part0018

I throw my arm over my eyes as I ease myself back onto the bed. I’m reaching for the blurry, ethereal strands of last night that float around my mind like clouds in a still sky. I need to fuse those strands together to make one coherent timeline because certain things aren’t really making sense now. Like the fact I’m fully dressed. I’m in bed with a man and I’m fully dressed, right down to my odd socks and multiple bangles.

Last night … Last night was my leaving do.

Last night … We went to Read My Lips, the hottest new bar in Brighton.

Last night … Mr W made a passive-aggressive speech. I went to the bar. I got the ‘He needs to see you’ text.

Last night … I talked to a man and bought him tequila.

Last night … I think I came home with the man I drank tequila with.

This morning … I’ve woken up next to the man I think I drank tequila with – fully clothed.

‘Was that your husband, boyfriend or girlfriend calling to find out why you didn’t come home?’ The man – whose name I’m desperately trying to remember – asks now the room is silent.

‘None of the above,’ I reply.

‘It was my sister,’ I say to him. ‘She calls me at five seventeen every Saturday morning for a chat.’

What is his name? His voice is sounding familiar, so I think it is him from the bar, but his name is drawing a complete blank.

‘Why?’ he asks, clearly not believing me.

‘All sisters call at that time on a Saturday morning,’ I reply.

‘Mine doesn’t.’

‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one?’

‘And aren’t you just the most darling ray of sunshine?’ he says.

‘There’s no sunshine when I hurt this badly.’

‘Poor you,’ he coos. ‘Imagine how you’re going to feel when the effects of room service booze kick in.’

Oh God . Last night … I threw myself on this bed, picked up the telephone and in an ultra-posh voice ordered a bottle of tequila and ‘your very finest champagne ’.

‘I’ll pay for it,’ I say with a groan.

‘Uh-huh,’ he replies.

Even though I can’t remember his name, I’m forced to look at him then, to underline what I am saying by making eye contact. I can’t speak for a moment because he’s gorgeous. He’s propped up on two white pillows facing me, and he’s divine. The set of his features, the slice of his cheekbones, the gentle slope of his brow, the curve of his chin, the bow of his lips, the smooth, hairless lines of his head, the eyebrow-free openness of his face, the eyelash-less emphasis of his gaze, work together to make him simply beautiful.

His name is Zach and last night I kissed him in the bar. When Mr Whitby had departed, when other people had left and we’d had three more shots in quick succession, I leant across and kissed him. He’d kissed me back, our lips tingly with lime and salt and long notes of tequila as they moved together. Kissing Zach made the tequila more potent; it swirled in my bloodstream, twirled in my head. With every shot, chased down with a long kiss, things seemed a little better. I forgot about the sheer terror of what I was undertaking in the coming year, I shrugged off the worry of how what I was doing would reverberate through my family, and I managed to shove the ‘He needs to see you’ text message to the back of my mind.

Zach had told me he’d moved to Brighton that day for work and hadn’t sorted somewhere to live yet so was staying in a hotel. I’d asked him if his room was nice, and he’d said he’d show me if I wanted. I did want. And I had obviously made liberal use of his room service menu.

‘I will pay for it,’ I say, about the tequila and champagne.

‘OK,’ he says, still looking sceptical. ‘Fine. Whatever.’

We stare warily at each other for a few seconds. His lack of facial hair, I realise, makes him seem completely open, since he doesn’t get to hide behind the expressions that are emphasised and nuanced by eyebrows and eyelashes. I haven’t met many men who are completely hairless, but to be fair, I haven’t met many men who are as good-looking as him, either.

‘Did we … you know … do it ?’ I ask, because I’m still intrigued about why I have my clothes on.

‘We did not,’ Zach states.

I’m surprised because of the kissing. In the bar, where neither of us cared who saw us. In the lift, where we missed his floor more than once. Even on this bed … The kissing seemed to be a promise of lots of … you know … doing it . ‘Any particular reason why we didn’t?’ I ask.

‘You were very drunk. I don’t have sex with drunk women.’

‘OK. Good policy. But I should point out that I don’t usually get that drunk.’

‘I’m glad to hear that you don’t usually get that drunk,’ Zach replies flippantly.

‘You don’t sound very glad,’ I say.

The world swims in front of my eyes suddenly. I’m going to pass out. Or vomit. Or both . I have to slam both hands flat on the bed to steady myself. As I do so my bangles and bracelets come together and sound again like a loud crash of cymbals rather than the tinkle of metal on plastic on metal.

‘You make a lot of noise with those bangles,’ Zach comments.

‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

‘If you were ever in a life-threatening situation where you had to hide, I wouldn’t think much of your chances.’

‘Well, thankfully, I’ve never been in such a situation, and hopefully I will never find myself in one.’

‘Yeah. Thankfully.’

I crank my head round to look at him askance. ‘Seriously? Seriously? We were that off our heads we thought going to bed together was a good idea?’

With a small shrug he replies: ‘I guess I must have been drunker than I thought.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I agree with you – you and me without booze doesn’t seem to be the best idea.’

‘Yeah, well, it sounded like you were saying you wouldn’t have looked twice at me unless you were drunk.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of saying something like that.’

‘Watch it, you, or I’ll … “room service” you again … but this time I won’t pay for it .’

A smile nudges at his lips and he turns his head away before it becomes a real grin. ‘All right, all right, truce?’ he says.

‘Truce,’ I reply grudgingly.

‘Now we’ve cleared that up, you fancy sex?’

‘Hell no!’ I shudder at the thought of it. I have morning breath and hangover hair, plus neither of us has exactly covered ourselves in glory in these last few minutes.

‘Fair enough,’ he says with a shrug.

Oh. Now that I’ve turned him down for sex, does that mean I have to leave? Because I don’t think my legs will work if I try to use them now. Actually, I don’t think I can move very far without chucking up . ‘Erm, you know how we’re not going to have sex?’ I begin.

‘Yes?’ he replies.

‘I was wondering, kind of hoping, actually, that I could go back to sleep? Here? I know it’s a bit cheeky – well, a lot cheeky – and I know the last few minutes haven’t been the most fun of your life, but I am so very tired I have to swallow my pride and ask you, beg you, if necessary, to let me catch a couple of hours of sleep. I promise I’ll be no trouble, I’ll just close my eyes and go to sleep. I’ll even take off my bangles so as not to disturb you.’

He is silent for a few seconds. His eyes roam over my face like curious fingers learning and mapping out my features. ‘All right. Fine. Go to sleep. But only if you don’t plan on staying all day when you wake up.’

Charming . ‘As soon as I wake up, I will leave. I’m already dressed so I won’t even need to go near the shower. I can walk straight out of here and right out of your life.’

‘Eurgh! You’ve got to use the shower. What sort of filthiness is that?’

‘I was just trying to make sure we keep this as short as humanly possible.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s short and then there’s filthiness. You have to have a shower before you go. In fact, I insist on it. Don’t commit a crime against your fellow travellers by being that commuter.’

‘I’m not going to commute anywhere – I live in Brighton, remember?’

‘Fair enough. But you still need a shower.’

‘All right – shower, dressed again, outta here.’

I chance a glance in his direction to find him staring me, a small smile on his face – he was smiling at me like that at the bar, just before I spoke to him, I remember that.

His smile makes me beam at him. More and more of our time together last night is seeping in now: the firmness of his body against mine, the way his hand felt resting in the small of my back, the soft sigh of wanting more and more of his kisses.