A Girl Like You

Somehow, by holding my head at just the right angle, the bottle of water clasped to my chest, I fall asleep.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_219d08ba-c44f-5e52-bf34-2665a762ef1a)

I wake up just past 5 pm to see Robert in my doorway.

‘What the hell happened to you?’

I feel like I’ve just been hit in the mouth with a bucket of sand. I sit up unsteadily, try and fail to croak hello, and after several attempts, hold a bottle of water to my lips and drink till I have to collapse back on the pillow. God, water tastes good. So good.

‘Nice hair,’ he says. ‘Very sexy.’

‘Well, Robert,’ I say finally, ignoring the hair comment. ‘Some idiot told me shots would relax me.’

‘I said have a shot, not a bottle,’ replies Robert, leaning against the doorframe and folding his arms. He’s trying not to grin. And failing. ‘How was your walk of shame?’

‘It wasn’t a walk of shame,’ I moan. ‘It was a dash of total fucking mortification. I am full of remorse. I showed my fifi to a strange man. And I don’t even remember it.’

‘Your fifi doesn’t care. Have a shower and get dressed, Abby. We’re going out.’ I’ve noticed him calling me Abby recently, which no one has done since I was little.

‘I can’t possibly face the world. I am a harlot and a lush. I should be branded.’

‘We can brand you later. We’re going out,’ Robert says firmly.

‘I can’t possibly leave the house after my behaviour in the past 24 hours. I’m putting myself under house arrest.’

‘Get dressed,’ he yells, walking down the stairs.

Leaving Skinny Jeans’ house this morning has turned into a fuzzy half-memory. Just like most of last night. I wonder what time we got to bed, I mean sleep.

Flashback: lying on a pillow, kissing Skinny Jeans and looking over at his bedside clock as it hit 5.03 am.

‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!’ I shout.

‘Get up!’ shouts Robert up the stairs.

I reach into my drawer and pull out my dissolvable vitamin Cs and Solpadeine stash, pop them into the remaining water and swirl them around till they’re all dissolved. Sipping it, I lean over and switch on my iPod player. Quite randomly, it’s ‘Get Over It’ by OK Go. How appropriate.

Ah, the joy of a hot shower. I lather up with as much soap as I can and scrub my head with my poshest shampoo, and spend a careful ten minutes on my bed hair with a wide-tooth comb and half a bottle of conditioner.

‘Where are we going?’ I yell down the stairs at him. ‘What should I wear?’

‘Something sharp,’ he replies. Something sharp?

I open my wardrobe doors. Come on, Abigail. It’s time to start speaking clothes. Not what Plum tells you to wear, not what Peter used to like you to wear . . . but what you want to wear.

I feel like looking invincible and effortless tonight, because I feel just the opposite on the inside. So I take out my new Topshop jeans that make me feel extremely tall and thin, and pair them with a super-lightweight white vest. I add a blazer and a long, skinny red scarfy thing, and put on a pair of boots that add a good four inches to my height.

Invincible. But effortless. Yes.

Halfway through blow-drying my hair, Robert knocks on my door.

‘Room service.’ He walks in with a Bloody Mary and two crumpets smothered liberally with peanut butter. ‘I thought you might want to line your stomach.’

‘How did you know I love crumpets?’ I say, delightedly. ‘I thought I’d run out.’

‘You’ve always got a crumpet attached to your face on weekends, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out . . .’ he says. ‘I picked them up on the way home. And everyone loves Bloody Marys.’

‘Thank you . . . but I don’t think I should drink again. Ever.’

‘A Bloody Mary isn’t drinking, it’s like nature’s Solpadeine.’

I look at him expressionlessly and sip the Bloody Mary.

‘Wowsers, that’s good . . . You’ve shaved,’ I comment.

‘You told me to,’ he replies. ‘Did you just say “wowsers”? Like Inspector Gadget?’

The next half hour is a mix of chewing, slurping, makeupping and smiling. I almost feel better. The Bloody Mary is extremely spicy. The peanut butter is chewy and just a tiny bit salty. And my make-up is – God bless it – working wonders. I need a little extra highlighter and concealer tonight, but apart from that I look surprisingly alright. I’ve had about 10 hours sleep, I guess.

I suddenly feel inexplicably cheerful.

I wonder what Robert has planned for us tonight. I hope it’s fun.

I check my phone for the first time since this morning. Seven missed calls and four texts. I love feeling popular. The texts are from Sophie, Josh From HR and ohfucktwofromSkinnyJeansguy. I listen to a message from Mum, asking me about my bridesmaid dress preference. No one else left a message. Everyone I know is too impatient to bother leaving a voicemail.

Sophie: So I hear you’ve been a very bad girl. Details.

Josh From HR: Hi!!! What are you up to this weekend? Fancy a catch-up? Maybe dinner in SW17? xxx

Skinny Jeans: Devastated. I am devastated that you would leave me like this. x

Skinny Jeans: Well, you can ignore me, but I had a great night. Let me know if you fancy it again some time.

‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ I say to myself, and flop facedown on my bed and moan. I feel sick again.

If I was going to have the first one-night-stand of my life, wouldn’t it be good if I could actually remember it?

And yes, by the way, it was definitely a one-night-stand. I’m too mortified given my drunkenness, and I don’t want to see him again, anyway. He’s kind of cute, but his anecdotes centred largely on getting stoned. I kept thinking, Stick it out, Abigail, this is experience, this is experience . . .

I’m going to be brutal, as per Robert’s instructions. Josh From HR is just ew, and Skinny Jeans . . . I can’t face it. So I won’t. For some reason, the decision to ignore them both makes me feel stronger and in control.

I flip through the rest of my texts from last night. They’re all from Robert, all in reply to apparent text questions from me. From the end of the night, backwards:

1.32 am I am sleeping Abigail.

12.37 am Don’t worry about it. Lots of people get caught snogging in bar toilets.

12.20 am Have a glass of water. I don’t speak drunk.