Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess

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      I pay for the cab and get out, and see a tall, skinny guy. He’s in a slightly crumpled suit and satchel, with a nervous expression on his face. Cute, with hair in a sticky-looking quiff.

      For a second, nerves overtake me, as they always do, and my heart puckers in apprehension. I’m about to make conversation with a virtual stranger? Easy, Abigail, breathe. It’s just a couple of hours. Cool and detached. Elusive and alluring. Bastardette.

      Jon walks forward and smiles. ‘Uh . . . Abigail?’

      ‘Jon!’ I reply, and we both half-giggle at the awkwardness of the whole blind-date situation. He has a very nice smile.

      ‘Thank God it was you, you’re the third girl I’ve asked and the other two thought I was nuts. Shall we get a drink and get this thing started?’ he says.

      ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I nod. Nice voice, soft Welsh accent.

      We walk down to the basement bar, which is small, sexy and very, very red. ‘Cool bar,’ says Jon. ‘It’s like being in a blood clot,’ I agree.

      Jon barks with surprised laughter and, showing a decisiveness missing in his texts, grabs a menu. ‘You choose. I’ll order.’

      I choose quickly. ‘Uh, a Russian Rocket, please.’ Our eyes meet and he nods, a little grin on his face. He fancies me, I think suddenly. I can tell, I don’t know how – the glint in his eye? – but I can. That makes things easier.

      ‘Cocktail aficionado?’ he says.

      ‘You can’t go wrong with anything with vodka and lemon,’ I reply.

      ‘Do you want to—’ he gestures towards the bar. Go with him? Why would I want to do that?

      ‘I’m good here,’ I smile calmly.

      Once seated, I check my phone, more as a look-busy mechanism than anything else. There’s a text from Robert.

      Remember, he could be your soulmate!

      Ha. I laugh out loud, and quickly reply.

      Mummy is busy. Be a good boy and hush.

      Jon comes back with our drinks, and we start by talking about the only thing we have in common, i.e. my sister working with his brother. This segues easily into his job, which is in media sales (yep, I have no idea what that is either), and then my job, which I dismiss quickly with, ‘If you ever have trouble sleeping, call me and I’ll tell you all about my day’. We talk about Battlestar Galactica, which both of us loved (Peter insisted on watching it, and I discovered I loved sci-fi); and pork belly, which we agree should always be ordered if it’s on the menu, if only to encourage the restaurant to keep offering it; and Playstation and Nintendo Wii, which I have never played (and have no desire to) and which he adores. It’s a pretty easy, seamless date, in other words.

      ‘So, is this something you do often? Set-ups?’ asks Jon at one point.

      ‘Yes, it’s a hobby,’ I say airily. ‘More of a lifestyle than a hobby, actually.’

      Jon laughs. He finds me a lot funnier than I find myself.

      ‘Right, I’m going to the bar,’ I say eventually, when our glasses have been empty for several minutes.

      ‘No, no,’ he replies quickly. ‘It’s mine.’

      Here are my thoughts: Jon’s fine. He’s good-looking, and polite, and quite funny, and well, there’s nothing wrong with him. But I’m pretty sure I can’t be bothered to see him again. He’s failed a few tests: he hasn’t made me laugh much, I feel like I’m carrying the conversation too much, and he didn’t suggest the second drink. There’s just something a bit passive about him, something that doesn’t quite click . . . The big test, of course, is coming. Later.

      He returns with the drinks, and I ask him where he’s from, and we get into a long conversation about Bristol, where he went to university.

      ‘When I was little, I thought Blame It On The Boogie went “I spent the night in Bristol, at every kind of disco”,’ I say. Jon grins. ‘There are two kinds of nightclubs in Bristol. The ones that are awful, and the ones that are closed.’

      I laugh at this. Perhaps he is funny after all.

      ‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing on a blind date?’ he says. ‘You must have guys falling – over, um—’ his confidence stalls halfway through the sentence.

      ‘I thought it might be fun, I guess,’ I say. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship. I just broke up with someone. So this is all new to me . . .’

      ‘And is it fun?’ he says hopefully.

      I can’t answer honestly (I’d say ‘meh’). So I smile instead. ‘It is.’

      I get us the next drink, and as we finish, I notice that it’s 10.45 pm. I think I’ll call it a night. I don’t want to ignore my self-imposed midnight date curfew.

      ‘I have to get up at 6 am,’ I say apologetically. ‘I must take my leave.’

      ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ says Jon, looking slightly crestfallen. ‘I’ve had a, er—’

      ‘Best night of your life?’ I suggest, standing up to put my jacket on. He stands up to help me, a second too late. ‘I thought so. You lucky man.’

      He grins again. My cocky-little-madam act works a charm on dates, I think to myself. Men have no idea what to do with it.

      ‘Will you escort me to a cab?’ I ask. ‘I may need your protection on the dark streets of Soho.’

      This is, obviously, a lie, but he says ‘Of course!’ and escorts me upstairs. I stand back for a second, so Jon can hail an oncoming black cab for me, the way Toby and Robert and other take-charge types always do, but he doesn’t move. So I hail it myself. The cab pulls up just as Jon reaches out and takes my hand. I pretend not to notice, and lean in the front window to ask the driver if Primrose Hill is OK. (For some reason we do this in London, as though the driver might say ‘Hmm, I don’t fancy that direction’ and we’d say ‘Oh, of course, so sorry to bother you, silly me’.)

      The driver nods, and I turn to Jon. His hand is very warm and ever so slightly sticky. I hope that’s from cocktail dribble, rather than from not washing it the last time he went to the bathroom.

      He clearly wants to kiss me, but his nerve is failing. I smile up at him expectantly. Seconds pass. Nope, nothing. Come on, man, I think to myself. Grow a pair.

      ‘I think you should kiss me now,’ I say finally.

      Jon grins, his face lighting up with relief, and leans forward. It’s a pretty nice kiss, as kisses go. It lasts somewhere between 10 and 12 seconds. He has soft lips and he smells of one of those watery aftershaves.

      But there’s no spark. No frisson in my body, no racing heart, no excited feeling. And that’s the ultimate test.

      I lean back and smile at him.

      ‘I’ll text you,’ he says.

      ‘Look СКАЧАТЬ