Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess
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By the time I’m home, it’s almost 20 to seven and I’m late. I run into the house. Robert is sitting by himself at the kitchen bench, eating porridge and drinking coffee.
‘Fuck!’ I shout at him, throwing my coat, scarf, hat and gloves on the couch.
‘You’re late!’ he replies.
‘Dave’s fault!’ I yell back down the stairs. I’m feeling tense: we almost bickered in the car. Dave doesn’t like other people being irritated with him. Even when he’s about to make them seriously late for work. But that’s okay. Because he and I are really, officially, seriously-for-serious together.
I shower as quickly as I can, going through my now-regular combing-out-the-bedhair-with-conditioner motion. I dress hurriedly in black trousers and a black turtleneck, frantically blow-dry my hair, tie it up in a very high chignon, and then calm down for a few minutes so that I can apply my make-up properly. (Make-up in a hurry never works out, like eating when running or reading when drunk.)
‘It’s almost five past seven, what are you still doing here?’ I gasp, when I run back into the kitchen. He always leaves by 6.45 am.
‘I thought you might need an emergency lift,’ he says. ‘It’s Christmas Eve in four days. No company expects people at work on time.’
‘Mine does,’ I say. ‘A lift would be wonderful, lovely Roberto.’
Robert hands me a coffee and a bowl of porridge and heads up to his room, calling over his shoulder: ‘Eat and drink. We’ll leave in five.’
Gulping my thanks through coffee, I sit down. The porridge is just how I like it: made with water not milk, plus blueberries and almonds chopped into thirds (not halves! thirds!) sprinkled on top. He returns a few minutes later and hands me a large bag. ‘Cold weather kit for the moped. You’ll freeze without it.’
‘You have spare cold weather kit?’ I say in surprise.
He shakes his head. ‘I picked it up for you ages ago, but then we haven’t been going to work together . . .’
‘Thank you!’ I exclaim, reaching up to give him a hug. ‘That’s so thoughtful of you. And practical. How much do I owe you for it?’ He leans forward and hugs me awkwardly with one hand, the other still carrying the bag.
‘Nothing. It’s my treat . . . Try them on.’ Robert watches me as I wriggle into the clothes and stifles a grin.
‘Am I both warm AND sexy?’ I ask. I’m wearing waterproof elasticised black trousers and a matching zip-up coat. ‘God! I look like one of those fat cops in The Fifth Element.’
‘I was thinking more of a giant dung beetle,’ says Robert.
I shrug, and waddle noisily towards the front door. ‘Let’s go.’
I cling like a heavily-padded barnacle to Robert all the way to work, and jump off with a shout of thanks. He nods and speeds away.
Walking through the reception area to the lifts dressed like this is mildly embarrassing, so I just keep my head held high and pretend it’s totally normal to look like a giant dung beetle shuffling through the lobby of a large investment bank.
‘Looking good, Abigail!’ says the security guard, Steve, as I pass him.
‘Feeling good, Steve!’ I reply, taking out my security pass from my bag to swipe. It’s our standard Trading Places greeting since we started chatting when I forgot my pass a few months ago. Today he starts laughing at me, clearly tickled by my outfit. I poke my tongue out.
‘Salut, Abigail,’ says a voice as I get into the lift. I knew I’d run into someone. I meet the warm brown-eyed gaze of Andre, the French guy. He hasn’t been working in the London office much lately. How typical that I’d see him when I look like this.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Excellent,’ I say, flashing a grin at him. ‘Please excuse my clothes, I was on a moped . . .’
‘Not at all,’ he says, making a flicking motion with his hand. ‘You always look lovely.’
There is a pause. Thank God no one else is in the lift. I smile without looking at him and keep my eyes fixed on the climbing numbers. He’s been sitting near Charlotte and me, and I often catch him looking at me. Third floor . . . fourth floor . . .
‘I’m going up to eighth, but . . . will you have lunch with me today?’ Andre asks. ‘I want to discuss a project with you,’ he adds quickly.
‘Uh, sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll meet you at 1 pm in the lobby.’
‘It’s 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.
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