Gemma Burgess - A Girl Like You

‘Are you up for lunch later?’ says Alistair, shooting across from his desk to mine on his chair.

I frown at him. This is the third time he’s asked me out to lunch in the past fortnight. I’m usually too busy, but today is pretty quiet.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Charlotte?’

I don’t know why I’m asking, she never leaves the office at lunch. As expected, Charlotte declines.

‘So, why have you been dying to eat lunch with me?’ I ask, once we’re seated at the sushi bar around the corner, and I’ve done my usual wasabi-soy mixing routine.

‘Can’t a man want to break bread – sorry, raw fish – with his line manager without attracting suspicion?’ says Alistair, copying me.

I glance at him and arch an eyebrow.

‘I don’t want to be an analyst anymore,’ he says in return.

I’ve just put a huge piece of maki roll in my mouth so I chew it slowly, whilst nodding and making eye contact, trying to think of what to say next. Halfway through chewing, my tongue discovers a large gob of wasabi that I didn’t stir into the soy sauce properly, and tears immediately spurt from my eyes.

‘You don’t have to cry about it,’ says Alistair.

‘Water,’ I whisper, grabbing the shiny, utterly non-absorbent napkin in front of me and holding it to my cheeks. Darn, now I’ll have streaks through my makeup. ‘Well. That is a big decision. What do you want to do instead?’ I say eventually. I sound like my mum. Again.

‘I want to sit on a trading desk,’ he says firmly.

‘Sheesh, why?’ I exclaim. The trading floor is the Wild West of the office. They’re almost always entirely male, and pungent with the sharp smell of testosterone and competition. Alistair is far too silly and funny to be a trader. And he doesn’t have the killer instinct.

‘Don’t you ever get tired of setting up huge kills and never being part of the bloodshed?’ he replies. Perhaps he does have that instinct.

‘When you put it like that . . . no,’ I say.

‘You love research, huh?’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Well, I want more . . . more excitement. And more money.’

‘You can’t just decide to be a trader, you know. You’re only one year out of university.’

‘People do make the jump, though,’ he says insistently.

‘Why don’t I do some research to help you make sure it’s what you want?’

‘Anything you can do to help would be great, lovely Abigail. I’m bored.’

We both go back to dipping and mixing and chewing. I am flushed with pleasure that he called me lovely Abigail. It’s harmless flirting, but hardly anyone has flirted with me, harmlessly or not, in years.

‘You know, I get bored sometimes, too,’ I admit. ‘And I wonder if I’m in the right job. But I think that happens to everyone. I mean, work is work.’

Alistair frowns. ‘Work is life . . . Don’t you want to spend your life doing something you love? What would you do, if you could do anything at all?’

I gaze at him, speechless.

‘I mean, what do you want?’ he adds. ‘What do you want your life to be like?’

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My mind is empty. What do I want? What kind of a question is that?

‘I don’t . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t . . .’ I don’t seem to have any words in my head at all.

‘Until you do, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Alistair says, grinning at me.

My sentiments exactly.

When we get back from lunch, I sit down at my desk, and stare at the screen for a second as I try to push out all the disquieting thoughts from my head. But I can’t. Alistair is 23, and knows exactly who he is and what he wants. I’m 27 and three quarters, and I haven’t got a clue.

Chapter Four Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eight Chapter Thirty Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty One Chapter Forty Two Chapter Forty Three Chapter Forty Four Chapter Forty Five Chapter Forty Six Chapter Forty Seven Chapter Forty Eight Chapter Forty Nine The Rules of Surviving Singledom Acknowledgement Part One: Changing How You Think The Dating Detox: A Sneak Peek. About the Author By the same Author About the Publisher

You know what bites about singledom?

No, not the lack of sex and/or cuddling. Though a little bit of sex would not go astray right now. In fact, for a month after the break-up, sex was practically all I could think about, isn’t that weird? Where was I? Oh yeah. Singledom.

I miss not having anyone to chat to about things. No one to nod when I make comments about an inane TV show, or share a new song with, or to make porridge for on a chilly morning. I’m so used to having someone around that sometimes I come out of the shower and say, ‘Can you remind me to get more razors?’ before I remember there’s no one there. Companionship, in other words.

I’m finding that social butterflying is the best way to fill the companionship void, so I try to make sure I’m almost never alone. At least once a weekend, I meet one or all of the girls to go ‘shopping’, a catch-all phrase that covers fashion, coffee, gossip, errands, people-watching, and sharing cupcakes or other baked goods as, of course, calories shared don’t count (like calories consumed standing up, drunk or on an airplane).

Today is an important day: my best friend, Plum and my sister Sophie, are helping me refresh my singledom wardrobe and teaching me to speak style.

I’m trying on a trench coat in Whistles, and Plum is telling us a story about her colleague.

‘And then Georgina is like, since the little fucknuckle hasn’t rung her, she’s going to organise a party just so she can invite him. I have to say, I admire her balls.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, exchanging a glance with Sophie. All of Plum’s non-fashion conversation so far has, as usual of late, centred on men. Men she knows, men she likes, men other women know and like.

Plum walks over. ‘Push the sleeves up,’ she instructs me, undoing the belt and tying it in a half-bow-knot instead. ‘Pop the collar. Never wear a trench the old-fashioned way. This isn’t Waterloo fucking Bridge.’

I nod obediently, exchanging a grin with Sophie. Plum has a bossy-but-charming manner that you could put down to her Yorkshire roots, five years working with posh girls in PR or growing up with four younger brothers. We met at university when she borrowed my French notes, and became best friends when she began dating one of Peter’s friends. That didn’t last, but our friendship did. She was the centre of a much wider group while I was in a relationship with Peter and didn’t really get to know many people . . . I wonder if that’s why I get so socially nervous sometimes. Hmm.

Plum has always been sunnier and more easygoing than me, though the recent months – or is it years? – of man troubles are getting her down. She’s also very pretty, with a smile so perfect, it’s almost American. I’ve had braces twice and my teeth still retain a certain kookiness.

‘Anyway,’ she continues airily, backcombing her light brown hair with her fingers and pouting in the mirror. ‘I told her that was silly. I mean, maybe he lost his phone. Or maybe he saved her number incorrectly. A hundred things could prevent him from calling her. That’s what I always tell myself when I’m in that situation.’