MEGAN BURCHILL QUIVERS WITH EXCITEMENT at the thought of her date with Max in less than one hour’s time. She stands in the brightly lit bathroom of her small Ealing flat applying a dangerous shade of cherry red lipstick, appropriately called Desire.
She pouts and bats her lashes at her reflection.
‘Oh, Max, you flatter me,’ she says, with a girlish giggle.
She glances at her phone sitting on top of the avocado sink.
Still no message from him.
Patience. He’ll call.
She thinks about the last time she went on a date and reckons it was fifteen or twenty years ago. She mulls it over.
Definitely fifteen.
Has it really been that long?
He had been an uncouth bricklayer with crooked teeth who, to her absolute mortification, told her that he loved ‘big girls’. The date had ended as quickly as it had started.
She feels a flush of embarrassment and looks herself up and down in the full-length mirror. In her wardrobe she’s found an old sheath dress with a zip up the front.
It fitted her once.
She sighs heavily and feels like weeping. Max will take one look at her and run. What on earth was she thinking? She stifles a sob. She can’t go through with it. She just can’t.
The dress is black and obviously slimming and if it wasn’t for her new Spanx, which squeeze her like a fist, she would not be standing in it now. To her exasperation it seems to creep above her thighs when she moves. She pulls at the hem and tugs it into place and thinks of Cassandra. Cassandra is fierce, fearless and unflappable in any situation. Megan stands upright and sniffs. Max has seen her photo. To him, she is his Cassandra. To her, he is her Max.
Her phone pings.
It’s a message from Tinder.
She opens it.
Megan giggles.
His driver!
She adds three heart kiss emojis to her message.
Two minutes pass.
Megan hurries to her bedroom and sprays Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door liberally over her neck and arms. She slips on a set of silver bangles and around her neck fixes a gold locket with a picture of her and her cat, Buster, inside.
A horn blares outside and she jumps.
Shuffling to the window she peers through the curtains at the street below. It’s dark, however she can see the glow of a mobile phone on the lap of a driver sitting inside an unfamiliar large black and expensive car.
She closes the curtains and types a message to Max.
Max sends a smiley emoji.
She gives herself a final check in the mirror, grabs her coat and bag and hurries out of the little flat.
Down on the pavement she notices the side windows of the car are tinted. Very fancy. She hears her phone ping in her bag. She bends over to passenger window and taps the glass. The window opens.
‘Hello. I do believe you are here for me. I’m Megan.’
He is wearing a dark suit and has straw-like blond hair. His face is hidden behind large mirrored sunglasses, which is odd for this time of the evening. He nods curtly and gestures to the rear of the car.
Megan sniffs. How rude.
She opens the rear door. The interior is plush with comfortable leather seats. There is a glass panel between the driver and the rear, which she is pleased about. No need to make small talk. She notices a built-in chiller with a single frosted champagne glass and a bottle of Cassandra’s favourite champagne, Veuve Clicquot, chilling inside a bucket of ice.
She suddenly feels very thirsty.
Should she help herself? She reaches forward but catches the driver watching her in the rear-view mirror, feels a flush of embarrassment and sits back looking outside to avoid his gaze. She remembers she has a new message and pulls the phone from her bag.
Megan claps her hands together. Don’t mind if I do.
The car starts up and pulls away at a steady speed. Megan feels like a celeb and wonders if any of her neighbours can see her. She hopes so. Smiling, she leans across, pours herself a glass of champagne and takes a generous sip.
‘This is the life.’
Through the tinted windows she watches the city lights fly past. She feels very relaxed and seems to sink into the soft leather seat. The lights outside blur. Her eyes feel heavy and begin to close. Perhaps a little nap would be nice. She feels the glass slip from her fingers as darkness beckons and sleep overcomes her.