Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess
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demand,’ I say. ‘Ladyfriends after a little action, are they?’
‘I think any action would kill me today.’
‘Poor Lady Caroline.’
‘No, darling, Lady Caroline only texts me when she’s drunk and bored. That was Janey. She only texts me when she’s tired of shopping.’
‘She sounds awesome.’
‘She is for me,’ he says, flashing me a grin.
Toby and Rich both text and ask how I’m enjoying my Sunday. I’m happy they texted, but I’d be happy if they hadn’t too. I’m not faking this either. I am cool and detached.
‘You’re not replying?’ says Robert in surprise, as I look at Rich’s second text and put the phone down with a little snort of laughter.
‘Maybe later. Keeps them on their toes.’
‘Attagirl. Adam who, indeed.’
I stick my tongue out at him, pick up the paper and realise with a shock that yesterday was Peter’s birthday. How could I have forgotten that? How can you share your life with one person for so many years, cook and plan holidays and talk to his mother on the phone, and then move on and be a complete person with a completely different life, all by yourself, within months? Does it mean I never loved him? Or just that I was ready to change? Or is it just the power of the human id? (Or is it ego? I can never remember.)
‘I’ve got cabin fever,’ I comment at 4 pm.
‘Mmm,’ replies Robert.
I stare at the ceiling for a while.
‘Abigail wants to go for walkies,’ I say. ‘She wants to go to Regent’s Park.’
‘Robert doesn’t feel very well and shouldn’t do anything strenuous,’ says Robert.
‘Get up. We’re going out.’
Regent’s Park on a Sunday afternoon in October is delightful. Especially today. It’s blustery and grey, but not too cold. Robert and I stroll in unison, hands in our coat pockets, only talking occasionally. I instinctively knew these clothes would make me happy today: tight jeans, new biker-y boots, a red hoodie and a navy peacoat. Pretty With A Punch. I never used to like what I was wearing. Now I do.
I love people-watching. Guys playing football, dogs running around, kids screaming, mums and dads with strollers looking tired. Everyone here to escape Sunday blues for a few hours.
Without discussing it, we both slow our pace and my brain stops racing. I suddenly feel very peaceful and relaxed.
Two yummy mummies steering those four-wheel-drive type prams stare at Robert as they walk towards us. It’s kind of fun having a platonic male friend that every woman in London seems to find ridiculously attractive.
I wonder whether I’ll ever be a mother. I wonder if I’ll ever fall in love and get married. It seems so utterly impossible right now. Then again, I used to find it impossible to imagine not living with Peter. That’s one of the nicest things about life, I think to myself. You never know what’s going to happen next.
Both lost in our own thoughts, Robert and I stroll all the way down to the Marylebone entrance, when his phone rings.
‘Mum!’ he says, and then listens for a minute. ‘Well, which button did you press? . . . OK. Is the Sky Box on? . . . Well, is the light blue or red? The light in the middle?’ I start to laugh. ‘I don’t think it’s the Sky, then, Mum . . . Try the other remote. Press the upper right hand corner . . .’ He pauses, and glances at his phone screen. ‘Mum, that’s the home phone. You just called me. You did, you’re on call waiting. Hang up with the home phone and—’ He pauses and looks at me in shock. ‘She just hung up on me.’
I’m in a giggling fit. ‘What a lovely son you are.’
‘Of course I’m lovely, I’m the only boy and the baby, to boot . . . ah,’ he says, as his phone rings again. ‘Mother! Always a pleasure. Yes, I think I meant the other phone too. Right, so that wasn’t the TV remote, that was the home phone, so find the TV remote, it’s the one that says Sony . . . Sony. SONY. Yes . . . And press the green button. It’s in the top corner, Mum. Turn the remote the other way . . . there you go. Only press it once, it takes a few seconds . . . and now press “guide” on the Sky remote and you’ll get the menu you want. The Sky one, Mum . . . Yes. Yay! Well done, you.’ He pauses and grins widely. He looks very boyish when he’s happy, I suddenly think. He’s got lovely white teeth, with pointy incisors that give him a wolfish air. His features are all lit up and his thick floppy hair is going in a million directions, as always. He catches my eye and grins. ‘I’m walking with Abby, so I shouldn’t chat . . . she’s the girl I live with, remember?’ He pauses and rolls his eyes. ‘No, Mother, you can’t. I have to go. I’ll call you during the week. Love you too.’ He hangs up and lets out a bark of a laugh. ‘God! I have at least one of those calls a week.’
‘Robert loves his mummy,’ I say in a happy voice, as we turn right and start walking up the other side of Regent’s Park.
‘I do, I love my mummy. I have never caused her any trouble . . . though when I was nine, I made her cry. I accidentally-on-purpose smashed my birthday cake on the floor right before my birthday party because I was angry that it was football-shaped, not cricket-bat shaped like I wanted.’ He pauses. ‘She’d worked all day on it and burst into tears . . . Then I felt too guilty to enjoy my party. I still feel bad about it.’
‘What a brat you were. I never did anything bad,’ I say proudly, then remember, ‘except steal a viola bow.’
‘A what?’
‘A viola bow,’ I enunciate carefully. ‘I was seven, and I snapped it when I was running around the house, and I knew I’d be in deep shit. So the next day, I stole someone else’s bow before orchestra practice. Isn’t that awful?’ I sigh at the memory. ‘I’m a thief. I felt sick for months about it.’
‘I’m shocked,’ says Robert.
‘I know,’ I say sorrowfully. ‘It was a dreadful thing to do.’
‘No, I’m shocked that a seven-year-old would ever play the viola,’ he says, looking mystified. ‘Come along, let’s walk faster. I want something to eat.’
‘How about Carluccio’s for coffee and pannetone?’ I suggest.
I put my arm through his as we stride along together. He’s much taller than me, with infinitely longer legs, so I do a skippy little pony-trot every few steps to keep up. The second time I do it, Robert notices and slows down. Enveloped in our happy silence, we walk in the direction of St John’s Wood. Suzanne lives in St John’s Wood, I think. Urgh. Work again.
‘Work? That was a work sigh,’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.
‘I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I’m starting to hate it . . . Suzanne has been watching every move I make. It makes me so self-conscious.’
‘Find a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life,’ suggests Robert.
‘Thanks for the hot tip,’ I say sarcastically. ‘You should be a careers counsellor.’
‘One of my dad’s edicts. He has better ones. Like “Never waste an erection” and “It’s not about how big or small it is, it’s how angry it is”.’
‘You should put that on a T-shirt. Or better, a tattoo.’
He turns to look at me as we stop at Prince Albert Road. ‘Why don’t you just quit? You’d figure out what you want pretty fast once you stopped earning a salary.’
‘No,’ I say immediately. ‘Not an option. I just want, um, life to be easy. And I want to not feel sick whenever I see my boss.’
‘Then start doing what she wants.’
‘Smashing.