Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle

I sigh. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve been gone for almost two full days? Because you flew halfway across the world and didn’t tell anyone where you were going or what you were doing? Because you turned your fucking phone off?’

‘It ran out. Of juice,’ I say, very sarcastically, in a way that I know will annoy him. I see his eyes light up with anger and feel a jolt of joy that I’m making someone else feel as bad as I do right now. (Is that evil?)

‘Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve put us through?’ he shouts.

‘What do you mean “us”?’ I reply. I’m so exhausted and miserable that I don’t care if I sound like a brat. ‘They’re my family, my friends! How dare you stalk me like this?’

He stares at me for a second, and then says flatly: ‘You stupid bitch.’

‘SHUT UP!’ I shout. ‘Just SHUT the FUCK UP!’ I know I’m hysterical, but I’m so tired, and I feel sick, and I can’t stop crying. I don’t want to be here anymore, and nothing is how it should be, and my life will never work out, because I don’t know what I want or how I’d get it if I did, and as I think this I scream so loudly that tiny lights dart in front of my eyes.

Then, to my shock, he slaps me sharply on the cheek . It’s not hard, but I’m so stunned that I immediately shut up, mid-wail. He slapped me?

I sit down on the bed. Wow, that was dramatic. Especially for me. I’ve never been a drama queen. More of a drama lady-in-waiting.

He sits down next to me, trying to get his breath back as I stare at him, my mouth still open in surprise. He looks tired, I notice. It must be Friday by now. Is it? What day did I leave London? I can’t remember. My throat hurts.

I suddenly can’t go on. I can’t bear this. I can’t bear any of this. So I flop on the bed, curl up in a little ball and start weeping.

Again.

It’s so pathetic, I know, but I can’t stop myself. How can I possibly have any tears left? Oh, God. I want my mum.

The wrong man puts a big paw out and starts stroking my head, clearing the wet hair off my face and making soothing ‘shhh’ noises.

‘I’m sorry,’ I sob. ‘Thank you for finding me. You were right. I saw them . . . and my face, my face . . .’

‘He’s not worth it. I’m sorry I slapped you, I’m so sorry . . .’

He keeps talking, but I can’t hear him, because I really can’t stop crying now, and I just wish I’d never come here. What on earth was I thinking? I cry and cry until I finally cry myself into exhaustion. The last thing I think, as I go to sleep, is thank God he found me.

Chapter One (#ulink_67d41f26-73de-5957-a047-d3f9c8642a73)

September. (Last year.)

This is it. My first ever date.

Not many people have their first date at 27, and I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but it’s true, and it’s one of the things you should know about me. Another is that I’m nervous. My stomach hurts from nerves. Perhaps I’m coming down with something. God, then I won’t be able to snog him. Will I snog him? I don’t know. How do you snog someone for the first time? Do people even still say ‘snog’ at the age of 27?

I haven’t had a first kiss since I was 20, for fuck’s sake. I’ve probably forgotten how.

I’m meeting my date at a place called Bam-Bou at 8 pm, and I’m on the tube. In fact, I’m 40 minutes early. Typical.

It’s not like I think he’s that amazing, or even – ahem – remember him that well. Perhaps my sister was right. I should have picked someone I didn’t like at all for the first date. ‘Sharpen your tools on someone blunt,’ was her exact suggestion.

I wonder if I even have any tools to sharpen.

I’m not a recovering nun, by the way. I’ve just been in a relationship forever. I mean I was in a relationship. I’m not used to using the past tense. I’ve only just stopped saying ‘we’ when I talk about things I’ve done. As in, ‘we loved that movie’, ‘we went there for dinner’. That’s what happens when you have one boyfriend from the age of 20 until 27-and-a-half. I left him in July and here I am, just over two months later. Officially single. And officially dating.

Paulie – my date – is the first guy to ask me out. Not the first guy to ask for my number, mind you. One of the things I’ve learnt in the past two months of singledom is that guys sometimes ask for your number and then don’t call, even though you think they will, and you’ll work yourself up into a nervous frenzy every night waiting.

I stop for a drink at a bar called The Roxy, to kill time and check my makeup. A double gin and tonic will take the edge off. Possibly two edges.

I met Paulie last weekend and though he didn’t take his sunglasses off (well, it’s been an unusually sunny September, and Plum and I were standing around outside a pub trying to smoke and flirt, or ‘smirt’ as it’s apparently called) I definitely had the impression he liked me.

He gave me his card at the end of the night and told me to email him. So I did.

And here I am. Losing my dating virginity.

It was surprisingly easy to get asked out, after all the obsessing, I mean light discussing, I’ve been doing with Sophie, Plum and Henry for these past two months. Everyone had different advice, of course.

‘Just laugh a lot,’ said my sister Sophie (the only one in an actual relationship). ‘It always worked for me.’

‘When a guy talks to you, touch his arm and flick your hair,’ said Plum (last relationship: depends how you’d define ‘relationship’). ‘It’s subtle body language, and those signals show that you’re interested.’

‘Why do you keep asking me this shit? Get drunk and jump on him. It would do it for me,’ said Henry (last relationship: never).

‘I thought you were confident?’ said my mother in dismay (married to my father forever, has hazy understanding of modern dating due to serious period drama box set addiction).

So they weren’t much help.

Anyway, I always thought I was confident. Ish.

But being single and being confident is a whole different thing to being in a relationship and being confident. It’s easier in a relationship. Peter, my ex-boyfriend, was an ever-buoyant life-vest of reassurance. I didn’t have to make new friends, I just had a handful of old ones and shared his. If I couldn’t talk to anyone at a party, I talked to him. If I found a group intimidating, he would talk for me. And so on.

So, the first time I found myself being chatted up by a moderately good-looking guy in a bar, I felt sweatily self-conscious and couldn’t wait to get away. (He seemed to feel the same way about me after about 45 seconds.)

Confidence is a stupid word. It’s not like I think I’m worthless or anything. Sometimes I just have trouble thinking of something to say. And then, when I say things, I sometimes wonder if they sound a bit shit. I talk to myself a lot, in my head. But everyone does, right?

Perhaps it’s not confidence, perhaps there’s simply a knack to being chatted up. I think I’m getting better at it. Maybe. I like bars and drinks and what do you know, so do men.

And so here I am. On a date. High five to me.

I wonder how Peter is. We broke up in July, he moved in with his brother Joe, took a sabbatical from work and went on a year-long backpacking trip. He said it was one of the things he felt he missed out on by being in a relationship with me for the whole of his 20s.

I wonder what I missed out on.

I guess I’m about to find out.

Breaking up with him was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There isn’t much in books or music or films that helps you leave someone who is very, very, nice but just not quite right. He’s not mean, you’re not miserable, no one cheats. It’s just a sad, slow process of ending it.

Peter’s such a reasonable guy that he didn’t even disagree when I said, ‘I don’t think we’re right for each other, I think deep down you know it too. So I think we should break up.’ He just nodded. He would have gone on living with me for years, without questioning if we actually had a good relationship or just a functioning one. All Peter really wanted was an easy life. And – wait, why am I still thinking about my ex-fucking-boyfriend? I’m almost on a date. Stop it, Abigail.

Gosh, my palms are clammy. Perhaps I’ll need Botox shots in them. They do that, you know. I wonder if my armpits are sweaty too. Fuck. I can’t tell. I’ll just have to keep my arms down all night.

Oh, look, I’ve finished my drink. May as well have another.