So far, I haven’t even caught a glimpse, hence my lack of dates recently, but I know they’re out there.
At least, I hope.
Knocking back the rest of the white wine in my glass that I’ve been sipping on while I get ready, I open up my camera app, snapping a few pictures of myself.
I pick my favourite, quickly uploading it to my twenty-four-hour stories on my socials while I look and feel good.
There’s no point in pretending that tonight’sdatewith Blake isn’t the main contributing factor to how good I feel. My stomach is a bubbling pit of excitement and arousal just at the thought of seeing him again.
It’s slightly silly, I know, owing to the fact Blake clearly doesn’t want what is going on between us to go any further than a couple of months after I’ve gotten Thomas off my back. But I don’t see the point in pretending that I’m not attracted to him; that after both of our previous sex-capades I’ve sated my thirst to rip his clothes off.
Because I haven’t.
Not even a little bit.
So, I’m going to drink up every second with Blake while I can, while he lets me. Otherwise, I’ll regret not doing so.
And if that gets Thomas McAvoy off my back, too, then I’ll consider it a win-win.
I refresh my social media page, tapping on the bottom left icon when I see a certain somebody’s profile pop up.
Speaking of the devil…
Of course he would be watching.
Of fucking course.
With a huff I swipe away Thomas’ smug looking face peering out at me from his profile picture.
I swear that man is a certified stalker and a stage three clinger to boot. Either that, or he’s been sat with our co-workers, the ones who agreed to work late simply because they we’re too scared to say no to their boss’ nephew, refreshing his phone to see if I was really telling the truth about having a date in the first place.
Shoving my phone into the depths of my sequined clutch, I lock up and duck into my apartment’s elevator, jabbing my thumb into shiny silver button marked G.
Stepping out onto the ground floor, my heels click against the marble of the lobby as I cross it confidently, striding down the concrete steps and out into the city beyond.
As a little girl, I never saw myself living in London.
I was born down by the coast, where the air is forever tinged with the tang of saltwater no matter the time of year. Where the winters are brutal, the seemingly endless sea a harsh gunmetal grey, cold enough to rip your breath from your lungs. But the summers are scorching, creamy ice cream, dripping from its cone, leaving a sticky trail along the back of your hands while the blue waves lap at your toes.
As a child, I could happily watch the sea for hours – relishing in the constant ebb and flow – before I was calledback home for dinner. I never wanted to leave, wanted to bottle up the sea and the sand, the smell and the emotion it stirred deep inside me.
My mother, a school counsellor by trade, would say the fascination started because of my father; a man I hardly knew. A man I had hardly ever grieved for because I was too little to remember him, let alone his passing. But I’d heard the stories. In my mother’s mind those stories still kept him alive and well.
A brave member of the coastguard, my father had been out searching for a missing boy aged eight, when the water took him.
I had been three years old.
I’d never been told any of the more explicit details as a child, my brain not quite fully formed enough to understand or process.
But I hadn’t asked as I got older, either. I didn’t need to know.
I didn’t want to.
I felt my father’s presence most strongly when I sat by, visited, even looked at, the sea. That was enough for me.
So no, I hadn’t seen myself living in London, where the air is polluted with people and engines, the tang of saltwater only accessible in my imagination. Where the nearest sliver of sea is almost two hours away.
But, like the current of the ocean, life has a way of carrying me along whether I like it or not.
