LITMIR.BIZ

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From HR continues, completely missing the compass/ sandwiches thing. ‘I know! I hate it! I never come here if I can help it. I never leave Wandsworth if I can help it, actually, except to go to work.’

      ‘Wandsworth is delightful,’ I agree, as it seems like something to say, though actually I have never been there. And why live in London if you hate the place? Move somewhere else. It’ll bring rent prices down for the rest of us. Gosh, I’ve got a feeling he’s a dweeb. I didn’t think I was that tipsy on Saturday. Perhaps I shouldn’t make dates after more than three drinks.

      ‘Isn’t it?!’ he exclaims, smiling and revealing a large piece of food lodged between his teeth.

      Oh God, he is a dweeb.

      For the next ten minutes, the conversation continues like this. Question, answer, comment. I realise I’m acting like Robert told me to – I’m cool, detached, offering a funny/teasing comment here and there (that he never picks up on), and generally acting friendly. It’s easy to act like I don’t care with Josh, because – yup – I really don’t care. At all.

      Despite not caring, I discover that he works in Croydon for Nestlé, studied geography at university, grew up in East Anglia, loves his mum’s Sunday roast more than any restaurant meal and has every episode of Little Britain memorised. He, in turn, discovers that I studied Medieval French, work in a bank but find it boring, love reading, live in Primrose Hill and have never, ever, watched a single episode of Little Britain.

      I finish my drink quite quickly, and though he’s finished his, he doesn’t offer to go to the bar. So I do instead.

      As I stand waiting at the bar, it finally hits me: I don’t want to be here. And that sounds obvious, but really, it goes against every stick-it-out, wait-and-see, have-you-thought-this-through? instinct I’ve ever had. It’s a revefuckinglation.

      I order our drinks, and get out my phone to text Robert. He’s the only person who seems to be able to provide textual healing tonight.

      To Robert: Please help. Give me an excuse to get out of here.

      Robert replies: He could be your soulmate.

      I narrow my eyes at the phone. Nice one, smartarse. I reply: Seriously. Should I fake a burst appendix?

      From Robert: I’ll call you in ten minutes. Have your phone out.

      I head back with our drinks and sit down with a bright smile.

      ‘Saturday was fun, huh?’

      ‘I know! We got the overland to Victoria and then the train to South Kensington, and got off there by mistake instead of High Street Kensington, and—’

      Hurry up, Robert, I think. Please hurry up. I’m trying to engage Josh on the marvellous subject of Wandsworth (‘When the shopping centre was opened, it was the largest indoor shopping centre in Europe! That was 1971, of course . . . but it has all the shops I need now: Burtons, JD Sports, Primark . . .’ ‘Oh, I adore Primark!’ I say, grateful to finally have something to say about Wandsworth), when my phone rings.

      ‘It’s my flatmate, I’m so sorry, I must get this,’ I gabble. ‘Hello?’

      ‘Abigail, I’ve locked myself out of the flat,’ says Robert.

      ‘You’ve locked yourself out of the flat?’ I repeat, very loudly and clearly.

      ‘Yes, I have. And I need you to come and let me in.’

      ‘You need me to come and let you in?’

      ‘Yes. Fast. I’ll be in the pub.’

      ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can!’ I say, and turn apologetically to Josh. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go . . .’

      ‘I had a great time,’ Josh says. ‘I’d love to see you again,’ he stands up awkwardly and moves towards me. Cripes, he’s not going to try and kiss me at 8.20 pm in a Central London bar, is he? I make myself all elbows putting on my jacket, and turn away whilst picking up my bag.

      ‘That’d be great,’ I lie, and smile at him. ‘Don’t worry about walking me to the tube. I’ll be fine. No, no. Bye!’

      Walk fast, woman, and don’t look back.

      Why bother to make dates when they’re going to be that boring? Was I that boring when I was with Paulie? No, perish the thought.

      Seriously, though: is dating always this difficult and/or dull? Why is everyone always talking about dating if it’s this turgid? Life with Peter was a non-stop rave in comparison.

      Do you think I’m being terribly mean? Look, I can’t help it. Josh is a dweeb. He wasn’t funny or interesting. I just don’t fancy him. I did fancy Paulie, a bit. Having said that, Paulie got my name wrong and didn’t make much effort even before my nervous meltdown. Hmm.

      If you were me, would you get the tube home? Me neither.

      I get in a black cab and start giggling to myself in the back. Not one but two bad dates! At least that one wasn’t stressful. How silly the whole dating thing is! I mean, really. Oh well, experience equals confidence, right? I just – oh, more texts.

      From Henry: If you were a real friend you’d blend all my food from now on.

      From Sophie: Wedding dress hell. I’m getting married in jeans. How’s the date?

      From Plum: Seeing the guy from The Westbourne tomorrow!! ARGH!

      By the time I get to The Engineer, I’m in a really good mood. I walk in and see Rob in a corner talking to a very pretty girl with long dark hair. Interesting body language: she’s leaning forward in her chair, and he’s leaning right back. Something not fun is happening.

      ‘Hi!’ I say brightly, when I reach their table. The girl – the tanned, glamorous type that you see on holiday, the kind with no body fat and improbably full lips – turns towards me, and I see that she’s been crying. Her long fingers are curled around tatty little tissues. She seems unable to speak.

      ‘This is Antonia,’ says Robert shortly. I look at him, and back at her. His face is completely closed, giving nothing away. ‘I’m Abigail, Robert’s flatmate,’ I say. She blinks and looks away. ‘I’ll get a . . . bottle,’ I add, and turn towards the bar. Yikes. This is going to be awkward. Third-wheel-tastic. Should I just leave? I pretend to look around the bar and see Antonia storming out. Problem solved.

      By the time I get back with the wine, Robert has sprawled himself over the two seats. He has a habit of taking up all the space at a table, or a sofa, or anywhere, I’ve noticed. Anyone else feels like they’re encroaching on his territory just by being in the same room. I push his feet off the chair with my knee, sit down with a dramatic flourish, and pour us each a glass of red. I feel slightly euphoric to have got away from Josh From HR so easily.

      ‘You need to shave,’ I say.

      ‘So, did you break his heart?’ replies Robert, ignoring my shaving comment. I notice again how green and steady his eyes are. He really nails the whole self-assured eye contact thing.

      ‘I don’t think so. We had nothing to say to each other.’ I sigh. ‘My second date in my whole life was a dweeb. And the first was a fucknuckle.’

      ‘You now think Bam-Bou Paulie was a fucknuckle?’ says Robert in surprise, his eyes lighting up in amusement.

      ‘I’m always more discerning in retrospect.’

      ‘Aren’t we all, Abigail darling?’

      ‘I’m not your darling. You clearly just broke your darling’s heart.’

      ‘Oh, no grief, please . . . she flew here from Milan. I didn’t ask her to. Fucking nightmare.’

      ‘I expect you led her on,’ I say.

      ‘I did not,’ he says defensively, running his hands through his hair. ‘I never do, I always say “this is just casual”

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