A Girl Like You. Gemma Burgess

Fifth Element on his bedroom wall. He lives with his brother in a flat in Ealing, which, let me tell you, was a bitch to get home from this morning. And he likes me. Me!

      I’ve seen him three times since we met in The Pantechnicon Rooms last Friday. Three! In a week! And this morning I even felt comfortable enough to invite him to Henry’s brother’s goodbye party tonight. He has other plans, but he is going to meet me quickly beforehand. Isn’t that nice?

      ‘I feel like shopping,’ I say absently. The pancakes are all gone now, even the syrup-soaked crumbs. ‘The girls are all busy though, and I can’t shop alone with a slight hangover. I’m just a bit . . . meh.’

      Robert’s amused eyes meet mine, and he pretends to sniff the air. ‘Is that . . . apathy I smell?’

      ‘Yes!’ I exclaim, pretending to smell my wrists. ‘It smells like British trains.’

      ‘I’ll go shopping with you,’ he says.

      ‘Wowsers, that’s verbal Rohypnol,’ I say. ‘Seriously. It’s the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.’

      ‘Right then, funny girl, let’s go,’ he says, standing up.

      We head to Westbourne Grove and windowshop, spending an inordinate amount of time in Reiss – it seems to be Robert’s sartorial homeland – then eat some absolutely delectable Ottolenghi cupcakes that we nickname ‘Heaven for babies’.

      ‘Because what’s better than heaven? Heaven for babies,’ nods Robert sagely. I pause. ‘So, this is like – a dead baby cake?’

      Robert immediately spits the bit of cake in his mouth onto the ground.

      Then we walk to Portobello market. It’s October, so it’s not prime tourist time, and we don’t have to fight the crowds.

      ‘I can honestly say I will die without ever a) buying or b) wearing cowboy boots,’ I say thoughtfully as we pass a boot shop.

      ‘Gosh, you’re so interesting. Do go on,’ says Robert.

      I convince him to buy a second-hand tweed blazer with patches on the elbows.

      ‘I look like a prat,’ he murmurs under his breath, as he tries to see himself in the cracked mirror hanging on the back of the stall.

      ‘It’s ace,’ I say firmly, with all the confidence of someone who discovered how to speak style about eight days ago. ‘It works. Buy it.’

      We start walking back up Portobello Road towards Notting Hill Gate. Robert’s fielding text messages, as usual. I’ve only had one from Plum saying ‘I’m taking a vote. Dress vs sexy jeans?’ I replied ‘Dress. Obv.’ I do speak style! Even Plum trusts me.

      I smile to myself. I just remembered something about Adam: when we had that drink last Friday, he leaned in and said, ‘I don’t normally do that sort of thing . . . I just felt like I had to talk to you. I couldn’t approach your table or just send over my number. That would be weird.’

      ‘Yeah, that would be weird,’ I agreed. ‘Whereas, the check-abox note is totally normal. Predictable, even.’

      See? Me! Acting cool! And I like him. Have I mentioned that?

      The best thing about dating Adam The Tick Boxer is that it distracts me from work. The past week has been pretty ghastly: I’ve diligently obeyed the face time rule (part of the culture in my office – i.e., when your boss is in, you’re at your desk, sending emails and visibly being a hard worker. Obviously it’s bullshit as half the floor goes to the gym at 6.30 pm and comes back at 8 pm to write a few emails, eat dinner on the company and then get a taxi home on the company account, but never mind). I suggested three more reports (the luxury booze market! The luxury car market! The effect of sales on luxury stocks!) and generally, have been a good little associate. I really am trying.

      Charlotte and I have met up for coffee almost every day. She’s actually very funny, underneath the timid exterior. She spent the weekend moving out of the flat she shared with Phil and in with her brother, and seems impossibly cheerful about the whole thing. She said yesterday that every time she starts feeling sad, she just remembers all the things that she doesn’t like about him, and feels sure that breaking up was the best possible thing that could have happened to her. Isn’t that incredible?

      Still, every day this week I’ve been looking forward to the second I can leave work. I’m ignoring the fact that I shouldn’t think this way about my job, particularly not when I have a reasonably serious one that ought to take up more of my attention. I guess if I was ambitious, it would. But – and this is a newsflash, since I’ve worked 12-hours a day, every day, since the day I started – I’m starting to think that I’m not ambitious – at least, not for anything that’s on offer for me here. Which I suppose means I’ll be an associate forever.