my money, take the change, feeling painfully self-conscious the whole time . . .
‘Need a hand with those drinks?’ asks Skinny Jeans.
‘Uh, yes, please. Thanks,’ I say.
‘Alfie, order the Malbec,’ Skinny Jeans says over his shoulder as he nods to me to lead the way.
‘Thanks . . .’ I say again, as we’re walking outside.
We reach the table, and Sophie and Plum beam at Skinny Jeans. Could they be any more obvious?
‘Next time you need a drink, you should come and find me first,’ says Skinny Jeans to me, after he sets down the drinks. ‘It makes sense. Logistically.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say. He walks back inside and I sit down nonchalantly.
Everyone makes an ‘oooooo’ sound.
‘Shut up,’ I say. I can’t help smiling. Confidence, engage! Experience, add one point!
‘Did he get your number?’ asks Plum.
‘No,’ I say. Everyone except Robert murmurs ‘oh’ disap-pointedly. Confidence, dash yourself against the nearest rock! Experience, minus two! See? I do suck at being single! ‘This is weird, guys. Stop it.’
‘Play a long game,’ says Robert. ‘He’ll be after you next time you’re inside.’
‘OK,’ I say glumly.
‘Why are you being so fucking helpful, Rob?’ says Luke suddenly. ‘This is completely unlike you.’
Everyone looks at Robert. He stares into space for a second and then frowns, ‘You’re right. I have no idea. Back later,’ and stalks off towards The Westbourne.
‘Have you spoken to the folks this weekend, Abs?’ asks Sophie. Our parents have retired to a little village in the south of France, which is just as idyllic as it sounds, and twice as boring. When they moved there six months ago, our mother rang us both once a day, sometimes twice. Then, thankfully, Sophie got engaged, and Mum threw herself into Mother Of The Bride work with fervour. She started a MOTB blog and even tweets about it, much to Sophie’s horror.
‘Yep, she’s organising an expat MOTB tweet-up,’ I say.
‘A what?’ say Luke and Plum in unison.
‘A meeting of Twitterers. Tweeters. Whatever,’ I say.
‘It’s her new career. She’ll be dying for you to get married next,’ says Sophie.
‘She’ll be waiting a while, at this rate . . . Oh my God, I’m the elder sister spinster,’ I realise. ‘How depressing.’
‘It’s not your fault Sophie is a child bride,’ says Plum.
‘And it’s not my fault that Luke is ancient and wants to settle down,’ replies Sophie.
‘I’m not that old,’ protests Luke half-heartedly. ‘But it is past my bedtime. Can we go home please? I need to tuck my hangover into bed.’
Plum and I decide to go home too. It’s nearly dark now, and getting that chilly September Sunday feeling.
‘Should I wait for Robert?’ I wonder aloud. We all look over. He’s pouring a bottle of wine for two uber-cool girls in jumpsuits, who are laughing at something he has just said. Wowsers, how does he do it?
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ says Luke.
Before we leave, I walk back into The Cow to go to the bathroom in the basement. On my way back up the stairs, Skinny Jeans is coming down. We do a polite little side-step-side-step dance, and I smirk and head past him without saying anything.
‘What . . . that’s it? No conversation? After all we’ve been through?’ he says, and we pause on the same step.
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? I am sorry,’ I say. ‘What would you like to discuss?’
He chuckles and looks me right in the eye. ‘Your phone number.’
High five! Robert really is good at this. Looks like someone isn’t failing at being single after all. (That someone is ME. In case you’re wondering.)
‘I’m Mark, by the way,’ he says. ‘Abigail,’ I nod. You don’t look like a Mark, I think. I’m going to call you Skinny Jeans.
At home, I potter around for a while, remembering to drink water and eat crumpets to soak up the booze. I try to read in bed, but almost immediately fall into a slumber with Jilly
‘Need a hand with those drinks?’ asks Skinny Jeans.
‘Uh, yes, please. Thanks,’ I say.
‘Alfie, order the Malbec,’ Skinny Jeans says over his shoulder as he nods to me to lead the way.
‘Thanks . . .’ I say again, as we’re walking outside.
We reach the table, and Sophie and Plum beam at Skinny Jeans. Could they be any more obvious?
‘Next time you need a drink, you should come and find me first,’ says Skinny Jeans to me, after he sets down the drinks. ‘It makes sense. Logistically.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I say. He walks back inside and I sit down nonchalantly.
Everyone makes an ‘oooooo’ sound.
‘Shut up,’ I say. I can’t help smiling. Confidence, engage! Experience, add one point!
‘Did he get your number?’ asks Plum.
‘No,’ I say. Everyone except Robert murmurs ‘oh’ disap-pointedly. Confidence, dash yourself against the nearest rock! Experience, minus two! See? I do suck at being single! ‘This is weird, guys. Stop it.’
‘Play a long game,’ says Robert. ‘He’ll be after you next time you’re inside.’
‘OK,’ I say glumly.
‘Why are you being so fucking helpful, Rob?’ says Luke suddenly. ‘This is completely unlike you.’
Everyone looks at Robert. He stares into space for a second and then frowns, ‘You’re right. I have no idea. Back later,’ and stalks off towards The Westbourne.
‘Have you spoken to the folks this weekend, Abs?’ asks Sophie. Our parents have retired to a little village in the south of France, which is just as idyllic as it sounds, and twice as boring. When they moved there six months ago, our mother rang us both once a day, sometimes twice. Then, thankfully, Sophie got engaged, and Mum threw herself into Mother Of The Bride work with fervour. She started a MOTB blog and even tweets about it, much to Sophie’s horror.
‘Yep, she’s organising an expat MOTB tweet-up,’ I say.
‘A what?’ say Luke and Plum in unison.
‘A meeting of Twitterers. Tweeters. Whatever,’ I say.
‘It’s her new career. She’ll be dying for you to get married next,’ says Sophie.
‘She’ll be waiting a while, at this rate . . . Oh my God, I’m the elder sister spinster,’ I realise. ‘How depressing.’
‘It’s not your fault Sophie is a child bride,’ says Plum.
‘And it’s not my fault that Luke is ancient and wants to settle down,’ replies Sophie.
‘I’m not that old,’ protests Luke half-heartedly. ‘But it is past my bedtime. Can we go home please? I need to tuck my hangover into bed.’
Plum and I decide to go home too. It’s nearly dark now, and getting that chilly September Sunday feeling.
‘Should I wait for Robert?’ I wonder aloud. We all look over. He’s pouring a bottle of wine for two uber-cool girls in jumpsuits, who are laughing at something he has just said. Wowsers, how does he do it?
‘You’ll be waiting a long time,’ says Luke.
Before we leave, I walk back into The Cow to go to the bathroom in the basement. On my way back up the stairs, Skinny Jeans is coming down. We do a polite little side-step-side-step dance, and I smirk and head past him without saying anything.
‘What . . . that’s it? No conversation? After all we’ve been through?’ he says, and we pause on the same step.
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? I am sorry,’ I say. ‘What would you like to discuss?’
He chuckles and looks me right in the eye. ‘Your phone number.’
High five! Robert really is good at this. Looks like someone isn’t failing at being single after all. (That someone is ME. In case you’re wondering.)
‘I’m Mark, by the way,’ he says. ‘Abigail,’ I nod. You don’t look like a Mark, I think. I’m going to call you Skinny Jeans.
At home, I potter around for a while, remembering to drink water and eat crumpets to soak up the booze. I try to read in bed, but almost immediately fall into a slumber with Jilly
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