A Girl Like You. Gemma Burgess

I’ll be home at 6.30 am, will you be there?’

      ‘Yep. I’ll make us breakfast,’ I say. Yay! I hate eating breakfast alone. I get up and put my coat on.

      ‘Don’t all your tips kind of defeat the point of dating?’ I wonder aloud as we walk towards the door. ‘You know, to get to know each other and see if you like each other?’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ he replies. ‘The point is to have fun.’

      All the way home, this thought plays over and over in my head. Dating is supposed to be fun?

       Chapter Seven

      ‘Appetite for Western brands is undiminished, and contrary to early-recession reports, China’s millionaires were largely unscathed by the global downturn. The overall economy and the diversification of wealth will continue to grow—’

      I clear my throat. I loathe presenting. Whenever I stand up in front of all these men (and yep, apart from me, today they are all men) I think ‘firing squad’.

      I actually find the subject – luxury in China – fascinating. Through this project, and others like it, I’ve learnt all about the political and economic history of China, particularly the cultural changes of the last 20 years, and what companies are succeeding (or failing) and why. But it’s just another report to them. They’ll go and buy and sell shares and make recommendations based on it, and make or lose money. And then I’ll come back in a few weeks and do it again about something else. It is never-ending.

      I start talking about the new generation of millionaires in China, the people that the luxury brands need to be aiming for. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the traders, a young American jock-type, send a text. The other takes out his phone, looks at it, glances quickly at me and grins. I start stammering ‘Um, ah, ummm . . .’ for a few seconds before I find my place in my notes again. Stay in control, Abigail. In. Control.

      Finally, it’s question time. One of the senior traders asks about LVMH, and I talk for a few minutes about numbers and expectations. ‘Louis Vuitton, the company’s fashion and high-end leather goods brand,’ (out of the corner of my eye, I see the same trader make a tiny whip-cracking motion to his friend, and they both stifle grins), ‘is leading the growth. This year alone they’re opening new stores in Beijing, Shanghai, Guangdong, Chengdu, Wenzhou and Beihai. Exactly where the millionaires are.’

      Flushing with relief to have it over and done with, I look up the table to the whip-cracking guy. I’ve seen him before. He catches my eye and grins. I ignore him.

      As we’re walking out of the room, I feel a tug on my hair and turn around. It’s the trader.

      ‘I just wanted to follow up on the leather and saddlery division of Louis Vuitton,’ he says, grinning. ‘So, demand for bridles and whips are up?’ I hear the traders behind him explode with stifled laughter.

      All of a sudden, I don’t feel intimidated. Just irritated.

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But if you’re looking for something kinky, try Ann Summers. It’s more your league.’

      What a fucknuckle. At least I got through my presentation with only one mistake, I reflect, as I get in the lift. Today seemed easier than usual . . . a knock-on effect of the fake-it-till-you-feel-it I’m-so-confident attitude, I guess. Thanks, Robert.

      When I get back to my desk, Alistair is comforting Charlotte. She’s – what? – crying.

      ‘Are you OK?’ I ask, slightly redundantly.

      She looks up, her face swollen and pink, hiccuping with sobs. Gosh. She’s never shown any emotion, in all the time I’ve known her.

      ‘Abigail, thank God you’re back,’ says Alistair, relieved.

      ‘Let’s get a coffee,’ I say. There is nothing worse than being upset in our office. People can smell the scandal, and walk past super-slowly to get a good look.

      Charlotte nods and gets up to put on her poncho.

      ‘I need to talk to you today, too,’ says Alistair, as we go.

      ‘Yep, no problem,’ I say. ‘Everything OK?’

      ‘Yes, m’lady,’ he says, grinning and spinning in his chair. ‘Very much so.’

      We walk to a tiny Italian coffee shop that I’m pretty sure has been here since the 1950s. One guy to make coffee, one guy to make sandwiches, and a linoleum counter at the window to sit and watch people go past. It makes me happy, somehow, to be here where they’ve been serving coffee for 60 years, rather than at a big Pret-A-Costabucks chain. And the coffee is amazing.

      I order for us, and sit down. Charlotte hasn’t spoken a word. She has been crying so hard, and so silently, that she’s having trouble breathing.

      ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ I say.

      Charlotte starts to hiccup out the words: ‘Last night—’

      ‘Deep breaths,’ I say. ‘Just relax. Everything will be fine.’ Wow, cliché after cliché from me.

      ‘My boyfriend Phil broke up with me last night,’ she finally says.

      ‘Shit,’ I say, and without thinking about it, reach forward and give her a hug. I don’t think I’ve spontaneously hugged anyone except my family or very closest friends, possibly ever. It’s nice.

      Charlotte starts to cry again and a large gob of spittle swings out of her mouth and splats on my trousers. Ew.

      Over the next half an hour, between semi-hysterical tears from her and gentle questions punctuated with reminders to breathe from me, it emerges that after nine years together – from the age of 17 to 26 – she’s been with the same guy. And he’s just broken up with her, saying ‘I love you, but not enough’.

      ‘I don’t know what . . . to do, I don’t know what to do,’ she says, when she’s calmed down and cried out. ‘All through school and university and work, we were together, our parents play bridge, we were saving to buy a house, we share a car, we had a 10-year-plan that was going to end next year with us getting eng – eng – eng . . .’

      ‘Engaged?’ I suggest.

      ‘We have a budgie,’ she says, crying even harder. ‘My mother is so upset, I told her last night and she hung up on me, she’s already bought her outfit for the wedding—’

      ‘Shh,’ I say, stroking her shoulder in an – I hope – comforting way. This is so different to my break-up. I cried, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I think Peter did too. In fact, the only person who got really hysterical was his brother Joe. He came over as I was moving out of the house and called me a ‘stupid bitch’. God, that was a horrible day, I feel sick about it even now. Oh dear, must think about Charlotte.

      ‘Breaking up is awful,’ I say unoriginally.

      ‘I’ve never broken up! I’ve only ever had Phil!’ she says.

      ‘Do you have a friend you can stay with? Brother? Sister? Parents?’ I know nothing about her, I realise. I’ve simply never asked.

      ‘My parents – no, no way. But my brother lives in Stoke Newington,’ she says. ‘N16,’ she adds helpfully.

      After she’s called her brother, cried some more, established that she can stay in his spare room, and had another coffee, it’s past 9 am.

      ‘I feel much better,’ she says. ‘Thank you so much, Abigail.’

      ‘You know, I broke up with someone in July,’ I say. ‘After seven years together. It’s awful, it really is horrible. But you’ll get through it. You will.’

      ‘Really?’ she says, turning her pale, reddened eyes on me.

      ‘Yes,’ I say, wondering if now would be an appropriate