Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ are you thinking about work on a weekend?’ says Robert, coming back outside with two more coffees.

      ‘Fucking well stop that,’ I say. ‘Your telepathy freaks me out.’

      He grins. ‘Want to talk about it?’

      ‘No,’ I say, chewing my lip. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I’m working as hard as I can. I’m doing everything just like I’m supposed to.’

      ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

      I gaze at him for a second. What does he mean, why?

      ‘It’s a job. That’s what you do. You do your best. I can’t just quit and navel-gaze till I find something better.’ I sound a little harsher than I mean to, but his needling questions are clearly intended to make me question my place in the world. ‘Work is just work.’

      My phone beeps. It’s a text from Plum.

      Dan invented a new swearword. Fuckwart. Isn’t he talented?

      I show Robert and we both start laughing. ‘God, she makes me laugh,’ I say. ‘And she’s so fucking happy. I love it.’ Dan is utterly enchanted by Plum, who seems to have become an uber-version of herself in the past two weeks: happier and more calmly confident.

      ‘How’s the H-Bomb?’

      This is the nickname that Henry made up for himself last weekend, and insisted that everyone – especially Robert – call him that.

      ‘Yep, he’s a smitten kitten with Charlotte,’ I say. ‘I think your advice helped; he really was the worst single man in England . . .’ I pause for a second. ‘Hang on. Are you telling me that I’m the only single one left?’

      Robert leans back in his chair, sunglasses on, hands folded behind his head. ‘You tell me.’

      ‘I cannot fucking believe this,’ I say in shock. ‘For seven years, Henry and Plum and even my sister have been almost constantly single whilst I was in a relationshit. Now I’m finally able to have some fun and they all fuck off and desert me.’

      ‘Relationshit? Nice.’

      A frantically beeping horn makes us turn to see a Hertz rental car squealing to a halt in the centre of the square. The driver beeps a few more times for good measure and jumps out.

      It’s Dave.

      My entire body does a back flip inside my skin, and my breezy plan to take him as my lov-ah collapses. This is like, the worst nerves in the world. Times a thousand. How the hell am I meant to handle this? I’m all hot. And sweating slightly. Are my sunglasses on? Yes. Good. Fine. Breathe. Smile serenely. Chin up. Stomach in.

      ‘Bonjour, mes amis,’ says Dave, coming over to kiss me – oh hot flush! – hello, and then leaning in to give Robert a loud smacking kiss on both cheeks too. ‘Robair,’ he says, pronouncing it as though he was French. ‘Don’t be shy, mon petit fleur.’ Robert pushes him away and starts laughing. Dave, with a satisfied smile on his face – oh perfect teeth, beautiful smile – stands up and looks back to the car.

      I’m dazed by my body’s pathetically hormonal reaction to Dave, and fight the urge to give myself a good slap. Then I take an extra moment to check him out behind my sunglasses. Not super-tall but very fit and good God, he really is gorgeous. I wonder if he has those little muscle-lines above his hip bones. I’ve never seen them in real life. (I am so deprived.)

      ‘Come on, team, we haven’t got all day . . .’ he calls.

      Vix and JimmyJames, and the two people who I surmise must be Bella and Ollie are slowly getting out of the car.

      ‘I tell you, if it wasn’t for my cheerful disposition, riding in the car with this lot would have killed me,’ says Dave, putting a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. ‘Fucking hell! I’ve met brick walls with more banter.’

      Vix and JimmyJames are both wearing dark glasses and clearly suffering from very bad hangovers. Bella, despite her unhappy pout, is extremely pretty, with very long hair, the same flaxen blonde as Luke. Ollie has sandy hair and an open, freckled face, and looks like he’d probably be great fun, if it wasn’t for the fact that he looks ready to punch someone.

      Hmm.

      Vix and JimmyJames are speechless with relief to be out of the car, and Bella and Ollie take their tight little smiles and sit at opposite ends of the table. I’m unable to speak because the penny has just dropped that I fancy Dave about a thousand times more than I thought I did, and Robert has gone inside to order coffees for everyone.

      Only Dave seems unperturbed, sitting back and swinging his feet up on the table.

      ‘Pretty town. Ugly locals. Typical France. Is there a bar scene here?’

      ‘This is it,’ I say finally, after several seconds, when it’s quite clear that no one else is going to speak. ‘Um, shall I walk down and wake the happy couple?’

      ‘No, no, you stay here, angel. I’ll take care of it,’ says Dave, standing up and taking out his phone from his jeans pocket. He puts aviators on at the same time, and gazes across the square waiting for Luke to answer. Oh. The chiselled jaw line.

      ‘Luke. What’s your poison?’ Dave pauses. ‘Well, we’re in the bar now, what’s the point in coming all the way back there? . . . OK, see you in five.’ He hangs up. ‘He’s coming.’

      ‘With Sophie?’ says Bella. Dave nods. ‘Then why not say “they”? Women count, Dave. We even have the vote now.’

      ‘I know! It’s so exciting. Well done, you,’ says Dave, smiling his blindingly perfect smile as he walks away from the table to make a phone call. I giggle, and Bella coolly lights a cigarette and starts texting someone. My giggle trickles off into a gurgle, and finally stops. I am an idiot.

      I turn to Vix and JimmyJames, the hangover twins, and finally find my tongue. ‘Look at you reprobates. Honestly.’

      ‘I seem to have developed an allergy to alcohol. Whenever I drink it, I black out.’ JimmyJames coughs for several seconds, pauses, swallows, and looks up at me. His shirt is done up wrong, I notice, which doesn’t sit well at all on his short, stocky physique. ‘Right. Snack time. How do you say croissant in French?’ He wanders across the courtyard, looking like an unmade bed. The French housewives won’t know what to make of him, I think.

      ‘I had a fight with a bottle of gin last night,’ says Vix croakily. ‘I lost.’

      ‘Hair of le chien will sort everyone out,’ says Dave, returning to the table. He sits down next to me and gestures for Frank’s attention. ‘Garçon!’

      I raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Robert’s getting coffees inside. And I don’t think they say garçon anymore.’ Yes! I spoke to Dave. High five to me.

      ‘Of course they do. “Je joue à la guitar.” “Où est l’auberge de jeunesse” and “Garçon, il y’a une mouche dans mon potage.” I passed GCSEs with these three sentences . . . Monsieur! Trois biéres, s’il vous plait, un carafe du vin rouge. Merci.’

      He didn’t even ask who wanted beer. Just assumed he knew best. The arrogant take-charge attitude СКАЧАТЬ