LITMIR.BIZ

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thought a girl like you would say things like that . . .’

      ‘Things like what?’ I say, frowning at him.

      ‘Just . . . your little comments. You used to seem kind of, um, subdued,’ he says, exchanging a quick glance with Sophie. ‘In a good way. Sweet, you know.’

      ‘Why are you exchanging looks?’

      ‘I’m telling him to shut up,’ says Sophie calmly. ‘He just means that you were a bit quieter before.’

      ‘Do you think I was quieter before?’ I ask Henry. He shrugs. Mr Observant.

      I stare into space for a second, trying to remember. Have you noticed it’s impossible to look back and remember how you used to act? You can remember how you felt, that’s all. I remember letting Peter talk for us, as it made my life easier. And I remember feeling a bit, I don’t know, out of place sometimes. I don’t feel like that anymore. Despite today’s remorse-packed hangover. I just feel like myself.

      The waiter comes over to take our order. Sophie, as always, agrees to everything he suggests, so we end up with every side dish on the menu.

      ‘Why did you order honeyed carrots?’ says Luke.

      ‘I feel bad saying no!!’ she exclaims. ‘He put so much effort into telling us the specials . . .’

      ‘I’ll eat them,’ says Henry.

      ‘I will too, of course,’ says Luke quickly. Nothing like com petition to make a man loving.

      Robert changes the subject. ‘So, Abigail tells me you play for Richmond, Henry?’

      Henry goes into a long diatribe about his team’s strengths and weaknesses. I’ve heard it before, and start gazing around the room. A few after-work drinkers, a romantic couple, another romantic couple, three guys at the bar . . . and one of them is looking right at me.

      Zip. (That’s the record in my head.)

      Guy. At bar. Looking right at me. And he’s good-looking. Short dark hair, slight stubble, wide smile that’s now grinning with just a hint of cheekiness . . . What the devil? Men never stare at me like that. I must have something on my face.

      I turn back to our table, and quickly but casually, check my face and hair for problems. I seem clean enough . . . I glance back at him. He’s now talking to his friends, but a moment after I look over, we meet eyes again.

      ‘There’s a guy at the bar looking at me,’ I whisper across the table to Robert. ‘What do I do?’

      ‘Feign nonchalance,’ he replies straight away. ‘We’ll work out a game plan.’

      ‘Feign nonchalance?’ I reply. ‘What big words! I guess we can tell who went to Cambridge . . .’ Robert smirks. I lean back in my chair and pretend to yawn and stretch as nonchalantly as I can. I’m only doing it to make Robert laugh, and it works.

      ‘We are thinking about having a weekend in France in November,’ says Sophie, interrupting us. ‘Mum and Dad are visiting Aunty Peg and Aunty Pat for the weekend.’

      ‘Smashing, go for it,’ I nod. I haven’t spent a lot of time at the house in France; Peter and I didn’t do weekends away. I stopped booking longer holidays with him about six months ago. That’s a sign, by the way. You know you’re about to leave someone when you don’t want to plan holidays with them.

      ‘Actually, we were thinking it would be a get-to-know-you weekend for the wedding party,’ says Luke. ‘All the bridesmaids and all the groomsmen.’ He glances at Henry. ‘Um . . .’

      ‘Don’t worry,’ says Henry. ‘I’ve got rugby anyway.’ He smears butter on his third bread roll and tips salt on it. I reach over and take the salt away from him.

      ‘And Robert,’ says Luke. ‘I’ve been waiting to ask you if you’d be my best man.’

      Robert looks up in shock. ‘Mate! I’d be honoured!’ They stand up and hug as Sophie beams on adoringly and I – I admit it – take the opportunity to steal another look at the guy at the bar. Bar guy smiles openly at me. I smile back. Cripes, I am more confident than I used to be. This experience thing works.

      ‘I thought you’d ask Dave!’ says Robert, sitting down again. He’s beaming from ear to ear. ‘I was hoping for a groomsmanship and trying to be cool about it . . . This is fantastic, Lukey!’

      ‘Lukey?’ say Sophie and I in unison.

      ‘Dave is a groomsman, so is JimmyJames,’ says Luke. ‘But you’re the one who’s been with me through all the shit times . . . and you know Sophie better, too.’

      ‘I voted for you!’ said Sophie happily.

      Our food arrives at this point, and Robert, Henry and Luke happily tuck into their identical dinners: steak for main, medium rare, with a side of chips. Men are so predictable.

      Robert is smiling into the distance and sighing happily. ‘Best man! Tell the other bridesmaids to watch out.’

      ‘Oh, we will,’ I say. Sophie’s bridesmaids, apart from moi, are Vix, Sophie’s best friend who lives in Edinburgh, and Luke’s younger sister Bella, who I haven’t met yet as she lives in Bath and has somehow missed every post-engagement family get-together. Sophie has confided in me that she finds Bella ‘a bit tricky’. This is Sophie-speak for ‘a difficult and unpredictable bitch’.

      ‘Please don’t plunder and pillage the wedding party, Robert,’ says Sophie. ‘Really. I will go bridezilla on your arse.’

      ‘I might plunder the wedding party,’ pipes up Henry hopefully.

      Sophie pats his arm condescendingly. ‘Sure you will.’

      ‘I promise to behave,’ says Robert. ‘I’ve known little Bella forever, anyway, so that would be disgusting.’ Then his face drops. ‘Shit. Does being best man require a speech?’

      Luke and Sophie smile at him.

      ‘Is that a yes? That’s a yes, isn’t it . . . Oh, God.’ Robert pushes his chair away from the table and pretends to hyperventilate. I think he’s pretending, anyway. He puts his head between his knees, as Luke pats him on the back soothingly. ‘Public speaking. And talking about love. Both my fears. Together in one place. In black tie.’

      ‘You have like, six months to prepare . . .’ says Sophie hopefully.

      ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ says Robert. I’ve never seen him lose his cool before. Or be so silly. Whichever it is. I stifle a laugh. ‘Shut up, Abigail,’ he calls from between his knees. ‘You’ll be helping me write the speech in return for all the dating help I’ve been giving you.’

      ‘Lucky me,’ I say.

      I steal a glance at the guy at the bar, and he makes a ‘what the fuck?!’ face at our table. It does look funny: four people eating calmly, one person having a panic attack. I shrug a ‘Search me’ face at him and turn back to the table. Cool and detached! And I’m drinking lemonade. I don’t need alcohol to be confident. Oh no.

      The waitress comes over and puts a glass of champagne in front of me.

      ‘From the gentleman at the bar,’ she says.

      Is this a set-up? I look suspiciously at the others, but they’ve all turned to stare at the bar, where the guy who’s been looking over all night is now deep in conversation with the guy next to him.

      ‘There’s a note!’ I exclaim. It’s a little folded sheet of paper. I pick it up and open it. On it is a list of questions with check boxes marked ‘yes’ or ‘no’ next to them.

       Q1. Are you single?

       Q2. May I buy you a drink later?

       Q3. My name is Adam. (Dammit! That’s not a question.)

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