LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Sophie and I keyed up about things. I think it worked when we were small.

      ‘Yes please,’ I say. ‘Sounds great.’

      Mum cocks her head to one side and looks up at me. She’s a good five inches shorter than either Sophie or I, though she thinks she’s very tall. (‘I based my whole personality on being tall, I can’t change now,’ she said once, when Sophie and I confronted her about it.) She also has the ability to pick some-one’s mood based on the way they’re holding their drink.

      ‘Are you alright? You look tired. Are you tired?’

      ‘I’m fine,’ I say to the fridge so she can’t look at my eyes and see that I’m lying.

      ‘You’ve been out of sorts ever since you arrived. Have you twosied today?’

      ‘Everything’s smashing in that department, thanks, Mum,’ I say, giving her the double thumbs up. ‘I don’t think “twosie” is a verb, though.’

      ‘Thank you, smartypants,’ Mum pretends to smack me, but I jump away.

      Dad is now standing in front of the fridge, inspecting every corner. ‘I think we can probably improve the system, you know, make it more intuitive, streamlined . . .’

      ‘Yep,’ I say, trying to give the fridge the attention Dad feels it deserves.

      ‘Vegetables and fruit at the bottom, obviously, and then meat next, and then – and now, this is a bit controversial, but stay with me – the yoghurt and cheeses on the middle shelf, because statistically, I think we reach for them most often.’ Dad is beaming with pride. ‘Right? And then condiments and mustards and mayo at the top back, jams at the front for brekkers, and voilà. A perfect fridge!’

      ‘Yay!’ cheer Mum and I, as applause is clearly required.

      When we’re done, I kiss him on the cheek and head back upstairs. My mind is an intense whirlpool of half-thoughts and half-worries. I take out my notebook, open it to a new page, and write down what Dad just said.

      When you find the right person you’ll just know.

      What a singularly irritating statement.

      I start drawing little curls around the sentence.

      I wonder if I ‘just know’ with Dave. I might, you know. I’ve never felt that crash-bang attraction before. I tremble whenever he is near me, or looking at me, or at the same table as me . . . And when he kisses me, my brain goes into a total arrest.

      Is that what it means to ‘just know’?

      Maybe my insecurity over where he and I are going and my inability to be really, truly open with him is just my inexperience. Or maybe my silly worries about Bella are just distrust left from discovering Peter’s infidelity. Or a hangover from all those ‘cool! detached!’ lectures from stupid old Robert.

      From my back pocket, my phone vibrates.

      A text! From Dave!

      Hello, my sexy little roast chestnut. I was just looking at photos of you on Facebook. You are scrumptious, has anyone ever told you that? x

      I grin delightedly to myself, and the insecurity curl around my chest disappears. My little Dave-fix. Twenty minutes later, after more redrafts than I can bear to admit to you (because I am a grown woman and should have better things to do with my time than draft the perfect sexy/witty/wry/understated little text) I have a reply to send.

      Now, I don’t want to pin him down with a text-terrogation, but my natural urge to ask WHERE ARE YOU? WHEN ARE YOU BACK? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU MISS ME? WILL YOU SEE ME TOMORROW NIGHT? WHY WILL YOU NEVER MAKE PLANS WITH ME? WHY DID BELLA TEXT YOU? WHY DAMMIT? WHY? is getting harder and harder to ignore. So I’ve decided to bend the rules and refer – very, very sneakily – to the future.

      My reply:

      Stalking is so last year. And yes, I’ve been told that many times. One more sleep till Abigail is home in London. Hurrah. x

      His immediate reply.

      Hurrah indeed. I’ve just about had it with my family, too. My sister has gone batshit crazy this year. x

      See what I mean? No details.

      I wonder what Louisa has done to get the title of ‘batshit crazy’. I think she’s the first person I’ve ever intensely disliked without even seeing her. Anyone who treated Robert that way must be evil. I hope I get to meet her soon.

      Another text! From Dave!

      I miss you by the way. See you tomorrow. x

       Chapter Twenty Nine

      It’s so good to be home. Our house is still decked out in Robert’s sister’s Christmas decorations, there’s milk in the fridge and crumpets in the breadbin, and it’s warm and clean. In short, the place feels loved.

      As soon as I got back, I took a shower, dressed in my new Christmas J Brand jeans and a white top, unpacked, put washing on, changed my sheets, rearranged my wardrobe, and played my favourite Roxy Music songs very loudly on the iPod player.

      Bored.

      I’m trying to manage my Daveticipation. He’ll be in touch today. I know he will. He texted ‘See you tomorrow’. I have to be patient and not text-terrogate him.

      And when I see him – or kiss him – again, perhaps I’ll know. Just like my father said.

      I wonder what Robert is up to . . . I made him a Christmas card in France. I want our friendship to go back to what it was . . . Whatever he doesn’t like about me being with Dave, he’s just going to have to learn to live with.

      Hmm.

      I take out my notebook and look at the sentence again. When you find the right person you’ll just know. I drew so many little squiggles and arrows around it that anyone analysing that page would think I was crazy and potentially violent.

      Very bored. Plum and Henry are spending New Year’s Eve with their respective new partners, Sophie and Luke are driving into London later today . . . DaveDaveDave . . . I wonder what Robert is doing. I’ll call him.

      ‘Why, if it isn’t the nearly-birthday girl,’ says Robert, instead of hello.

      ‘You’re not at work, are you? Because it’s nearly 5 pm on New Year’s Eve and that would be weird. Happy Christmas, by the way.’

      ‘Happy Christmas. And I am at work, yes.’

      ‘Fancy a little New Year’s Eve drink?’

      ‘Done. The Only Running Footman in Mayfair?’

      ‘See you there, one hour.’

      The Only Running Footman is a loving Christmas hug of an old pub in Mayfair. It’s just off Berkeley Square, and during normal weekdays is filled with local suits drinking boisterously. At 6 pm on this dark and frosty New Year’s Eve, however, it’s surprisingly empty, with just a handful of people in black tie having pre-dinner drinks before heading off to some glamorous Mayfair ball, no doubt. Ever noticed how men always look smug and round in black tie, and women always look sparkly and freezing?

      I order two large whiskies and take a seat, my face lighting up as I see a familiar broad-shouldered figure coming in the front door.

      ‘Robert!’ I exclaim, jumping up to give him a hug. He looks a bit tired and peaky, probably from working too hard and not eating properly, I muse. And his hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, making him look somehow clean-cut and younger.

      ‘Love the haircut! Can I call you Drill Sergeant?’

      ‘Ah, Abby,’ he says, leaning into kiss me on both cheeks, and I give him a hug. He’s so big and broad, particularly in all his winter layers and coat. It’s like wrapping my arms around a tree.

      ‘Sit

Скачать книгу