Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle

I can’t wait to tell Robert about this. I’m on an accidental lunch date with Andre.

We’re only halfway through our main course at the Marco Pierre White Steak & Alehouse (a restaurant that, from the name, you’d think would have sawdust on the floor, but looks more like a wedding reception, with immaculate all-white decor and mirrors reflecting all the smug diners around us). Already Andre has told me all about his ex-wife, how he misses Paris, his loves (football, Danish design, the Maldives) and hates (the Catholic church, the European Union, Belgians). I definitely have the feeling that this isn’t entirely business.

What can I do? I can’t ask ‘What are your intentions, young man?’ I could be wrong, and either way, the ensuing awkwardness would be so awful. So instead, I’m trying to keep my end of the conversation professional-but-charming. It’s not easy. He insisted on my trying one of his oysters (‘oy-stares!’) directly from the shell in his hand, and then asked if he might taste my potted shrimps. (I dumped a spoonful straight onto his plate.) Thank God we’re both having steak for main course.

He hasn’t asked if I’m seeing anyone, and I can’t think of a conversation topic that starts ‘so my boyfriend Dave and I’ without being obvious.

The restaurant is tinkling with the sweet, festive sound of people dying to get plastered. The rest of the diners are 80% male finance types, all on let’s-expense-this-fucker lunches who are laughing loudly and tucking in to the food and particularly the wine with gusto. I feel very out of place.

‘This is an exceptional restaurant,’ says Andre, sipping his wine thoughtfully and maintaining eye contact with me. ‘Elegant. Welcoming. Warm.’

‘It is,’ I agree. Is it just the accent that makes everything Andre says seem romantic? I’ve waited for almost an hour for him to bring up the work subject that was ostensibly the reason for today’s lunch. But I don’t want to be rude. And considering he’s French he probably regards food with a practically sexual adoration and doesn’t want to sully the meal with work-related talk.

Ah, fuck it. ‘So, Andre, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Hong Kong,’ he says. ‘Come to Hong Kong with me.’

I am speechless. Is he propositioning me?

‘As you know, I’m moving there to start a new regional retail analyst centre. I want you to be vice president of retail research.’

I stare at him for a few seconds. A promotion? In Hong Kong? ‘I, um . . . does Suzanne know you are speaking to me about this?’

‘No, and I don’t want her to,’ he says smoothly. He goes on to talk about the team he wants to start, and the role I’d be playing.

I can’t think what to say. I have nothing in my brain.

Almost nothing.

Because I hate – hate – to admit this, but after six years of working, six years of 7 am starts and late nights and deferred bonuses and anxious presentations and endless hard fucking work, the first person I think of when I’m offered a career-making promotion is Dave.

‘What’s your, how do you say, stomach tell you?’

‘You mean my gut?’ I say.

‘Exactement,’ he says.

‘That I need time to think about it,’ I lie. I hadn’t even consulted my gut, I was just picturing myself telling Dave about it, and him asking me – maybe even begging me – not to go, telling me that he needed me and couldn’t live without me, that I was the only woman he’d ever – ahem. God. Get a grip, Abigail. ‘And I’d need to check it all out,’ I say, taking out my notebook. Yes. Act positive and rational. You’re an analyst. Analyse it. ‘If you tell me more, I’ll do some research of my own . . .’

‘OK. Let’s meet again in January and discuss it.’ He looks a bit disappointed.

‘I’m really honoured, Andre, thrilled, amazing.’ Someone hand me an adjective. ‘Thank you. It sounds incredible, incredibly interesting, uh, incredible.’ Nice one.

Andre goes on to tell me more about the history of the office, and the people currently working there, and their major clients. I make a note of everything, trying to keep my facial expression set to ‘interested’.

‘I hope it will be motivating for both of us. I have been watching you over the past two months. Suzanne, well, she is . . .’ he clears his throat. ‘I think you need more authority and freedom to really thrive. I’d like to give you total autonomy.’

‘That sounds wonderful,’ I say. And it does.

The question I should be asking myself, of course, is the question I never, ever answer: do I even want to do this job anymore? I don’t know. What do I want? Urgh. Don’t think about it . . .

Suddenly my attention is drawn by two familiar figures coming in to the restaurant, and for a second, I think I’m hallucinating. I glance quickly into the mirrors to try to see their faces and gasp.

They walk away from us, right down to the other end of the restaurant, and sit at a table almost entirely obscured from my view. But I get a good look before they sit down. And there’s no mistaking who it is.

Dave and Bella.

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest. I can’t breathe. What is he doing here with her? Are they friends now? I didn’t think they even got on, did you?

‘Abigail? Are you alright?’ says Andre. He puts his knife and fork down and looks over at me in concern.

‘Fine, I’m fine,’ I say, putting my hand to my forehead in an attempt to slow down my thoughts. The initial pain has turned into an icy feeling that is washing through my body. They can’t see me, but I want to run away – from them, from my thoughts, from work, from everything. I mean, what the hell are they doing here together? They’re not friends, they barely spoke to each other in France! What should I do? Confront them? That would be a bit dramatic, wouldn’t it? I mean it’s just lunch! Then Dave might think I’m overreacting, or being unnaturally jealous. He does hate jealousy, he told me that once, he finds it boring. I don’t want to spoil anything just when things are finally good between us . . .

My heart is hammering painfully, oh God, I feel sick.

Let’s be positive: they’re having lunch, not dinner, right? Lunch is nothing, right? I’m at lunch with Andre! But in that case, why didn’t Dave tell me he was meeting Bella today? Then again, he never tells me who he’s seeing for lunch. Perhaps he’s giving her advice on Ollie. No, that’s not likely either. If I walked up to them and said ‘fancy seeing you here!’, would it be awkward? It totally would. Bella was, frankly, a bit of a bitch in France. And I thought she lived in fucking Bath! God! Brain, slow down! I put both hands to my temples and take a deep breath.

‘You are very pale,’ says Andre. ‘Do you need some air?’

I meet his eyes. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I need to get out of here. Do you mind if we leave? I will wait for you outside.’

‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the bill.’

I run-walk to the door, my head down so that Dave and Bella don’t notice me. Not that they’re looking around, mind you, from what I can see in nervous, flicky little glances, they’re deep in conversation. They look intensely together. Like a couple. An impossibly beautiful, sexy couple.

I think I’m going to throw up.

I get my coat and hurry outside to the street, taking deep breaths as I go.

Breathe, Abigail. Think. What would Robert say about this? Should I call him? No. Of course not. He’s all weird about Dave as it is. But if I did, he’d say I was overreacting.

And he’d be right. It’s just lunch with an old friend. A family friend! It’s nothing. Last night Dave said he wanted to be with me, that he wanted to tell everyone we were together. He said he wanted a girl like me.

Remembering this, my anxiety loosens its stranglehold on my chest just slightly. Enough so I don’t think I’m about to keel over.

Calm down. He can have lunch with an old family friend who happens to be a woman. After all, I’m having lunch with Andre, aren’t I? And Dave isn’t the kind of guy who would cheat, is he?

Actually, he’s exactly the kind of guy I’d previously have imagined as a cheater – confident, slick, flirty, with a short attention span . . . but that’s a stupid thing to think. What do I know about the kind of man who cheats? Peter – pause to spit – cheated on me! And I was absolutely fucking clueless about it. God, oh God why is this happening. Brain, please stop.

Anyway. She has a boyfriend, Ollie, and yes, they were fighting in France but I don’t think they’ve broken up, have they? So why am I jumping to conclusions?

‘Abigail, I am so sorry, perhaps it was the oy-stare?’ says Andre, coming outside. His face is all worried concern.

‘Uh, perhaps it was,’ I agree. ‘Let’s go back to the office.’

The rest of the afternoon is agony. My standard uneasy Daveticipation was nothing compared to this.

I can’t help it: I’m in hell. I can’t even distract myself: there’s nothing happening in the markets. I can’t hold a phone conversation. I can’t read to the end of a sentence without thinking about what I saw, and I’m obsessively checking my phone. I even take my phone to the toilet with me in case he calls, which is hard, as it’s one of those office loos with no cistern so there’s nowhere to balance it, so I have to put it in my mouth while I pee. That’s probably really unhygienic.