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inability to decide what I want in life,’ I say. Robert and I meet eyes again. ‘Did you just steal these from the Vanity Fair Proust Questionnaire, or what?’

      ‘Not the final one,’ says Bree proudly. ‘Where do you see yourself in 12 months?’

      I’m stumped. I open my mouth to talk and nothing comes out. Robert starts to laugh. ‘She doesn’t like thinking about the future,’ he tells them.

      ‘No, no, I can answer this!’ I say. What do I want my life to look like in 12 months? Images flash through my brain: Dave, work, Dave, work . . . nothing is clear. Why am I so indecisive? ‘Um,’ I say desperately, and cast about for inspiration. ‘Well, it’ll be New Year’s Eve, so I see myself drinking in a pub with Robert.’

      ‘Good answer!’ says Taylor. ‘OK! Robert. Your girlfriend did so well, let’s see how you go!’

      ‘Be gentle,’ he says seriously. She giggles and chews her pen. I roll my eyes inwardly.

      ‘OK! OK. What’s your idea of perfect happiness?’

      ‘Peanut butter on crumpets,’ he says seriously.

      ‘What’s a crumpet?’ Bree whispers to me.

      ‘It’s like a type of bread,’ I whisper back.

      Taylor clears her throat meaningfully. ‘What is the quality you most like in a man?’

      ‘High alcohol tolerance. And loyalty.’

      ‘What is the quality you most like in a woman?’

      ‘Good posture. And loyalty.’

      ‘If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?’

      ‘The list is too long . . .’ he says, looking at me and smiling.

      ‘Where do you see yourself in 12 months?’

      ‘Apparently I’ll be drinking with Abigail.’

      ‘This is great. So great!’ says Bree, tapping away.

      ‘Oh my God! Bree! We have to go!’ exclaims Taylor, looking at her watch. ‘Our New Year’s Eve party starts in two hours!’

      ‘You must get tired of girls throwing themselves at you,’ I say, after they’ve left.

      ‘You’re the one who dropped them at my feet like a cat with a mouse.’

      ‘I know how hard it is for you to meet women,’ I say.

      ‘It used to be. It was only because of those snogging competitions with Dave that I kissed anyone in my teens . . . I was more competitive than I was shy.’

      Oh, Dave. Where are you, I think. Why haven’t you called.

      ‘He’ll turn up,’ says Robert. ‘I think he’s still with his family.’

      Our eyes meet again, and I’m about to tell him off for mind-reading, when the girls burst back into the pub. ‘We forgot the photo! Some journalists we are!’ Bree exclaims. ‘OK, smile!’

      We both sit up and smile for the photo.

      ‘Come on, you guys! Put your arm around your lady, Robert!’

      Robert puts his arm around me. I look towards him, our eyes meet for a second, and I start laughing. This is ridiculous.

      ‘Perfect! So amazing. OK! Call us later! Or we’ll email you! Bye!’ They run out of the pub again.

      ‘Where was your first kiss, then?’ says Robert, after a pause. ‘On holiday. A French boy. I was 15 and just happy to get it over and done with. You?’

      ‘I was on holiday too. I was 14. My sister Alice lined Luke, Dave and I up with the other girls and counted three . . . two . . . one . . . LUNGE!’

      I’m laughing so hard that I start banging the table with my hand. Ow, that hurts. Must be a bit tipsy.

      ‘Who were the girls?’

      ‘Our sisters, actually,’ he says. ‘Don’t look at me like that! Not our own sisters, obviously. I kissed Louisa who was 19 and, frankly, cradle snatching at the time, Luke kissed Rosie who was 16, and Dave kissed Bella who was 13.’

      ‘That’s pretty sick.’ Bella and Dave were each other’s first kiss? Oh God, don’t think about it.

      ‘Yeah, weird, isn’t it? Especially considering . . . everything,’ he says, then glances at me. I meet his gaze and try to smile.

      ‘Sorry. It was a very long time ago. Do you want a burger?’

      ‘Oo! Yes. Burger. And a beer. And a shot.’ I need to erase the image of teenage Dave and Bella kissing.

      ‘Sure you shouldn’t slow down?’

      ‘I’m totally fine. When I start doing splits on the dance floor then you’ll know I’ve had enough,’ I say. Where is Dave? Argh, the Daveticipation . . . It’s nearly 8 pm: he’ll be here within four hours. He has to be.

       Chapter Thirty

      After we eat, we decide to go to The Punchbowl, another Mayfair pub a few minutes away.

      Robert is showing me photos on his phone of his niece Merry, who is four, and Tom, who is two and who has the hugest smile you’ve ever seen. ‘He’s the spitting image of myself at that age, by all accounts,’ says Robert proudly. ‘I always figured you as a grump from birth.’ I glance up at him and grin. ‘Don’t worry, I know you’re the Stay Puft marshmallow man underneath. It’s a big grouchy facade.’

      Robert makes a huffing-laugh sound. ‘So is your so-called inability to know what you want in life.’

      ‘Really,’ I retort. ‘I think you know exactly what you want. You’re just too scared to admit it because then you’d actually have to do something about it.’

      My face falls. Wow, that was pretty fucking insightful. But I don’t want to think about it.

      ‘Too far? Did I go too far?’ he says, grinning at me. ‘Yes, too far,’ I say, frowning up at him. ‘That cut me. Deep.’

      ‘Sorry, Abby, darling.’ He puts an arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You can say something cutting to me, if you like.’

      ‘OK, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re still hung up on some absolute bitch who was never good enough for you anyway,’ I say, pushing his arm off me. ‘I mean, some people are asshats. You have to let it go. You can’t control everything in life.’

      ‘Thanks for the advice,’ he snaps. ‘That’s great, from the girl who can’t take a risk.’

      We stare at each other angrily for a second and then start laughing.

      The Punchbowl is the pub owned by Guy Ritchie, and has a more dilapidated air than the cosy-cool The Only Running Footman. The crowd in here seem like they’ve been here for weeks, sort of glamorous faux-ruffian types who are probably perfectly respectable and work in music or film, plus the inevitable Mayfair tourists and a few New Year black tie types who seem to have forgotten they’re meant to be at another party.

      Robert heads off to find us a table, and I order two vodka and sodas. Yes. Simple and soothing. It’s 9 pm. Dave could turn up at any second, he could be surprising me, he might be texting Robert right now to find out where we are . . . The idea makes me smile.

      ‘You should smile more often,’ says a voice to my left. I turn and see a tall guy – mid-30s, slightly scruffy – in a minging leather jacket. ‘It makes you much prettier.’

      Why do men say things like that? It’s not even a compliment, it’s saying we’re ugly when we’re not smiling. I turn back to the bartender and pay for my drinks. ‘Guess I’ll have to find you at midnight

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