Upstairs, Dina slowly regained consciousness. She listened for several seconds, bemused by the fact that the breathing she could hear appeared to be in stereo.
She turned her head to the left. B.J. lay with his smooth brown back to her. His dark hair stuck up at angles. Each breath he took was deep and regular, almost but not quite a snore.
Dina turned to the right. Another back, paler than the first and bonier around the shoulders. This time the hair was sandy-blond, finely textured, and floppy like a child’s.
Just to make sure, Dina levered herself up on one elbow. She peered over at the sleeping profile of Hans.
Blimey, thought Dina, don’t remember that happening. She lay back down again and tried to rack her aching brains, in case it had. But the bedroom door was wide open, and Hans—another quick check revealed—was wearing trousers. He had most likely stumbled into the room in the small hours in search of something more comfortable to sleep on than a floor.
Dina wouldn’t have minded a three-in-a-bed situation, but it would have been a shame not being able to remember it.
Reassured that she hadn’t missed anything, and dealing with her hangover in the only sensible way, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
***
Tyler was something of a connoisseur when it came to bathrooms. He didn’t know why, he certainly didn’t do it on purpose, but every time he went to a party, he woke up the next morning on the bathroom floor. Carpet if you were lucky, lino if you weren’t.
Student flats were the worst.
No, correction: all-male student flats were the worst.
But waking up in a bathroom had its advantages. You could relieve your bursting bladder, splash cold water over your face, and clean your teeth before anyone saw you and took fright. Tyler, who never went out on a Friday evening without a folding toothbrush in his back pocket, did all these things now. There, he felt better already, and the bathroom had been a positive pleasure to spend the night in. Thick carpet, he noted approvingly, a good quality bath towel that had rolled up to make a comfortable pillow, and plenty of expensive, girlie-smelling soap to wash with.
Tyler screwed the top carefully back on the toothpaste, replaced his folding toothbrush into its plastic case, and slid it into his back pocket.
Halfway along the landing on his way to the stairs he passed an open bedroom door. Inside, in a row like the three bears—except these were all in the same bed—lay B.J., Dina, and Hans.
They were all fast asleep. Hans had his arm around Dina, who in turn had her arm flung across B.J. B.J., stubbly-chinned and handsome, was snoring into his pillow like a train.
Tyler experienced a stab of envy. How did that lucky sod B.J. do it? How did chaps like him always manage to pull? Why did some blokes go through life effortlessly getting the girls while others spent their nights alone on the bathroom floor?
Still, that was B.J. for you. The man knew how to operate. Spotting a camera on the carpet beside the bed where it was likely to get trodden on, Tyler picked it up.
It was a good camera, an Olympus. Only one picture left before the film was used up. For Tyler, who was tidy by nature, it was as irresistible as the last window on an advent calendar.
He stepped back, took the photograph and rewound the film. He liked finishing things, rounding them off.
When the camera had stopped whirring he placed it on a chest of drawers where it couldn’t get stepped on and went downstairs.
In the sitting room he found Neil talking to Poppy. From behind the sofa, Ken’s feet stuck out.
‘There was me thinking I was the first one up,’ Tyler grinned at Poppy. ‘And look at you, with your face done already.’
Poppy flew to the mirror over the fireplace. She clapped her hands in despair over her aubergine lips.
‘I don’t believe this stuff,’ she wailed. ‘It’s still on.’
By Sunday night, Jake had taken fifteen calls on his mobile phone and was no longer feeling like a secret agent with a walkie-talkie. The novelty had soon worn off. He was an old hand at this now. A pro.
The phone calls had been a letdown though. Mostly they had come from men claiming to be Tom.
‘Yeah, mate, that’s me. Met this bird down the disco, like your advert said. What’s her name? Poppy, yeah… right, so I’m phoning you up, like you said. What do I get, like, a reward or something?’
Some made a better job of it than others, but all Jake needed to do was ask what color Poppy’s hair had been to prove they weren’t the Tom he was looking for. ‘Blonde,’ most replied. ‘Brown,’ said two. ‘She was so beautiful I didn’t notice,’ claimed one gallant soul.
‘Okay.’ Jake gave him another chance, chiefly to relieve the boredom. ‘How did the two of you meet?’
‘We were standing next to each other at the bar. I tipped out a handful of ice cubes and crushed them with my bare fist. I turned to her and said, “Now that we’ve broken the ice…”’
None of them had been the right Tom. Jake was far more disappointed than he had imagined and impatient to try again. He began to compile a new list. Plan B. The same ad, but this time all the papers.
He wasn’t going to give up now.
Dina was smitten with B.J.
‘Should you be doing this?’ asked Poppy, as Dina punched out his number for the umpteenth time on Sunday afternoon.
‘Of course I should.’
Poppy was beginning to feel like an old record.
‘But what about Ben and Daniel?’
Dina heaved an impatient sigh. ‘That’s different. They’re in Bristol, I’m here. Look,’ she struggled to explain, ‘B.J. and I just clicked. Really, we clicked. What happened on Friday wasn’t a one night stand. There was more to it than that—Oh hi! Is B.J. there?’
He wasn’t. Dina left yet another message for him to call her as soon as he got in, even though she had to leave in less than two hours.
‘That was his flatmate again,’ she said casually when the message had been relayed.
‘Has it crossed your mind,’ Poppy was exasperated, ‘that he might be avoiding you?’
‘I’ve already said, haven’t I? It wasn’t like that with us.’
Back in Bristol on Monday afternoon, Dina was unbelievably restless. She was twitchy, too hyped up to relax. Poppy, who had promised to phone as soon as B.J. got in touch, wouldn’t even be home from work before six.
But it was only three o’clock now and Dina was beginning to wonder how she was going to last. Margaret McBride had already popped-round-for-coffee and proceeded to deliver a pointed lecture on young women who don’t know when they’re well off. Dina, bored rigid by her mother-in-law’s barbed comments about duties and responsibilities and the importance of the family—very EastEnders—hadn’t been able to get rid of her fast enough.
Daniel, who was teething, had hardly stopped screaming all day, getting right on her nerves.
Ben had too. Placid, easy-going Ben. All he had said to Dina about her weekend away was, ‘So long as you had a good time, love. That’s all that matters.’
Dina wondered what she had to do to get a reaction out of Ben these days. If she told him what had actually happened to her in London on Friday night, would he even care?
By five o’clock, like a junkie no longer able to hold out for a fix, she fell on the phone and dialed B.J.’s number.
As it rang, Dina felt the fix begin to take effect. Even if he wasn’t there, it didn’t matter; she felt better already, just knowing she had made the phone ring in his flat.
On the fifth ring, magically, the call was answered. Thrilled, Dina felt her heart leap into her throat. Adrenaline hurtled through her body. Her hands were all slippery with sweat.
She opened her mouth to say, ‘Hi, it’s me!’
But the voice at the other end continued. The laid-back drawl belonged to B.J. but his message was being relayed via an answering machine. Swallowing disappointment, Dina listened.
‘…afraid neither B.J. nor Adam are able to take your call right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, feel free after the tone…’
Right, thought Dina, her eyes bright and her pulse racing, that’s what I’ll do. Just leave a friendly message reminding him he hasn’t called me back—
‘…unless, that is, you’re the slag from Friday night,’ B.J.’s voice went on, evidently amused. ‘Nina or Dina or whatever your name is. The little tart, anyway, who keeps pestering me to phone her. If that’s you, we’d much prefer you to hang up now. And please don’t bother calling this number again.’
Ben, home early from work, came in through the kitchen door and found Daniel alone, strapped into his stroller. He unbuckled him and lifted him out, throwing his son up into the air to make him giggle and swooping him from side to side like an aeroplane. Then, with his elbow, he nudged open the door separating the kitchen from the hallway and aeroplaned Daniel all the way through to the living room.
He found Dina sitting bolt upright on the sofa with tears streaming down her face. She was clutching the phone.
‘What is it, is someone ill? Is someone dead? Oh my God, not Mum—’
‘Nobody’s dead.’
Dina wiped her wet face on her sleeve. She hadn’t heard Ben arrive home. Damn and blast… that bastard B.J.
‘So why are you crying?’
I don’t know, I can’t think of a good reason, Dina thought wearily. She didn’t know if she could even be bothered to come up with one.
Ben, still holding Daniel, stared down at her. ‘Tell me why.’
‘Bloody double-glazing people.’ She found a tissue up her sleeve, the one she’d used earlier to wipe puréed rusk off Daniel’s face. ‘Five calls in the last hour, from different firms, all trying to sell me bloody windows.’ Dina mopped at her eyes with the baby formula–encrusted tissue. ‘I’m sorry, it just gets me down.’
‘Oh, love.’
Ben put Daniel down on the floor and placed an awkward arm around his wife. ‘You can’t let double-glazing salesmen reduce you to this. Maybe you should see the doctor. You could be depressed.’
I am, I’m bloody depressed, thought Dina, beginning to howl again.