Chapter 3

• My palms are all clammy. Maybe I'll need Botox injections in them. That's what they do. I'm wondering if my armpits are sweaty as well. Fuck.
• I'm not sure. I'll just have to keep my arms down the entire night.
• Oh, I just finished my drink. We might as well have another.
• I'm so glad I'm finally going on a date. The flip side to the thought 'I'm not happy, I want to leave Peter,' for the six months before we broke up, was the thought 'but then I'll be single, and I'll have to meet new men, and go on dates, and I don't know how.'
• That thought - that fear - kept me from leaving Peter for a while. Fear of never being thought attractive by anyone, fear of never being asked out, fear of never falling in love again, in short, fear of developing Lonely Single Girl Syndrome, of never finding the right person and dying alone. Why take the chance?
• Isn't this pretty standard?
• Nonetheless, the last two months of my singledom have been far more enjoyable than the previous year (or three) of my relationship. After dealing with the inevitable emotional fallout and guilt that came with ending my old life (my advice: move out as soon as possible so your new surroundings match your new state of mind, and get a haircut for the same reason), I immediately began planning a new one. Because work is the same, the emphasis has been on my previously neglected social butterfly skills. Dinners, drinks, lunches, and parties: you name it, I'll do it. Other nights, I revel in alone time, reading chicklit in the bath or going to bed at 8 p.m. with a fake tan and a hair mask.
• It's fantastic.
• I'm also enjoying my new flatshare. It's in the charmingly named Primrose Hill. I'm renting a room from Robert, a close friend of my sister's fiancé. I haven't seen him in a month since I moved in. When we do meet, whether in the kitchen or the hallway, we make polite small talk and move on. Which is fine with me.
• My room is located on the top floor of the house. It's small and quiet, and most importantly, it's all mine. Of course, it's not perfect - the ensuite bathroom is small and the wardrobe is small - but my clothes have adjusted very well to the change. They're such brave souls.
• I examine my black peep-toes. Yes, I believe you. You're a hero.
• What, you've never spoken to your clothes?
• It's 7.50 p.m. now. I can now walk to Bam-Bou. I'm sure Paulie will arrive on time. Aren't men always early for dates? I'm not sure! God. How did I become the only 27-year-old I know who has never been on a date?
• Now I'm nervous all over again.
• Could I possibly have a boyfriend named Paulie? It has the sound of a budgeri gar. Right. We've arrived. Bam-Bou. He said he'd meet me in the top-floor bar.
• When I finally get to the sexy, dark little bar, I say, 'Hi!' nervously. Paulie is sitting on a stool in the corner, dressed elegantly in a dark grey suit. He's hot, if a little jowlier than I remembered.
• 'Ali,' he says, dropping his BlackBerry and leaning over to greet me with a doublekiss. Chilly cheeks. Aftershave with a sandalwoody scent.
• 'Abi... gail,' I correct. 'Abigail Wood,' she says. There is no place for me to sit. But never mind. I'll simply lean. Oh my God, I'm sick with nerves.
• 'Right,' he says, returning to his BlackBerry. 'Pick a drink, I just have a work thing to respond to...'
• I nod and, taking a look around, pick up a drinks menu and begin reading it. What should I choose? I'm overjoyed! What a shame to be panting so much. Why would you put a bar on the fourth floor of a building that doesn't have a lift?
• I order a martini and try to appear composed as he orders it, as if I date all the time. Who me? I'm out on a date. Who is he? He'll be my date.
• 'So. 'How did your day go?' When will Paulie be back? Is that a reasonable question? I'm not sure. My mother would inquire.
• 'Scintillating,' he says crisply, leaning in. He is unquestionably hot. Those are some quick brows.
• 'How do you make a living?' I'm trying to smile while also looking interested, nice, and pretty.
• 'I work for a branding firm,' he explains. 'My title is head of account management.'
• 'Oh, how intriguing!' I exclaim. Wow. I really sound like my mother. 'Can you tell me where your office is?'
• 'Farringdon.'
• 'How long have you done that for?' But I can't seem to stop myself.
• 'Approximately seven years. 'I started my own company right out of university, managing chalet bitches, because that's what I loved,' he pauses, and grins to himself for a moment. 'You understand. But that got old after a few years, so here I am.'
• 'Golly,' I exclaim brightly. 'That sounds intriguing.' Why am I feeling as if I'm in a job interview?
• 'It was,' he says with a nod, his smile faltering slightly.
• 'Where did the chalet company have its headquarters?' Is this typical?
• 'Verbier.'
• 'Can you communicate in French?' Please stop asking questions.
• 'I'm capable of holding my own.'
• 'Are you originally from London?' But what if there's an awkward pause in the middle of the conversation?
• 'I am,' he responds. 'However, I left when my parents divorced. My mother relocated to Devon, and I followed her. I haven't seen my father in over a decade.'
• 'Oh, I'm... sorry...' Shit.
• He gives me a slightly less enthusiastic smile than before. Perhaps thinking about his mother and father makes him sad. I'm going to change the subject. Is it warm in here? My face is extremely flushed.
• 'Have you ever eaten here before?' I ask. I'm curious if he notices my perspiration.
• 'Yeah, it's great,' he says, nodding. 'The pork belly has a long history. Our reservation isn't for another 45 minutes, but I'm sure we could get settled sooner. Should we?'
• 'Yes!' I exclaim as I rise and follow him down the stairs. 'I'm starving! I had a Pret sandwich for lunch, and I swear they're basically carbs and air; I'm always hungry in the afternoon, so I had a chocolate bar, which I know is...' Oh, my fucking God, I'm babbling nonsense and he's not even paying attention. Stop talking. Stop talking. Abigail, stop talking.
• 'Oooh! 'What should we get?' As we take our seats at our table, I inquire.
• Paulie is deafeningly silent. We can't just sit here in silence, can we?
• I begin reading the menu aloud without even thinking. It's not something I've ever done before, but nerves are enough to make a girl nervous.
• 'Edamame steamed! They're beautiful. I'm not sure about a Saigon-style crepe... Har gau, they're one of my favorites. The soft-shell crab! My sister despises crab; she once got food poisoning in Singapore. I 'm not—'
• 'Excuse me, I think we're ready to order some wine,' Paulie says, motioning to the waitress at the door.
• 'Wine! Fantastic,' I exclaim, taking a deep breath. I firmly believe you're being a jerk, Abigail. Make a decision. But I'm afraid I can't. I'm a rolling snowball of nerves and stupidity, gaining speed by the second. 'I seem to be immune to alcohol recently, having left my, uh, in the last few weeks. I mean, I drink a lot, but I don't get hangovers anymore. 'I feel like an alcoholic goddess!' Abigail, did you just say that? You're a complete moron.
• 'Cheers to that,' Paulie says, downing half his glass in one gulp.
• I take a deep breath, smile, and take my next sip, consuming half of my martini. Thank you, God. Please let this end soon.