Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle

I never want to see Skinny Jeans again. It will be easy because I am never going to get off my bedroom floor. I will die here. Of mortification.

I moan at the ceiling pathetically for a few seconds.

Ooh, text.

It’s Henry.

Abigay. What are you doing tonight and can I join?

I invite him along, and resume my position.

It’s at this second that I remember that I have not had a bikini wax since quite a long time before Peter and I broke up. My moan turns into a loud squeal of anguish.

‘What now?’ Robert is in my doorway again.

‘Nothing,’ I say sulkily. ‘My friend Henry is coming along, by the way.’

‘Tell Uncle Robbie what’s wrong,’ he says, coming into the room and crouching down next to me.

I sigh, and meet his amused eyes. ‘I just realised that I have not had a bikini wax in a long time. It’s pretty bad. I should have had a sign on my knickers saying Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.’

‘Only the penitent man shall pass, huh?’ Robert starts laughing. ‘Hey. I hear the full bush is coming back into fashion anyway.’

‘“The full bush”? Says who, the pubic topiary style mavens?’ I pause. ‘I’m sorry I bothered you so much. With the texts, I mean.’

‘There was nothing good on TV. It was a nice distraction.’

‘You were at home?’ Robert is never home on a Thursday.

‘Of course not. I was with bowler-hat girl. She has a TV in her bedroom.’

‘That’s nice.’ I peer at him through my fingers. ‘I’m a woman of easy virtue,’ I add mournfully.

‘Oh, come on. What is this, 1955? No one is judging you except yourself.’

‘Sleeping with a virtual stranger and being too drunk to even remember it is a pretty bad fucking mistake, Robert. It’s just not something I do. Ever . . .’

‘Just shake it off. Remorse is a pointless emotion. Be bullet-proof. That’s key to surviving single life . . . What did he say this morning?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, taking out my notebook and adding Bulletproof to the list. That’s a good one. ‘I crept out before he could wake up and act like men in films do, all awkward and uninterested . . . what’s that line in When Harry Met Sally? Pretend he had to, you know, clean his andirons.’

‘What’s an andiron?’

‘I don’t know.’ I sigh deeply, and look at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to stay here tonight with nothing but my remorse for company, that’s for sure. OK, let’s go.’

‘Well, at least you pre-empted the number one rule, princess,’ says Robert as we leave the house a few minutes later.

I almost can’t bear to ask. ‘What’s that?’

He holds the front door open for me. ‘Always leave them before they leave you.’

Oddly, that does make me feel better. I pause on the doorstep to add it to my notebook list.

Always leave them before they leave you.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_7101f616-0cd9-5b08-9115-87405d6f9014)

It’s raining. Not real, hard rain, but that autumn perma-drizzle that ruins your hair and make-up. Robert and I stand under an umbrella on the corner of our street, waiting for a black cab to take us to a pub in Belgravia called The Pantechnicon Rooms.

‘You look alright, by the way. Considering.’

‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say, slightly sarcastically, to hide the fact that actually, I can feel myself blushing. Compliments have been quite light on the ground since I left Peter.

‘Sorry, Abby. You look stunning. Gob-smackingly stunning. Now, let’s get you a drink.’

‘I don’t think I can drink,’ I’m trying to angle my words to the side in case, despite cleaning my teeth and scrubbing my tongue three times, my breath still smells like booze and/or vomit. This umbrella seems abnormally small.

‘Alright, alright. You’re in charge, OK?’

I’m so achey. I think it’s the remorse, not the hangover. Can you believe I was kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets? And I did splits on the dance floor. Oh the self-loathing . . .

Once we’re in the cab, I look out of the window at rainy, grey Friday-night London, and sigh deeply.

‘Do you want me to tell you a story to make you feel better?’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.

‘Yes please,’ I say in a small voice.

‘When I was 22, I secretly started seeing one of my mates’ older sisters. She was 27 and clearly slumming it with me . . . Anyway, I was still at Cambridge, doing a postgrad, which by the way was an utter waste of time, in case you’re thinking about doing one.’

‘I’m not. But thanks.’

He continues. ‘So, I came down one weekend and she took me to a London party,’ he says, enunciating ‘London party’ with all the excitement he clearly felt at the time.

‘How glam.’

‘I was very nervous, drank half a bottle of Jäger, got naked, threw up on her housemate, passed out on the dining room table wearing nothing but a pair of washing-up gloves, woke up three hours later to find the party still going and asked her to marry me.’

‘What did she say?’ I gasp through my laughter.

‘She said no,’ he says, looking out the cab window for a second, before turning back to me. ‘Unsurprisingly. So, still drunk, I put some clothes on and stormed out to a train station, slept on the platform, got on the first train at dawn the next day, passed out again and ended up in Scotland.’

‘Wowsers,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

‘You think a walk of shame is bad. Try a six-hour train ride of shame back to Cambridge, wearing nothing but boxers, a rugby jersey and washing up gloves as shoes.’ He pauses, and starts laughing despite himself.

Our cab pulls up outside The Pantechnicon Rooms.

‘Making a fool of yourself at least once is a rite of passage,’ he says, as we walk in and get enveloped by the serene, happy buzz. ‘Onwards and upwards.’