Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 so achey. I think it’s the remorse, not the hangover. Can you believe I was kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets? And I did splits on the dance floor. Oh the self-loathing . . .

      Once we’re in the cab, I look out of the window at rainy, grey Friday-night London, and sigh deeply.

      ‘Do you want me to tell you a story to make you feel better?’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.

      ‘Yes please,’ I say in a small voice.

      ‘When I was 22, I secretly started seeing one of my mates’ older sisters. She was 27 and clearly slumming it with me . . . Anyway, I was still at Cambridge, doing a postgrad, which by the way was an utter waste of time, in case you’re thinking about doing one.’

      ‘I’m not. But thanks.’

      He continues. ‘So, I came down one weekend and she took me to a London party,’ he says, enunciating ‘London party’ with all the excitement he clearly felt at the time.

      ‘How glam.’

      ‘I was very nervous, drank half a bottle of Jäger, got naked, threw up on her housemate, passed out on the dining room table wearing nothing but a pair of washing-up gloves, woke up three hours later to find the party still going and asked her to marry me.’

      ‘What did she say?’ I gasp through my laughter.

      ‘She said no,’ he says, looking out the cab window for a second, before turning back to me. ‘Unsurprisingly. So, still drunk, I put some clothes on and stormed out to a train station, slept on the platform, got on the first train at dawn the next day, passed out again and ended up in Scotland.’

      ‘Wowsers,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

      ‘You think a walk of shame is bad. Try a six-hour train ride of shame back to Cambridge, wearing nothing but boxers, a rugby jersey and washing up gloves as shoes.’ He pauses, and starts laughing despite himself.

      Our cab pulls up outside The Pantechnicon Rooms.

      ‘Making a fool of yourself at least once is a rite of passage,’ he says, as we walk in and get enveloped by the serene, happy buzz. ‘Onwards and upwards.’

      ‘Onwards and upwards,’ I agree, looking around. Robert was right to force me out of the house. This morning’s dash of total fucking mortification in Kensal Rise suddenly seems a long time ago.

      I sit down and look around happily. You get the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen in this pub. It’s clean and warm and just so. I want to move in and live under the stairs like Harry Potter.

      ‘So, is bowler-hat girl your main squeeze right now?’ I say, turning to Robert, once he has a pint and I have a nice calming lemonade.

      ‘Interesting terminology. Nope, she’s going travelling next week.’

      ‘You sound devastated. Do you actually like women, Robert?’

      ‘I love them!’ he says, an injured expression on his face. ‘Don’t give me the you-must-be-a-misogynist crap. I love talking to women, I love their company. I simply prefer their company on a very, very casual basis.’

      ‘Lucky them. Why don’t you invite bowler hat to join us?’

      ‘Maybe later. What about you? Seeing Skinny Jeans again?’

      ‘Oh, fuck me, no. No way,’ I sigh. ‘I suppose I had to get it over and done with. First person since, you know. Peter.’ I pause to pretend to spit over my shoulder.

      ‘That’s the spirit.’

      I frown into space for a second. Peter. Paulie. Josh From HR. Skinny Jeans. God. What a mess I’m making of this whole singledom thing. Robert’s still looking at me and grinning.

      ‘Can we change the subject from my love life?’ I ask.

      ‘Tell me about your job. You never talk about it . . .’

      ‘Neither do you!’ I exclaim.

      He smiles, but doesn’t say anything.

      I sigh. ‘My work life is, to misquote The Breakfast Club, unsatisfying. I don’t enjoy it and I’m not very good at it, either,’ I add, thinking about my meeting with Suzanne yesterday. Fuck, and I didn’t turn up today. She’ll love that. ‘I know I have to do something about it,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know where to start.’

      ‘What’s wrong with it?’

      ‘It’s just . . . I don’t like it anymore,’ I say. ‘I don’t find it interesting. I used to love taking a wide-angle lens to the world and then zooming in on specifics, does that make sense?’ Robert nods. ‘But the rest of it, the calls, the sales . . . I just don’t care about. My boss told me I had to start delivering and stop being so passive,’ I sigh. ‘Whatever the fuck that means. But I can’t. I am not very good at making, uh, decisions.’

      ‘That’s СКАЧАТЬ