the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to stay here tonight with nothing but my remorse for company, that’s for sure. OK, let’s go.’
‘Well, at least you pre-empted the number one rule, princess,’ says Robert as we leave the house a few minutes later.
I almost can’t bear to ask. ‘What’s that?’
He holds the front door open for me. ‘Always leave them before they leave you.’
Oddly, that does make me feel better. I pause on the doorstep to add it to my notebook list.
Always leave them before they leave you.
Chapter Ten
It’s raining. Not real, hard rain, but that autumn perma-drizzle that ruins your hair and make-up. Robert and I stand under an umbrella on the corner of our street, waiting for a black cab to take us to a pub in Belgravia called The Pantechnicon Rooms.
‘You look alright, by the way. Considering.’
‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say, slightly sarcastically, to hide the fact that actually, I can feel myself blushing. Compliments have been quite light on the ground since I left Peter.
‘Sorry, Abby. You look stunning. Gob-smackingly stunning. Now, let’s get you a drink.’
‘I don’t think I can drink,’ I’m trying to angle my words to the side in case, despite cleaning my teeth and scrubbing my tongue three times, my breath still smells like booze and/or vomit. This umbrella seems abnormally small.
‘Alright, alright. You’re in charge, OK?’
I’m so achey. I think it’s the remorse, not the hangover. Can you believe I was kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets? And I did splits on the dance floor. Oh the self-loathing . . .
Once we’re in the cab, I look out of the window at rainy, grey Friday-night London, and sigh deeply.
‘Do you want me to tell you a story to make you feel better?’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.
‘Yes please,’ I say in a small voice.
‘When I was 22, I secretly started seeing one of my mates’ older sisters. She was 27 and clearly slumming it with me . . . Anyway, I was still at Cambridge, doing a postgrad, which by the way was an utter waste of time, in case you’re thinking about doing one.’
‘I’m not. But thanks.’
He continues. ‘So, I came down one weekend and she took me to a London party,’ he says, enunciating ‘London party’ with all the excitement he clearly felt at the time.
‘How glam.’
‘I was very nervous, drank half a bottle of Jäger, got naked, threw up on her housemate, passed out on the dining room table wearing nothing but a pair of washing-up gloves, woke up three hours later to find the party still going and asked her to marry me.’
‘What did she say?’ I gasp through my laughter.
‘She said no,’ he says, looking out the cab window for a second, before turning back to me. ‘Unsurprisingly. So, still drunk, I put some clothes on and stormed out to a train station, slept on the platform, got on the first train at dawn the next day, passed out again and ended up in Scotland.’
‘Wowsers,’ I say, trying not to laugh.
‘You think a walk of shame is bad. Try a six-hour train ride of shame back to Cambridge, wearing nothing but boxers, a rugby jersey and washing up gloves as shoes.’ He pauses, and starts laughing despite himself.
Our cab pulls up outside The Pantechnicon Rooms.
‘Making a fool of yourself at least once is a rite of passage,’ he says, as we walk in and get enveloped by the serene, happy buzz. ‘Onwards and upwards.’
‘Onwards and upwards,’ I agree, looking around. Robert was right to force me out of the house. This morning’s dash of total fucking mortification in Kensal Rise suddenly seems a long time ago.
I sit down and look around happily. You get the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen in this pub. It’s clean and warm and just so. I want to move in and live under the stairs like Harry Potter.
‘So, is bowler-hat girl your main squeeze right now?’ I say, turning to Robert, once he has a pint and I have a nice calming
‘Well, at least you pre-empted the number one rule, princess,’ says Robert as we leave the house a few minutes later.
I almost can’t bear to ask. ‘What’s that?’
He holds the front door open for me. ‘Always leave them before they leave you.’
Oddly, that does make me feel better. I pause on the doorstep to add it to my notebook list.
Always leave them before they leave you.
Chapter Ten
It’s raining. Not real, hard rain, but that autumn perma-drizzle that ruins your hair and make-up. Robert and I stand under an umbrella on the corner of our street, waiting for a black cab to take us to a pub in Belgravia called The Pantechnicon Rooms.
‘You look alright, by the way. Considering.’
‘Gosh, thanks,’ I say, slightly sarcastically, to hide the fact that actually, I can feel myself blushing. Compliments have been quite light on the ground since I left Peter.
‘Sorry, Abby. You look stunning. Gob-smackingly stunning. Now, let’s get you a drink.’
‘I don’t think I can drink,’ I’m trying to angle my words to the side in case, despite cleaning my teeth and scrubbing my tongue three times, my breath still smells like booze and/or vomit. This umbrella seems abnormally small.
‘Alright, alright. You’re in charge, OK?’
I’m so achey. I think it’s the remorse, not the hangover. Can you believe I was kicked out of a bar for snogging in the toilets? And I did splits on the dance floor. Oh the self-loathing . . .
Once we’re in the cab, I look out of the window at rainy, grey Friday-night London, and sigh deeply.
‘Do you want me to tell you a story to make you feel better?’ says Robert. Mind-reading again.
‘Yes please,’ I say in a small voice.
‘When I was 22, I secretly started seeing one of my mates’ older sisters. She was 27 and clearly slumming it with me . . . Anyway, I was still at Cambridge, doing a postgrad, which by the way was an utter waste of time, in case you’re thinking about doing one.’
‘I’m not. But thanks.’
He continues. ‘So, I came down one weekend and she took me to a London party,’ he says, enunciating ‘London party’ with all the excitement he clearly felt at the time.
‘How glam.’
‘I was very nervous, drank half a bottle of Jäger, got naked, threw up on her housemate, passed out on the dining room table wearing nothing but a pair of washing-up gloves, woke up three hours later to find the party still going and asked her to marry me.’
‘What did she say?’ I gasp through my laughter.
‘She said no,’ he says, looking out the cab window for a second, before turning back to me. ‘Unsurprisingly. So, still drunk, I put some clothes on and stormed out to a train station, slept on the platform, got on the first train at dawn the next day, passed out again and ended up in Scotland.’
‘Wowsers,’ I say, trying not to laugh.
‘You think a walk of shame is bad. Try a six-hour train ride of shame back to Cambridge, wearing nothing but boxers, a rugby jersey and washing up gloves as shoes.’ He pauses, and starts laughing despite himself.
Our cab pulls up outside The Pantechnicon Rooms.
‘Making a fool of yourself at least once is a rite of passage,’ he says, as we walk in and get enveloped by the serene, happy buzz. ‘Onwards and upwards.’
‘Onwards and upwards,’ I agree, looking around. Robert was right to force me out of the house. This morning’s dash of total fucking mortification in Kensal Rise suddenly seems a long time ago.
I sit down and look around happily. You get the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen in this pub. It’s clean and warm and just so. I want to move in and live under the stairs like Harry Potter.
‘So, is bowler-hat girl your main squeeze right now?’ I say, turning to Robert, once he has a pint and I have a nice calming
Similar Books
