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and sip the Bloody Mary.

      ‘Wowsers, that’s good . . . You’ve shaved,’ I comment.

      ‘You told me to,’ he replies. ‘Did you just say “wowsers”? Like Inspector Gadget?’

      The next half hour is a mix of chewing, slurping, makeupping and smiling. I almost feel better. The Bloody Mary is extremely spicy. The peanut butter is chewy and just a tiny bit salty. And my make-up is – God bless it – working wonders. I need a little extra highlighter and concealer tonight, but apart from that I look surprisingly alright. I’ve had about 10 hours sleep, I guess.

      I suddenly feel inexplicably cheerful.

      I wonder what Robert has planned for us tonight. I hope it’s fun.

      I check my phone for the first time since this morning. Seven missed calls and four texts. I love feeling popular. The texts are from Sophie, Josh From HR and ohfucktwofromSkinnyJeansguy. I listen to a message from Mum, asking me about my bridesmaid dress preference. No one else left a message. Everyone I know is too impatient to bother leaving a voicemail.

      Sophie: So I hear you’ve been a very bad girl. Details.

      Josh From HR: Hi!!! What are you up to this weekend? Fancy a catch-up? Maybe dinner in SW17? xxx

      Skinny Jeans: Devastated. I am devastated that you would leave me like this. x

      Skinny Jeans: Well, you can ignore me, but I had a great night. Let me know if you fancy it again some time.

      ‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ I say to myself, and flop facedown on my bed and moan. I feel sick again.

      If I was going to have the first one-night-stand of my life, wouldn’t it be good if I could actually remember it?

      And yes, by the way, it was definitely a one-night-stand. I’m too mortified given my drunkenness, and I don’t want to see him again, anyway. He’s kind of cute, but his anecdotes centred largely on getting stoned. I kept thinking, Stick it out, Abigail, this is experience, this is experience . . .

      I’m going to be brutal, as per Robert’s instructions. Josh From HR is just ew, and Skinny Jeans . . . I can’t face it. So I won’t. For some reason, the decision to ignore them both makes me feel stronger and in control.

      I flip through the rest of my texts from last night. They’re all from Robert, all in reply to apparent text questions from me. From the end of the night, backwards:

      1.32 am I am sleeping Abigail.

      12.37 am Don’t worry about it. Lots of people get caught snogging in bar toilets.

      12.20 am Have a glass of water. I don’t speak drunk.

      11.57 pm Maybe he doesn’t know what comatose means.

      11.41 pm Everyone’s seen Pretty In Pink. He’s lying. PS I can’t believe you’d choose Stef.

      11.37 pm Try this, then. Ducky versus Blaine – who should Andie have picked?

      11.16 pm How about this: You look like the kind of guy who sings in a choir. Am I right?

      10.24 pm Dater’s block, huh. Very funny. Try complimenting him on something he’s wearing in a slightly sarcastic way.

      9.43 pm Relax. Are you even having fun? Did you have a shot? Remember, you can always leave.

      We were kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets?

      I never want to see Skinny Jeans again. It will be easy because I am never going to get off my bedroom floor. I will die here. Of mortification.

      I moan at the ceiling pathetically for a few seconds.

      Ooh, text.

      It’s Henry.

      Abigay. What are you doing tonight and can I join?

      I invite him along, and resume my position.

      It’s at this second that I remember that I have not had a bikini wax since quite a long time before Peter and I broke up. My moan turns into a loud squeal of anguish.

      ‘What now?’ Robert is in my doorway again.

      ‘Nothing,’ I say sulkily. ‘My friend Henry is coming along, by the way.’

      ‘Tell Uncle Robbie what’s wrong,’ he says, coming into the room and crouching down next to me.

      I sigh, and meet his amused eyes. ‘I just realised that I have not had a bikini wax in a long time. It’s pretty bad. I should have had a sign on my knickers saying Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.’

      ‘Only the penitent man shall pass, huh?’ Robert starts laughing. ‘Hey. I hear the full bush is coming back into fashion anyway.’

      ‘“The full bush”? Says who, the pubic topiary style mavens?’ I pause. ‘I’m sorry I bothered you so much. With the texts, I mean.’

      ‘There was nothing good on TV. It was a nice distraction.’

      ‘You were at home?’ Robert is never home on a Thursday.

      ‘Of course not. I was with bowler-hat girl. She has a TV in her bedroom.’

      ‘That’s nice.’ I peer at him through my fingers. ‘I’m a woman of easy virtue,’ I add mournfully.

      ‘Oh, come on. What is this, 1955? No one is judging you except yourself.’

      ‘Sleeping with a virtual stranger and being too drunk to even remember it is a pretty bad fucking mistake, Robert. It’s just not something I do. Ever . . .’

      ‘Just shake it off. Remorse is a pointless emotion. Be bullet-proof. That’s key to surviving single life . . . What did he say this morning?’

      ‘Nothing,’ I say, taking out my notebook and adding Bulletproof to the list. That’s a good one. ‘I crept out before he could wake up and act like men in films do, all awkward and uninterested . . . what’s that line in When Harry Met Sally? Pretend he had to, you know, clean his andirons.’

      ‘What’s an andiron?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ I sigh deeply, and look at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to stay here tonight with nothing but my remorse for company, that’s for sure. OK, let’s go.’

      ‘Well, at least you pre-empted the number one rule, princess,’ says Robert as we leave the house a few minutes later.

      I almost can’t bear to ask. ‘What’s that?’

      He holds the front door open for me. ‘Always leave them before they leave you.’

      Oddly, that does make me feel better. I pause on the doorstep to add it to my notebook list.

       Always leave them before they leave you.

       Chapter Ten

      It’s raining. Not real, hard rain, but that autumn perma-drizzle that ruins your hair and make-up. Robert and I stand under an umbrella on the corner of our street, waiting for a black cab to take us to a pub in Belgravia called The Pantechnicon Rooms.

      ‘You look alright, by the way. Considering.’

      ‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say, slightly sarcastically, to hide the fact that actually, I can feel myself blushing. Compliments have been quite light on the ground since I left Peter.

      ‘Sorry, Abby. You look stunning. Gob-smackingly stunning. Now, let’s get you a drink.’

      ‘I don’t think I can drink,’ I’m trying to angle my words to the side in case, despite cleaning my teeth and scrubbing my tongue three times, my breath still smells like booze and/or vomit. This umbrella seems abnormally small.

      ‘Alright, alright. You’re in charge, OK?’

      I’m

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