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not what I mean. That girl is miserable and it’s your fault.’
‘I never lied to her. I never pretended it was going to be anything more than it was,’ he replies easily. ‘I always say “I am not looking for a relationship, this is just casual”. It’s perfectly clear.’
‘You may think that, but they don’t,’ I say, frowning at him. ‘I guarantee it. Girls get involved . . .’
‘You slept with Skinny Jeans and didn’t get involved,’ says Robert, raising his eyebrows at me.
I grimace at the memory. ‘That was a mistake. And an aberration. I had to leave when he was still asleep so as to avoid the morning-after awkwardness . . . Anyway, I’m talking about your so-called casual relationships, not one-night-stands,’ I pause, thinking. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so kind to them.’
‘I admit, Emma wasn’t my best idea ever,’ he admits. ‘Too sweet. I’ve since moved on to tougher girls who will love it when I avoid morning-after awkwardness.’
‘Like Olivia?’ I say. The Siamese-cat-eyed girl from earlier is now sitting on some guy’s lap on the sofa a few feet away, but staring at Robert.
‘Olivia, if you must know, uses me whenever she’s between boyfriends,’ he says in a low voice, running his hands through his gravity-defying hair so it’s almost completely upright. He grins wolfishly, showing his very white, straight teeth. ‘See? Victim. Moi.’
‘My heart bleeds,’ I say, looking up at him with a frown on my face. ‘You should tell Emma you’re sorry, or something.’
‘Never apologise, never—’
‘Explain,’ I interrupt, finishing the sentence for him. ‘You told me that one already . . . Shit. Hang on. Where is Dave?’
I suddenly realise that my Dave-o-meter has lost track of where he is. I scan the room and can’t see him, then scurry to the corridor and poke my head around the corner. Dave! Leaving! With sequinned Emma! He doesn’t even turn around to say goodbye. He just puts his hand on her back and shepherds her out. Argh!
‘He’s leaving! With Emma!’ I hiss at Robert.
Robert mutters something about a death wish, but I can’t catch it.
‘Sorry?’ I say. ‘Dave has a death wish? Emma didn’t strike me as a genuine bunny boiler . . .’
‘No . . .’ he sighs. ‘Don’t worry about Dave. Trust me, that won’t be anything serious.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Why did you tell me to ignore him, you doofus?’
‘You’ll see him soon. We’re all going to your folks’ house in France in two weeks, remember? Bridal party get-together.’
‘Yes!’ I say, punching the air in delight. ‘OK, between now and then, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about him. I need a game plan.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, swigging his beer.
Luke comes up, half-carrying Sophie. ‘She’s toast. We’re heading.’
‘It’s because I ran a marathon!’ exclaims Sophie, slurring slightly. ‘Alcohol hits the system fast when you run fast. That’s a biological fact.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ says Plum, bounding up. ‘I’ve got a hot date with Dan tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep.’
‘I’m ready to go too,’ I say. ‘Robert? Or do you have things to see, people to do?’
‘Ha,’ he replies. ‘Well, Felicity has requested my presence. But I’ll see you home safely first, of course.’
‘You’re such a gent,’ I say.
We find two black cabs within minutes of standing on Westbourne Grove. Sophie, Plum and Luke take the first one, and Robert and I jump in the second.
‘That was fun,’ I say, turning to him.
‘It was,’ he agrees, looking over at me.
We smile at each other in the silent darkness for a few seconds.
‘You look nice tonight,’ he says. ‘I like your shoes.’
‘Thanks. I like yours too.’ I lean my head back and close my eyes. ‘Thank you for everything tonight,’ I murmur. ‘You’re the best.’
‘That’s what they tell me.’
‘You’re my Cyrano de Bergerac,’ I mumble.
‘Does that make you Roxane?’
‘No . . . Christian. The guy he helped was Christian de Neuvillette.’
I’m so tired. Such a long night. Between counselling Plum, the speed dating car crash, the shock of Peter’s affair, and finally the stomach-thumping discovery of Dave, I am absolutely exhausted. Thank God it’s only Friday. I’m going to have the laziest Saturday morning ever. I might even cook. No, who am I kidding? I won’t cook. I’ll pick us up something at Melrose and Morgan. Or, ooh yes. I’ll have crumpets with peanut butter. I wish we had one of those foursome toasters. Sometimes two crumpets just isn’t enough . . .
‘Abby, darling, wake up, we’re home,’ whispers a voice, and I open my eyes. I’m lying down in the cab, my head on Robert’s thigh, his big hand on my arm. I am unbelievably warm and sleepy and comfortable. My hair falls over my face and Robert smooths it back.
‘But I’m so cosy,’ I murmur.
‘Come on,’ he says, and takes me by the hand. I slowly get out of the cab. There’s a big jacket around my shoulders. It must be Robert’s. He pays the driver through the front window and takes me by the hand. I am so sleepy, I can’t open my eyes. My brain feels like it’s made of warm honey. I follow Robert up the stairs and wait for him to open the front door, and then he takes my hand again and leads me inside and up the stairs towards my room.
‘What big hands you have, grandmamma,’ I say, half to myself.
‘Shh,’ says Robert.
‘Shh,’ I repeat.
We stop on the landing outside my bedroom door and I lean over to take my heels off. It’s difficult with my eyes nearly closed. Robert crouches down and helps me, and I fall against him slightly.
Then we’re in my room, and I can’t even be bothered to take off my make-up or get undressed. So I let go of Robert’s hand, shuffle across the room and flop down on top of my bed. I sense him leaning over me and for a frightening second, think he’s going to kiss me, but then he just pulls half of the duvet over me and tucks it over my clothes.
‘Night night,’ I whisper, letting my brain relax completely into warm sleepiness.
‘Night night,’ whispers Robert, closing the door. I hear his footsteps going down the corridor, and then his phone ringing.
‘Ah, Miss Felicity,’ I hear him saying. ‘Now what is a girl like you doing awake at a time like this?’
And then I’m asleep.
You won’t believe what happened at the airport this morning. We got to Gatwick at an ungodly o’clock, for the 7.05 am flight to Montpellier. It was just the four of us – Luke and Sophie, Robert and me. Luke and Sophie were zombies after a late night with too much wine. But Robert and I watched 30 Rock, ate takeaway Thai and went to sleep early, so the 4.45 am wake-up call wasn’t difficult at all. (We were ever-so-slightly smug about it.)
So there we were, in early-morning airport hell, slumped against each other with bad coffees and unopened papers, when a shrill voice screamed ‘Robbie!’
We all turned at once. The voice belonged to Antonia, the impossibly