’s more than that. He’s so funny and confident, I love that about him. And when he lets his guard down I just . . .’ I trail off.

      ‘Oh, it’s the emotional chase, then,’ says Plum knowingly. ‘Thomasina always says that a self-contained, seemingly un obtainable man who withholds his emotions, or affections, is twice as attractive . . . it’s like a game, and every time he reveals something about himself, you feel like you’re winning.’

      ‘No,’ I say waveringly. Though that sounds scarily accurate. ‘What did you think? Do you think he’s serious about me?’ No answer. ‘Do you like him?’ Plum and Dan met him last week when we had dinner at Lemonia.

      ‘I’d like to get to know him better,’ she says, after a pause. Which means, of course, that she doesn’t like him. ‘I can’t believe you’re still at work, by the way.’

      ‘It’s fine,’ I say, gazing around the half-full, fluorescent-lit office. ‘I’m still, you know, over delivering, just like Suzanne told me to. Step. It. Up. Those were her exact words. Step it up, Abigail.’

      ‘What a wanker,’ comments Plum.

      ‘Yeah,’ I say automatically. I’ve never thought of Suzanne as a wanker before. A cold slave driver, yes, but I accepted that she was someone who knew how to get the best out of us all.

      ‘How’s beautiful Robert the fuckmerchant?’ asks Plum. ‘I haven’t seen him in ages. He must be happy you’re seeing one of his best friends.’

      ‘He doesn’t seem that impressed, actually. He hasn’t been quite himself around me since that weekend in France.’

      ‘Jealous that you’re taking his friend away,’ says Plum knowingly. ‘Such a typical guy thing.’

      ‘They seem to have a complicated friendship . . . highly competitive. They go out of their way to irritate each other.’

      ‘Alphas,’ sniffs Plum.

      Actually,

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