Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle

‘Exactly,’ he says, unwrapping a Carambar and taking a big chewy bite. ‘I feel weird even saying this stuff to you. Just be careful. OK?’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ I say. ‘And he’s definitely not seeing that girl in sequins that he left the party with?’

‘Emma? Definitely not,’ he says, through a mouthful of Carambar. ‘I met her for coffee yesterday, actually. She works near me and I wanted to explain to her why I didn’t want, uh, a relationship.’

‘I’ve never seen a man eat five Carambars at once. You’re so butch,’ I say. ‘Hang on. I thought your policy was “never apologise, never explain”,’

‘It was,’ he says, chewing. ‘But I started thinking about what you said. About making her feel better. And I started feeling, I don’t know, guilty . . .’

‘Wow. You’re evolving,’ I say. ‘We should take a photo to commemorate this, or engrave a plaque, or something.’

He shakes his head. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Anyway, she’s fine. She said she tends to cry after a few drinks and that she wasn’t helplessly in love with me, contrary to what you assumed.’

‘Oh, well. That’s nice,’ I say.

‘She did, however, say Dave—’

I put my hand up to stop him. ‘It was a one-off, right? Apart from that, I don’t want to know. Anyway, it’s no wonder he didn’t pay any attention to me at that party when I avoided him all night, thanks to you.’ I decide to change the subject. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Vix.’

‘That’s Sophie’s best friend, right?’ says Robert.

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘She’s hilarious. I’ve known her since she was eight. She and Sophie were best friends through the three key phases of girlhood: ballet, friendship bands, and Pacey from Dawson’s Creek.’

Robert puts his sunglasses on and smirks at this. I knew he wasn’t really in a bad mood.

Over the last two weeks, in addition to my internet stalking-I-mean-research, I’ve grilled Robert on Dave’s interests (skiing, surfing, sailing), favourite drink (red wine), film (‘Are you serious? I don’t fucking know, Abby’), where he lives (Camden), where he works (an American bank) and his taste in women (‘drunk, usually’). I wrote everything down in my notebook, but backwards and in French so no one would know. (I should have worked on the Enigma project, honestly.) He really does seem perfect.

I take a moment to check my notebook singledom list, as I have many times over the past three months.

Be cool

Be detached

Act brutal

Stay in control

Bulletproof

Always leave them before they leave you

I wonder if I’ll find him as knicker-droppingly gorgeous as I did last time. The memory of meeting his eyes across the empty tequila shot glasses makes me squirm with excitement (and a tiny bit of revulsion – tequila, ew).

I’ll be far more in control this time, of course. I shall be myself (in a calm-cool-collected kind of way), and he shall find me irresistible, and we’ll flirt and kiss and then I will take him as my lov-ah. Right?

God, it feels nice to relax. I’ve had a hectic week. I was at a client dinner on Thursday that didn’t finish till almost midnight, then was in the office for 6.15 am for a trader announcement on Friday. Suzanne almost smiled at me towards the end of the client dinner. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

‘Why are you thinking about work on a weekend?’ says Robert, coming back outside with two more coffees.

‘Fucking well stop that,’ I say. ‘Your telepathy freaks me out.’

He grins. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ I say, chewing my lip. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I’m working as hard as I can. I’m doing everything just like I’m supposed to.’

‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

I gaze at him for a second. What does he mean, why?

‘It’s a job. That’s what you do. You do your best. I can’t just quit and navel-gaze till I find something better.’ I sound a little harsher than I mean to, but his needling questions are clearly intended to make me question my place in the world. ‘Work is just work.’

My phone beeps. It’s a text from Plum.

Dan invented a new swearword. Fuckwart. Isn’t he talented?

I show Robert and we both start laughing. ‘God, she makes me laugh,’ I say. ‘And she’s so fucking happy. I love it.’ Dan is utterly enchanted by Plum, who seems to have become an uber-version of herself in the past two weeks: happier and more calmly confident.

‘How’s the H-Bomb?’

This is the nickname that Henry made up for himself last weekend, and insisted that everyone – especially Robert – call him that.

‘Yep, he’s a smitten kitten with Charlotte,’ I say. ‘I think your advice helped; he really was the worst single man in England . . .’ I pause for a second. ‘Hang on. Are you telling me that I’m the only single one left?’

Robert leans back in his chair, sunglasses on, hands folded behind his head. ‘You tell me.’

‘I cannot fucking believe this,’ I say in shock. ‘For seven years, Henry and Plum and even my sister have been almost constantly single whilst I was in a relationshit. Now I’m finally able to have some fun and they all fuck off and desert me.’

‘Relationshit? Nice.’

A frantically beeping horn makes us turn to see a Hertz rental car squealing to a halt in the centre of the square. The driver beeps a few more times for good measure and jumps out.

It’s Dave.

My entire body does a back flip inside my skin, and my breezy plan to take him as my lov-ah collapses. This is like, the worst nerves in the world. Times a thousand. How the hell am I meant to handle this? I’m all hot. And sweating slightly. Are my sunglasses on? Yes. Good. Fine. Breathe. Smile serenely. Chin up. Stomach in.

‘Bonjour, mes amis,’ says Dave, coming over to kiss me – oh hot flush! – hello, and then leaning in to give Robert a loud smacking kiss on both cheeks too. ‘Robair,’ he says, pronouncing it as though he was French. ‘Don’t be shy, mon petit fleur.’ Robert pushes him away and starts laughing. Dave, with a satisfied smile on his face – oh perfect teeth, beautiful smile – stands up and looks back to the car.

I’m dazed by my body’s pathetically hormonal reaction to Dave, and fight the urge to give myself a good slap. Then I take an extra moment to check him out behind my sunglasses. Not super-tall but very fit and good God, he really is gorgeous. I wonder if he has those little muscle-lines above his hip bones. I’ve never seen them in real life. (I am so deprived.)

‘Come on, team, we haven’t got all day . . .’ he calls.

Vix and JimmyJames, and the two people who I surmise must be Bella and Ollie are slowly getting out of the car.

‘I tell you, if it wasn’t for my cheerful disposition, riding in the car with this lot would have killed me,’ says Dave, putting a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. ‘Fucking hell! I’ve met brick walls with more banter.’

Vix and JimmyJames are both wearing dark glasses and clearly suffering from very bad hangovers. Bella, despite her unhappy pout, is extremely pretty, with very long hair, the same flaxen blonde as Luke. Ollie has sandy hair and an open, freckled face, and looks like he’d probably be great fun, if it wasn’t for the fact that he looks ready to punch someone.

Hmm.