Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ a date!’ he says, grinning.

      It’s not a date, I think to myself. I don’t date anymore, because I have Dave. And I really, really do have him.

      I grin to myself and fight the urge to do a nimble-footed-mountain-goat leap as I swishswishswish to the ladies’ bathrooms, take off all my protective moped gear, and carry it back to my desk.

      I take a quick look at my emails and Bloomberg with the front 20% of my brain. The back 80% is thinking about Dave. I am so happy I could burst. I was right!

      I knew that if I just stayed in control, and played the cool/ detached hand perfectly, that I could win him over. I really am bulletproof.

      ‘Do you have any painkillers?’ whispers a voice, and I turn to see Charlotte walking, or rather, stumbling, to her seat. Her hair is in some kind of messy platinum beehive, her skin is blotchy-but-glowing and she’s got a guilty grin on her face. ‘Henry and I went out for a bottle of wine last night and next thing I knew, it was midnight and we were in some Spanish bar behind Tottenham Court Road dancing to Mental As Anything,’ she says.

      ‘You look fantastic!’ I exclaim. She does. She looks sex-sozzled and very, very happy.

      ‘Are you drunk? I look like a furball. Have you seen my pash rash?’ she grins, giggling helplessly. Her smile is so sweet, even through the stubble rash, and so much nicer than the pale, moochy expression that I knew all those months ago, that I can’t help smiling back.

      I reach into my second drawer for the morning-after kit I’ve used regularly since I started seeing Dave. ‘Solpadeine, Berocca, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, face powder, moisturiser, lip balm,’ I whisper. ‘Knock yourself out. And you should ask Henry to shave.’

      ‘I know! But he’s so cute when he’s stubbly . . .’ she says.

      ‘I should have introduced you two months ago.’

      ‘Yeah, what the fuck took you so long?’ she says with a grin, before dashing off towards the bathrooms. I guess she’s not rebounding with Henry: no one looks that ecstatically happy with a short-term investment.

      The morning goes fast, and it’s not until ten to 1 pm that I remember my lunch/date with Andre. Bugger. He’s waiting for me in the lobby when I get down there.

      ‘No moped suit?’ he enquires, grinning at me. He really is a good-looking man, if you like that olive-skinned chocolate-eyed handsome French thing. But this isn’t a date so it doesn’t matter what I think of him. I’m sure we’ll just grab a coffee and a sandwich from the Italian place, have a quick chat and get back to work.

      ‘Uh, no, no moped suits at lunch’ I say. ‘So, where are we going?’

      ‘Marco Pierre White,’ he says.

      Shit.

       Chapter Twenty Seven

      I can’t wait to tell Robert about this. I’m on an accidental lunch date with Andre.

      We’re only halfway through our main course at the Marco Pierre White Steak & Alehouse (a restaurant that, from the name, you’d think would have sawdust on the floor, but looks more like a wedding reception, with immaculate all-white decor and mirrors reflecting all the smug diners around us). Already Andre has told me all about his ex-wife, how he misses Paris, his loves (football, Danish design, the Maldives) and hates (the Catholic church, the European Union, Belgians). I definitely have the feeling that this isn’t entirely business.

      What can I do? I can’t ask ‘What are your intentions, young man?’ I could be wrong, and either way, the ensuing awkwardness would be so awful. So instead, I’m trying to keep my end of the conversation professional-but-charming. It’s not easy. He insisted on my trying one of his oysters (‘oy-stares!’) directly from the shell in his hand, and then asked if he might taste my potted shrimps. (I dumped a spoonful straight onto his plate.) Thank God we’re both having steak for main course.

      He hasn’t asked if I’m seeing anyone, and I can’t think of a conversation topic that starts ‘so my boyfriend Dave and I’ without being obvious.

      The restaurant is tinkling with the sweet, festive sound of people dying to get plastered. The rest of the diners are 80% male finance types, all on let’s-expense-this-fucker lunches who are laughing loudly and tucking in to the food and particularly the wine with gusto. I feel very out of place.

      ‘This is an exceptional restaurant,’ says Andre, sipping his wine thoughtfully and maintaining eye contact with me. ‘Elegant. Welcoming. Warm.’

      ‘It is,’ I agree. Is it just the accent that makes everything Andre says seem romantic? I’ve waited for almost an hour for him to bring up the work subject that was ostensibly the reason for today’s lunch. But I don’t want to be rude. And considering he’s French he probably regards food with a practically sexual adoration and doesn’t want to sully the meal with work-related talk.

      Ah, fuck it. ‘So, Andre, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

      ‘Hong Kong,’ he says. ‘Come to Hong Kong with me.’

      I am speechless. Is he propositioning me?

      ‘As you know, I’m moving there to start a new regional retail analyst centre. I want you to be vice president of retail research.’

      I stare at him for a few seconds. A promotion? In Hong Kong? ‘I, um . . . does Suzanne know you are speaking to me about this?’

      ‘No, and I don’t want her to,’ he says smoothly. He goes on to talk about the team he wants to start, and the role I’d be playing.

      I can’t think what to say. I have nothing in my brain.

      Almost nothing.

      Because I hate – hate – to admit this, but after six years of working, six years of 7 am starts and late nights and deferred bonuses and anxious presentations and endless hard fucking work, the first person I think of when I’m offered a career-making promotion is Dave.

      ‘What’s your, how do you say, stomach tell you?’

      ‘You mean my gut?’ I say.

      ‘Exactement,’ he says.

      ‘That I need time to think about it,’ I lie. I hadn’t even consulted my gut, I was just picturing myself telling Dave about it, and him asking me – maybe even begging me – not to go, telling me that he needed me and couldn’t live without me, that I was the only woman he’d ever – ahem. God. Get a grip, Abigail. ‘And I’d need to check it all out,’ I say, taking out my notebook. Yes. Act positive and rational. You’re an analyst. Analyse it. ‘If you tell me more, I’ll do some research of my own . . .’

      ‘OK. Let’s meet again in January and discuss it.’ He looks a bit disappointed.

      ‘I’m really honoured, Andre, thrilled, amazing.’ Someone hand me an adjective. ‘Thank you. It sounds incredible, incredibly interesting, uh, incredible.’ Nice one.

      Andre goes on to tell me more about the history of СКАЧАТЬ