Annie Flatmate-26 Sep 10:38
Won’t be back till 5 x
26 Sep 10:38-Me
That’s fine. Can you pick it up anyway? x
Annie Flatmate-26 Sep 10:38
Yeah sure x
I turn it back to Marty.
Marty-26 Sep 10:38
You can buy me ice cream whenever
Marty-26 Sep 10:38
Jack only turns 30 once
26 Sep 10:39-Me
Can’t believe you’re picking Jack over Ellie
26 Sep 10:39-Me
What does Jack have that Ellie doesn’t?
Marty-26 Sep 10:39
Fit friends
Marty-26 Sep 10:39
If you’re out later drop me a line. We’re heading to Brixton x
26 Sep 10:39-Me
Whatever loser x
I switch off texts and look at my cup of tea. There’s still a small amount lingering in the bottom of the mug. I swirl it around, biding my time.
I look up to my laptop screen. It’s gone into sleep mode. I flicker on the trackpad and watch the blank Word document light back up, mocking me in its starkness. I still have one sip left, I reason, clicking on Mirror Mirror one more time.
I switch to Mystery Man.
Bella Marble
Marty?
It’s not actually Marty. Marty’s not clever enough for this kind of stunt. I’ve seen some of the texts he sends girls and they aren’t this thought out. Normally it’s just:
What do you do?
I’m a vet.
Okay, I’m coming over now.
Still, Marty’s another boy’s name—albeit a bit of a stupid one.
Mystery Man
Keep going
Bella Marble
This is going to be a very long game
Mystery Man
The best things in life are worth waiting for
I switch off Mirror Mirror, drain the last of my tea, and sit up straight, bringing my laptop just a little closer.
Maybe you’re right, Mystery Man. Or maybe you’re a strange creep whom I should stay well clear of.
Either way, now I should definitely start actually writing something.
Except, here’s the age-old problem: what on earth should I write?
13
I wake up and I’m a bit confused.
I’m not confused that I fell asleep. I sort of saw that as inevitable as soon as I lay my head down on the pillow but I’m confused that it’s so dark outside. I check my watch: 7 p.m.
It’s 7 p.m.? How on earth is it 7 p.m.? I’m also confused that my room’s not that tidy. I spent over an hour trying to sift through the piles of mess once I decided that I’d work better knowing all my chores were completed, but it looks like it barely made a dent in the chaos. The nap was a by-product of the exertion given to the cleaning, but the reward seems pretty disproportionate to the success of the task.
I check my phone again to be sure, also a little disappointed that I’ve been napping for the last eight hours and in that time I received absolutely no notifications. Not even from my mum.
By the time I have a shower and get myself into clean clothes, carefully draping the red hoodie over my closet door, I can already hear the rumble of voices stirring in the kitchen.
Annie’s big on presentation. She only got back at 5 p.m. and yet she’s dressed to the nines in a beautifully fitted cream playsuit and the kitchen somehow looks like a dining room fit for kings. Candles are lit, the smell of warm homemade food is bubbling away on the hobs, and someone’s got a playlist on the go of aughts tracks that hits the right spot.
“Waaay!” I cry out, swinging my hips like a Hula-Hoop as the words tumble out my mouth as naturally as Milkybar Buttons usually roll into it: “I got a feeling. That tonight’s gonna be a good night. That tonight’s gonna be a good night. That tonight’s gonna be a good, good night.”
“Let the party begin!” Simon laughs from the kitchen table.
“Oi, oi!”
As I turn around Simon’s already cracking open a bottle of wine and I’m quick to get my favorite mug ready for it. His blond hair is still windswept from his day’s strenuous activities but his small circular eyes hidden under dramatically large lenses still look just as doe-like and innocent as they always do. His usual jumper and jean “straight-out-of-a-preppy-handbook” look has been exchanged for an equally smart shirt-and-chino combo for the occasion, putting my little black dress (six years old and it definitely shows) to shame.
“Sim-oné, my love. How was the gig?” I ask him coyly.
“Better than expected.”
“I’d say. You slept with the most beautiful man in the world last night.” I lean in, ready for the gossip.
“I’ll take it,” a beautiful Spanish accent replies. There in the doorway is the intoxicatingly handsome and now fully clothed man from the night before. In the fresh light of (midevening) day he’s all dark tan and beach hair like a new and improved James Dean. His tight leather trousers outline clearly to everyone what I saw last night and I try my hardest to stop my eyes from glancing directly down at his crotch. He holds out his hand with the confidence of a TV hero and as I take it I feel my knees weaken.
“Diego,” he says. Honestly, I didn’t think I had a thing for a Spanish accent but Diego makes it sound like butter melting off his tongue. I want to lap it up like a kitten.
“And did you also like the band, Diego?” I ask, hoping I sound cool and calm but knowing I sound like an annoyingly excitable squirrel.
“He is the band,” Simon says proudly, smiling up at Diego with knowing eyes.
Oh, of course he is. Of course this beautiful Spanish man is a rock star by trade. Look at his hair for Christ’s sake, it looks like threads of pure silk. He’s wearing a jock’s sweatshirt with an AllSaints logo that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe is worth. One whole year of nothing and Simon finally struck gold.
“How did the writing go?” asks Ellie, wandering in from behind them. Her long blond hair is puffed up, probably as a by-product of the fabulous volume-enhancing powers of my Aussie shampoo she nicked. I still don’t say anything. Neither do I say anything about the green-and-blue floral dress she’s wearing that definitely lived in my wardrobe for the last few years that she must have helped herself to—although that’s more because I can’t remember if I stole it from her to begin with.
“It’s getting there,” I reply quickly. “Ellie, have you met Diego? Diego’s in a band.”
“Diego is the band,” Simon corrects.
“Diego’s been helping me carry boxes all afternoon,” Ellie tells me. She turns to Diego and, actually looking totally fine with being in his hypnotic presence, squeezes his arm like an old friend. “Thanks again. Having the extra pair of hands around was a godsend!”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” I ask, mildly annoyed that I wasn’t the first choice.
“I didn’t want to disturb your writing!” Ellie replies, looking worried at the whole idea of it.
My writing. Of which I have nothing to actually show.
I swallow, nodding acceptance of this very considerate excuse and swiftly trying to get off the subject.