Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle

‘That’s why you’re the best.’

We both take a careful sip of our drinks, and I try to ignore the thought that I am stuck in a job I don’t love.

Now I’m going to have to tell my boss Suzanne. Holy shit.

I dread dealing with Suzanne. She is very short, very blonde and very frightening. She joined six months ago from another bank, replacing my unusually easygoing last boss. (He was either pushed out or jumped, depending on who you believe.)

Suzanne works at least 14 hours a day, and is constantly barking into a headset that’s permanently attached to one ear whilst simultaneously reading reports, checking numbers, pushing sales and sending snappy/terse emails. She spends all her spare time walking around Bluewater and Westfield, taking day trips to Edinburgh or Paris, surveying the stores and the shoppers and the atmosphere. It all goes into forming a detailed picture of the retail market in her head. She’s like a megacomputer for retail analysis.

‘Why is he leaving?’ she snaps.

‘He’s bored.’

Oops. That came out without me thinking about it. There’s a pause and she stares straight at me.

‘Bored?’

‘Research just didn’t, um, stimulate him . . .’ I say helplessly. ‘He wants to be on the floor, making things happen.’

There’s a beat whilst she looks at me. She is nailing the eye contact thing. It would be inspirational if it wasn’t so fucking scary. She wears too much black eyeliner.

‘I’m not seeing enough drive in you, Abigail,’ she says, finally. ‘You have the knowledge and the experience, but you don’t care. Your reports are always bang-on, but you’re totally reactive and you never over deliver, you just . . . deliver.’

I nod, trying to look as composed as I can. Since when was this a critique of me?

‘I’ve been monitoring you since I arrived. You only make two or three calls a day. I expect you to make 15. You’re too passive. I expect you to know the luxury retail market; to eat, breathe, and fucking sleep it.’

I nod. I don’t even know how to respond to a speech like this. Is everyone else really doing this? Is Charlotte doing this? I haven’t noticed, but then again, I’ve been a bit distracted over the past six months.

She sighs. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning. Where were you?’

‘Um, Charlotte was upset—’

‘You’re not here to help Charlotte. You’re here to figure out how to make money.’

I bite my lip. She’s right.

‘I need someone who can create volume, stimulate sales. I don’t need someone who just sits back and reads. You’re too passive.’

I flinch.

She isn’t done yet. ‘I expect more. Step. It. Up.’

I am nodding so hard that my neck is starting to hurt. The ‘you’re too passive’ remark particularly stings.

I clear my throat. ‘Yes, thank you, I know, I know.’

Suzanne narrows her eyes. ‘It’s up to you. The question you need to ask yourself is, what do I want?’

I stop nodding and stare at her for a second. It’s that fucking question again. She raises an overplucked eyebrow and looks at me.

‘What do you want, Abigail?’

I open my mouth to speak and shut it again. I have no answer, none at all. What’s wrong with me? For a second I fight the urge to cry. What the fuck do I want?

‘That’s all,’ she dismisses me. I walk out, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. What a day. And it’s not even lunchtime yet.

The last thing I’m in the mood for is my date with that Skinny Jeans guy tonight. But I’m damned if I’m going to miss out on a chance to get the dating experience I need. I’m meant to be meeting him at 8 pm. I think I should have a couple of drinks at home first to get me in the mood.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_c46025aa-fc00-5415-b08a-63505285e64d)

Friday morning, 8 am.

My phone wakes me up, which is lucky, since I’m (a) meant to be at work by 7 am every day (b) not in my own house (c) naked.

I’m on the edge of a double bed with strange pale blue sheets, and as I turn my head to figure out how the hell I came to be here, I spy a naked man sleeping next to me. It’s Skinny Jeans guy.

I gasp in shock, fall onto the floor and scramble around the bedroom frantically looking for my phone. My heart is beating violently, my head pounding at the same pace, oh God, oh God – ah, it’s in my bag. Under my bra.

I look at the caller ID. It’s Plum.

‘Fuck!’ I whisper, instead of hello.

‘So, how was it?!’ she says excitedly.

‘Wrong tense,’ I mumble, as I crawl frantically around the bedroom on my hands and knees looking for the rest of my clothes. Knickers! On the bookshelf. Sweet.

‘Don’t tell me you’re at his house?’ Plum starts to laugh hysterically.

‘I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything,’ I mumble.

‘What the fuck happened?’

I grab my jeans from their hiding place half under the bed, whispering furiously. ‘We were on our date, in a bar, and I called Robert for advice, and he suggested I have a shot for liquid confidence, and I did, but then I think I had too many . . .’ I writhe on the floor to pull on my jeans without standing up, accidentally drop the phone and pick it up quickly.

‘So! Do you like him?’ asks Plum chattily.

‘No, yes, I don’t know, I have to get out of here, I have to call in sick . . .’ I decide against putting my bra on and stuff it in my bag. My top is, oddly, folded on the floor. Why would I do that, I wonder? Then again, it is one of my favourite tops. I just bought it on the weekend with Plum and she suggested I wear it on my date. It’s the most perfect, dove-grey asymmetric top from Cos and I can’t tell you how much I wish I’d bought it in black, I might go – oh, shit. Back to the nightmare.

‘OK. Sorry. Get home and call me. I’ll call in sick for you,’ she says.

‘God, I love you,’ I whisper.

We hang up, and I open the bedroom door silently and crawl out on my hands and knees, my handbag strap firmly in my mouth. Skinny Jeans hasn’t even stirred. I wonder why he isn’t at work. What does he do again? I try to remember. Ah, yes – he works for a film production company. His day doesn’t start till 10 am.

I find myself in a living room, and spy the detritus of last night: an overflowing ashtray, empty wine bottles and – oh please God no – a bottle of whisky. My jacket is on the couch, along with my shoes. I put them on, fumbling over the stupid finicky fucking shoe straps on these YSL-via-Zara beauties, and stand up for the first time today. I nearly faint from the sudden rush of blood/oxygen/booze to my head. I feel simultaneously hot and cold, nauseous and fuzzy, and I’m trying not to think about the fact that maybe, yes, I might, possibly, yes, I probably, definitely had sex with Skinny Jeans last night.

The used condom on the floor next to the bed kind of gives it away. Three cheers for safe sex.