Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle

But I can’t be bothered to get up just yet. I think I’ll just sit here and daydream about Adam The Tick Boxer some more.

‘What should I wear tonight?’ I ask Robert.

‘Are you going to ask me that every night?’ he says. ‘Because it’s been coming up a lot.’

‘It’s rhetorical,’ I say. ‘I’m saying it aloud to prompt myself to think about it. I’m going to Henry’s brother’s goodbye party. I’m meeting Adam The Tick Boxer first, so I want to look sexy, and tall, and—’

‘What happened to the nice shy Abby I met all those months ago?’ he says to himself. ‘She was great. Practically a mute. This Abby never shuts up.’

I give him the finger as I leave the balcony.

‘That’s very childish, Abby,’ he calls after me. ‘I expect more of you.’

I don’t really need his sartorial advice, of course. I speak style pretty well these days. I’m going to wear my nude pencil dress and my grass-green, very high heels, and my hair parted on the side and tied in a low, chignon thing . . . Pretty With A Punch.

I lie on my bed for a while and try to nap, but my mind keeps drifting to Adam The Tick Boxer. I think I’ll take him as my date to Sophie’s wedding next year! Do you think it’s too early to ask him? I wonder what his plans are for New Year’s Eve. It’s my birthday on January 1. Maybe we could go away for the night . . .

I take a long shower, and enjoy a surprisingly successful blow-drying-and-straightening session. Then I get dressed. Some natural-ish makeup, with brown smoky eyes, and voilà! All done.

I stalk out of my room, picking up my white wrappy coat on the way and stomp down the stairs (you have to stomp or stride in heels this high; at least until your second drink, when you can strut or slink). I catch Robert coming out of his room with wet hair pulling a T-shirt down over jeans. He makes a whistling sound at me.

‘Sexy outfit.’

‘Sexual harassment in the home environment,’ I say sniffily.

‘Sorry. You look like shit. Go have some fun.’

‘I intend to,’ I grin. Adam The Tick Boxer, here I come.

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_81c68180-b14e-5544-a462-8a1253ccdfa9)

8 pm Saturday night. South Kensington tube station. And my night hasn’t started well.

‘Abigail!’ exclaims Plum. ‘Finally!’

‘Cocksmoker!’ I reply.

‘Do I have something in my teeth?’

‘Adam The Cocksmoking Tick Boxer just dumped me,’ I whisper furiously, taking her arm. ‘Let’s walk. I need to smoke.’

‘No,’ she gasps.

‘I really do, I need to smoke.’

‘I mean – he dumped you? And you don’t smoke.’

‘I do tonight,’ Plum hands me her lit cigarette so I can in expertly drag on it. ‘I was meant to meet him at the Grand Union in Camden, for a drink, you know, as I was coming down here and he has a thing somewhere else, and then he didn’t show, so I rang him, and he didn’t answer, and I texted him, and he replied “I’m back with my ex-girlfriend. I’m sorry.”’

‘Oh, that’s fucked,’ says Plum sympathetically. ‘I hate it when that happens. What a fucknuckle.’

‘Does that happen a lot?! I just can’t believe it. I don’t understand what I did wrong,’ I say, exhaling quickly. Why isn’t Plum more shocked by this? I feel like having a tantrum. Keep your cool, Abigail . . . ah, fuck it, I can’t. ‘This is not fair! I have never felt this confused and helplessly single before!’

‘Wait till it happens eighteen times in a row,’ says Plum. ‘Westbourne guy,’ she pauses, and spits over her shoulder, ‘didn’t call. I texted him, and he didn’t reply.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ I say. Poor Plum. I wish I could erase all the shit things that have happened to her so she could start again. How would I feel if I’d met someone I liked and had it in explicably go bad time after time after time, for years and years? I can’t imagine.

Plum shrugs, and puts on her best I’m-in-a-great-mood smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. Here. Vodka?’

Plum always has a small water bottle of vodka in her bag on nights out. It’s a necessary strategy she explained once, to combat London bar prices. I have a quick swig and, coughing, take out my phone to check (just in case) if Adam The Tick Boxer has texted again (he hasn’t). And the only thing that stops me from bursting into tears is the determination that I am not going to be the kind of girl who gets stood up on a Saturday night and cries about it.

Instead I will just rant for a while.

‘I don’t get it,’ I splutter, puffing violently on my fag. ‘I just don’t get it. Who does that? Who pursues someone and goes out of their way to spend time with them and then discards them?’

Plum and I lock eyes. ‘Robert,’ we say simultaneously.

‘I’m going to call him,’ I say. ‘He’ll know what we should do.’

‘How may I assist you,’ he says, instead of hello.

‘Adam The Cocksmoking Tick Boxer’ – I pause and spit, as Plum looks at me supportively – ‘fucking dumped me, and you need to fucking tell me why.’

‘Whoa, psychogail,’ he says, laughing. ‘What?’

‘Adam. The Cocksmoking. Tick Boxer. Dumped. Me.’ I take another dramatic drag. ‘I don’t understand, I thought it was going well—’

‘Abby, you weren’t going out with him. You’ve only known him a week,’ says Robert bluntly.

‘Well, I felt like I was going out with him,’ I falter. ‘Not dumped, then. Rejected. Is that better?’

‘I thought you said you were cool and detached.’

‘I acted cool and detached,’ I say. ‘Mostly.’ Though I did suggest the last two dates, now that I think about it. And I suggested staying at his house last night. And I did text him first every day since Tuesday. Shit, that’s not cool or detached. ‘Ah, fuck it.’

Plum hands me the vodka-water-bottle again, and I take another swig.

Robert’s grinning, I can tell. ‘OK. Well, don’t worry about that. He’s clearly stupid, blind and probably gay. So shrug it off. Being tough is absolutely key to surviving single life, Abby. You can’t compete in blood sports if you faint at the first shot.’

‘Tough,’ I say tentatively. ‘I am tough. I am a bastard, just like you.’

‘Uh, sure, whatever . . . Now. Delete his number.’

‘Seriously? But what if I need to—’

‘Abby, darling, for your own good, delete his number,’ instructs Robert.

The sound of Robert calling me darling makes me feel even more like crying. I don’t know why.