Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess
Читать онлайн книгу.
fists in a semi-and-therefore-not-really-ironic way, I stub out my cigarette, and we resume marching towards the Hollywood Arms and the party.
With every step, I imagine myself shaking off the rejection and becoming stronger and tougher. Everything is perfect. I will not end up bitter or miserable or angry or desperate. I will make this party my bitch, in fact, I will make being single my bitch. Experience. Confidence. Bulletproof. Yes.
‘Abigay!’ shouts Henry from the other end of room when we finally get to the Hollywood Arms, a glossily posh pub with a private upstairs room for parties. ‘Pruneface! Finally!’
‘I wish he wouldn’t call me Abigay. It’s really inappropriate,’ I mutter to Plum.
‘You want to complain about Abigay when he calls me Pruneface?’
‘Your real name is Prunella,’ I remind her.
‘Shut it, Abigay,’ she retorts with a dazzling smile.
‘My girls!’ he shouts, enveloping us in a boozy hug. He’s three weets to the shind, as per usual on a match day.
‘Beetchez! Are you two ready for a big night?’ he bellows. ‘I had a nice little Saturday: house hunting all morning and got the shit beaten out of me at rugby. So I’m going to raise the roof.’ He does a little ‘raise the roof’ motion with his hands, causing a few of the boys around him to join in.
The party is well underway. I vaguely recognise some of Henry’s rugby friends. I wish I’d mingled more in the past. I wonder if everyone in relationships becomes socially lazy, or if it was just me.
Come on, social butterfly, unfurl your wings.
‘How was house hunting? Where are you looking?’ says Plum.
‘A ballache. The underbelly of Chiswick,’ he answers.
‘No!’ I gasp. ‘Seriously. Don’t. We would never see you again. Hammersmith is the Hadrian’s wall of West London.’
‘You talk nice,’ grins one of Henry’s drunker rugby friends, Gaz, as Henry orders drinks. Gaz came to a Christmas party that Peter and I had in our second year in London, and threw up in the kitchen at 10 pm. I arch an eyebrow instead of replying.
‘I’ve snogged at least three men in this room and screwed two others,’ says Plum in a low voice. ‘Ah well. Live and learn.’
Henry hands us our drinks.
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ asks Gaz. He is seriously invading my personal space.
‘Uh, vodka and cranberry,’ I say.
‘Cranberry juice,’ he says, nodding. ‘That’s good for your vagina.’
Plum splutters into her drink, unable to control her laughter. I flash Gaz a please-fuck-off grimace-smile. I am in control. One more drink and I’ll start butterflying.
‘I’ve invited a friend along later,’ he says, swaying slightly. ‘She’s fit. And gagging for it. Once women hit 30, there’s only one thing they want.’
Plum’s smile freezes and I narrow my eyes at him. Fucknuckle. ‘Really?’
‘Marriage. Babies. Ring on the ol’ finger . . . She’s desperate for it.’
Gaz is saved from my heel in his jugular by the arrival of Henry’s brother Rich.
‘Late to your own party!’ shouts Henry, tucking Plum under his arm like a teddy bear. She pushes him off with pretend irritation and tries to fix her hair.
‘Punctuality is an overrated virtue,’ Rich says, accepting a beer from one of the guys. He looks a bit like Henry, only without the puppyness. More of a grown-up dog. And rather attractive, I’ve always thought. ‘Good evening, Plum, Abigail. Looking lovely, as ever.’
‘We thought we’d make an effort,’ I say. ‘Since you’re heading off to deepest darkest China, after all.’
‘Hong Kong isn’t exactly deepest darkest China,’ he says. ‘But I appreciate the thought. How’s single life?’
I think for a second. ‘Surprising.’
Rich grins. ‘I’ve been looking forward to you coming back on the market for years. Never thought Peter was in your league. What a shame I’m leaving.’
‘Tragedy.’ Hell yeah, I am a flirting machine tonight. The phone chat with Robert was a life-saver. Bulletproof. I am bulletproof.
Rich’s attention is taken by one of his ex-work colleagues trying to give him a very unwelcome Jägerbomb, and I look over and see Plum’s now standing at the bar, being ignored by the bartender. She suddenly looks a little bit lost and, to be honest, not bulletproof at all.
I walk over to her. ‘You OK?’
She shrugs. ‘I just got an encouraging text from Thomasina saying: if he wasn’t quite right, he wasn’t Mr Right.’ She sighs, her I’m-in-a-great-mood mask dropping again. ‘Can you believe that shit? I love my work friends, but seriously. I am so glad I have you. Especially now . . .’
‘Now that I’m single and going through the same thing?’ I say, laughing.
‘Well, now that we’re in this together. My mother has even stopped telling me to come home to Yorkshire so she can find me a nice local man. She thinks you’re a good influence . . . I just don’t feel as alone as I used to.’
I’m shocked. I didn’t know Plum ever felt alone.
‘I think we should date more than one guy at once,’ I say flippantly. ‘Spread the risk. Mix the good guys with the bad guys. Like an investment bank.’
‘Isn’t it that kind of thinking that started the global financial meltdown?’ asks Plum.
I shrug. ‘Yeah, you know, churn and burn them . . .’ I pause, and look at her. ‘That’s exactly what we should do!’
‘You’re turning into a bastard commitment-phobe, now?’
‘It seems better than the alternative.’
‘Alright, girls,’ says Henry. ‘I’m going to introduce myself to some chicks.’
‘Don’t call us chicks,’ say Plum and I in unison.
‘Ladies, then,’ he says.
A few hours later, I’m having a brilliant time. Farewell parties can be risky: the mix of school, work and university friends results in either a seriously segregated party, or a free-for-all social orgy where everyone talks to everyone else. This is the latter.
Henry’s in the corner with a girl Plum and I helped him meet, and Plum’s over the other side of the room talking to a couple of guys I don’t know. And I’m talking to Rich again. He’s been discussing the ideal time to send out group emails. His invitation to the farewell party – 2 pm last Thursday – was apparently very carefully thought out.
‘Friday is the best day for group banter,’ he nods. ‘I’m at my funniest on Fridays. Wednesdays you’d have to email me something pretty damn good to get me to respond. And on Mondays and Tuesdays, I don’t want to hear from anyone unless I skipped out on a bar bill or trashed your gaff on the weekend.’
‘Maybe you should write up these guidelines and send them to all your friends,’ I suggest.
‘I know,’ he sighs. ‘But they’d label me, you know. “Pushy”. “Bossy”.’ He holds his hands up in an exaggerated ‘quote mark’ mime.
‘“Anti-social”. “Surly”. “High Maintenance”,’ I continue glibly, then look at his pretend-hurt face with mock surprise. ‘Too far? Did I go too far?’
‘Fuck it, Abigail, why are you single now, when I’m leaving?’ says Rich, leaning back and looking at me.
‘You’ll