LITMIR.BIZ

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      We both go back to dipping and mixing and chewing. I am flushed with pleasure that he called me lovely Abigail. It’s harmless flirting, but hardly anyone has flirted with me, harmlessly or not, in years.

      ‘You know, I get bored sometimes, too,’ I admit. ‘And I wonder if I’m in the right job. But I think that happens to everyone. I mean, work is work.’

      Alistair frowns. ‘Work is life . . . Don’t you want to spend your life doing something you love? What would you do, if you could do anything at all?’

      I gaze at him, speechless.

      ‘I mean, what do you want?’ he adds. ‘What do you want your life to be like?’

      I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My mind is empty. What do I want? What kind of a question is that?

      ‘I don’t . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t . . .’ I don’t seem to have any words in my head at all.

      ‘Until you do, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Alistair says, grinning at me.

      My sentiments exactly.

      When we get back from lunch, I sit down at my desk, and stare at the screen for a second as I try to push out all the disquieting thoughts from my head. But I can’t. Alistair is 23, and knows exactly who he is and what he wants. I’m 27 and three quarters, and I haven’t got a clue.

       Chapter Four

      You know what bites about singledom?

      No, not the lack of sex and/or cuddling. Though a little bit of sex would not go astray right now. In fact, for a month after the break-up, sex was practically all I could think about, isn’t that weird? Where was I? Oh yeah. Singledom.

      I miss not having anyone to chat to about things. No one to nod when I make comments about an inane TV show, or share a new song with, or to make porridge for on a chilly morning. I’m so used to having someone around that sometimes I come out of the shower and say, ‘Can you remind me to get more razors?’ before I remember there’s no one there. Companionship, in other words.

      I’m finding that social butterflying is the best way to fill the companionship void, so I try to make sure I’m almost never alone. At least once a weekend, I meet one or all of the girls to go ‘shopping’, a catch-all phrase that covers fashion, coffee, gossip, errands, people-watching, and sharing cupcakes or other baked goods as, of course, calories shared don’t count (like calories consumed standing up, drunk or on an airplane).

      Today is an important day: my best friend, Plum and my sister Sophie, are helping me refresh my singledom wardrobe and teaching me to speak style.

      I’m trying on a trench coat in Whistles, and Plum is telling us a story about her colleague.

      ‘And then Georgina is like, since the little fucknuckle hasn’t rung her, she’s going to organise a party just so she can invite him. I have to say, I admire her balls.’

      ‘Yeah,’ I say, exchanging a glance with Sophie. All of Plum’s non-fashion conversation so far has, as usual of late, centred on men. Men she knows, men she likes, men other women know and like.

      Plum walks over. ‘Push the sleeves up,’ she instructs me, undoing the belt and tying it in a half-bow-knot instead. ‘Pop the collar. Never wear a trench the old-fashioned way. This isn’t Waterloo fucking Bridge.’

      I nod obediently, exchanging a grin with Sophie. Plum has a bossy-but-charming manner that you could put down to her Yorkshire roots, five years working with posh girls in PR or growing up with four younger brothers. We met at university when she borrowed my French notes, and became best friends when she began dating one of Peter’s friends. That didn’t last, but our friendship did. She was the centre of a much wider group while I was in a relationship with Peter and didn’t really get to know many people . . . I wonder if that’s why I get so socially nervous sometimes. Hmm.

      Plum has always been sunnier and more easygoing than me, though the recent months – or is it years? – of man troubles are getting her down. She’s also very pretty, with a smile so perfect, it’s almost American. I’ve had braces twice and my teeth still retain a certain kookiness.

      ‘Anyway,’ she continues airily, backcombing her light brown hair with her fingers and pouting in the mirror. ‘I told her that was silly. I mean, maybe he lost his phone. Or maybe he saved her number incorrectly. A hundred things could prevent him from calling her. That’s what I always tell myself when I’m in that situation.’

      I nod, unsure what to say. When I was in a relationship I didn’t really see this side to her. The man-hunter side.

      ‘Perhaps I’ll just go back to Yorkshire,’ she says glumly. ‘I’m running out of men in London. My mother would be thrilled.’

      ‘Don’t be a dick,’ says Sophie gently. She’s the only person I know who can call someone a dick and still sound nice.

      Sophie is two years younger than me. As children we were both very shy and spent a lot of time reading and drawing in intense, creative silence. But then, at 12, she developed this calm confidence while I remained quiet and prone to inner panic. For a few years I was jealous of her – she went to more parties and no matter what she did, was unable to keep platonic male friends where I was depressingly capable of it – but that soon faded. And now I just adore her. (Which is fortunate, as her engagement coinciding with my break-up could otherwise have been difficult.) We look very similar: straight, dark brown hair, slim but utterly un-athletic, with blueish eyes. Her teeth are better than mine too.

      ‘Easy for you to say, you’re the one who’s getting fucking married at the age of 25,’ says Plum.

      Sophie doesn’t say anything to this. She told me once that she feels embarrassed about jumping the marriage queue ahead of us both. That is typical Sophie. She’s kinder than anyone I know.

      Plum is now trying on the trench I just had on, and is gazing at her reflection in the mirror in that detached, assessing way that all girls have when they’re shopping, like they’re examining fruit in a market. ‘I look like Inspector fucking Clouseau,’ she says. (Plum has to be extremely ‘on’ for her job in PR, which I think is one of the reasons she swears like a sailor with Tourette’s when she’s with us. Another is that she’s just really good at swearing.)

      I pick up a dark-blue mini-dress. ‘Good? With a belt?’

      ‘I’m over belts,’ says Plum. ‘Actually, I’m over dresses. They’re so un-versatile. It’s all about separates now. But that would be OK with some drop earrings and some chic little flats.’

      ‘I don’t own drop earrings or chic flats,’ I say sadly. ‘How can I have been shopping my whole fucking life and still have nothing to wear?’

      I take out my notebook and write ‘Flats, earrings’ in a page I keep specifically for sartorial learnings.

      ‘How’s this?’ says Sophie, coming out of the changing room. ‘It’s not revealing, it’s informative.’ Her dress is cut to well below boob-crease.

      ‘When the fuck are we going wedding dress shopping, by the way?’ says Plum, perking up considerably.

      ‘We?’ repeats Sophie dubiously.

      ‘You need me, I’m your other big sister,’ says Plum firmly, putting her arm around Sophie and shepherding her back to the changing room. ‘I’m not leaving the Wood sisters alone with that decision.’

      ‘Fine. After work next week,’ calls Sophie through the changing room curtain. ‘I know a vintage wedding dress company. We did a shoot there once.’

      Sophie is an agent for photographers that you’ve almost heard of and soon will. She discovered she loved photography temping in a gallery in San Francisco, then rang 20 London agents every week till one of them gave her a job to shut her up. Another person

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