Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ robins attached; eight red candles of varying degrees of use; a CD called The Best Christmas Album EVER – and that’s just the first layer.

      ‘Your sister seems like she’d be fun,’ I say, picking up a staple gun from the box.

      ‘Alice? Oh, she is,’ says Robert, picking up a cutlery holder attached to wooden geese swimming in holly.

      ‘What is this?’ I say, holding up a stuffed moose with a Santa hat on, with ‘Fernie 2002’ embroidered on the hat.

      ‘Alice used to staple gun that moose to her front door,’ he says. ‘Instead of a wreath.’

      ‘May I?’ I say, leaping joyfully towards the front door, reindeer and staple gun in hand.

      ‘Ah, the leap of the nimble-footed mountain goat!’ he calls after me. ‘I’d recognise it anywhere.’

      I staple the moose to the door by arms, feet and antlers, and spring joyfully back into the house. ‘Shall we get into the Christmas spirit?’ I pick up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with a Santa Claus beard attached and waggle it at him.

      An hour later, I’m wearing a mistletoe headband. Robert is wearing a Mrs Santa hat with long white plaits. We’re singing along to Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’. I’ve propped the red robin wreath on the coffee table and put red candles inside, and arranged the baubles in a large glass bowl on the kitchen top. We’ve also staple gunned fairy lights around the windows (probably a disastrous idea, but at that point we’d already had two glasses of Jack).

      ‘It looks like Christmas with a hangover,’ I say proudly.

      ‘I love it,’ says Robert, taking a sip of his Jack Daniel’s. ‘God! I’ve had a shit week. Thanks for making me do this. You are like human Prozac.’

      I grin at him. It feels so easy hanging out with him again. If only relationships could be as easy as friendships. I guess they are, eventually, but first you probably have to go through the trial-by-insecurity phase that I’m in with Dave right now. I want to ask Robert if we can do something together this week, but then I remember that I hope to see Dave every night, so I don’t say anything.

      Robert starts staple gunning tinsel to the doorway leading out to the stairs.

      ‘That tinsel has alopecia,’ I comment.

      He gazes at it. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he says. He tries to rip it down, and shreds hundreds of individual strands of tinsel confetti. ‘Bugger!’ he shouts. He tries to pick them up off the floor, loses first his balance and then his patience, throwing all the tinsel pieces up in the air and spinning under them. ‘Abby, what am I? A snow globe.’

      ‘You’re so butch when you’re twirling. Like a big galumphing ballet dancer.’

      ‘Well, I trained professionally for years. Till I got in a fight defending a dog from a pack of rabid old ladies.’

      I don’t mind about Dave not calling, I think suddenly, picking up a half-full bag of chocolate coins from the floor. He’ll turn up at some point. And I’m having fun here, anyway.

      ‘I wonder if I’ll get a Christmas stocking this year,’ I say. ‘I think my mother might have outlawed it.’

      ‘I always get one,’ Robert says, picking up my legs with one hand and sliding himself onto the couch, then letting my feet plop back down over him. ‘My mother tried to stop it a few years ago. She announced that she was tired of spending the whole of December trying to find puzzles and games and toys for three people whose combined ages were almost 100.’

      ‘That is way harsh. What did you say?’

      ‘We pretended to cry,’ says Robert. ‘Obviously.’

      I rest my head on Robert’s arm and sigh happily. I feel like I’m home for the first time in weeks, I muse. I can’t even remember the last time we sat here together. I remember the first time, after that disastrous date with Paulie. That seems like a very long time ago.

      ‘How old are these?’ I say, chewing a chocolate coin.

      ‘At least four years. Possibly five.’

      ‘Mmm, yes, excellent vintage. I particularly like the white specks, they’re extra tasty. So . . . Why are you so stressed?’

      ‘Work.’

      ‘Are you ever going to tell me what you do?’

      Pause.

      ‘I’m an accountant,’ he says.

      I start to laugh, then stop. ‘Oh, um, really? I thought you were kidding.’

      ‘That’s why I never tell anyone,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s an instant conversation stopper.’

      ‘What kind of accounting is it?’

      ‘The heady world of corporate finance,’ he says, crunching more pretzels.

      ‘Sexy. Is it your dream job?’

      ‘Erm, yes, I guess so,’ he says. ‘You know, I ploughed the postgrad, then studied law in the States, then realised I didn’t want to be a lawyer . . . I felt like such a fuck up. Nothing fit. But somehow, I ended up in the right place,’ he says. ‘Everyone does eventually.’

      ‘I hope so,’ I say, sighing. ‘I can’t believe that after all that fuss about not telling me what you do, you’re an accountant.’

      ‘I’m private. And I have better things to talk about. Though it’s not as boring as everyone thinks.’

      ‘I think you’re a control freak,’ I say. ‘That’s why you pump and dump women like you do.’

      ‘“Pump and dump”? Nice. Sex is actually fun for everyone involved, has anyone ever told you that?’

      ‘Ha,’ I say, thinking about Dave. There’s a pause. ‘What are you doing for Christmas, by the way?’

      ‘I’m working, mostly, with a bit of family time. My sister Alice is coming over with her kids. Every Christmas morning should have an overexcited four-year-old, it makes it much more fun for everyone. You?’

      ‘I’m in France from Christmas Eve till New Year’s Eve.’

      ‘You get along with your parents, don’t you?’

      ‘Yes, I love them. But they think we’re still aged seven and nine. I swear my mother would be thrilled if I came home with a report card from work at the end of each year.’

      ‘I would have thought you’d love that, too,’ he says, and pretends to read from a report card. ‘Abigail is a delightfully serious, bright and enthusiastic child, she plays well with others, especially after a few shots . . .’

      ‘Shuddup,’ I say, poking him with my toe. ‘Anyway, Sophie’s leaving early this year to be with Luke . . . I wish I was coming back to London early, then you and I could go drinking and have fun.’

      And I could see Dave, if he СКАЧАТЬ