New job? Or make current one better?
New clothes—ASAP
Hair, possibly face. Look into some mild cosmetic interventions?
Upgrade flat, or at least have cracks in ceiling filled.
Get back into film somehow?
Learn classical music (basics only, no need to go nuts)
I look down at my list. That will do. And by the end of the summer—or in precisely eleven weeks and five days—I will be done. It’s a makeover. A renovation. A restoration, even.
And then, when fate delivers Joe to me, I’ll be ready. I bite my lip. I know I’m getting ahead of myself again, but I cannot help it. I take a deep, soothing breath and for the first time in a long time I feel something: the magic and sparkle that comes from hope. It’s positively intoxicating. I close my eyes and soak in it.
6
I am jolted awakefrom a mildly exciting sex dream, which includes Joe, Ryan, and for some reason Gerry, by what sounds like concrete drilling, stopping and starting with anxiety-inducing irregularity. I sit up in bed, disorientated, trying to make sense of the noise. My phone is lying on the bed next to me. I fell asleep googling Joe again. I’d done it all week.
For a brief moment I remember a warm rush of intoxicating thrill, but then the almighty whirring starts again. It’s the flatmate. In the kitchen. The entry into my life is now not just his size and his presence but also his noise.
I jump out of bed and take the four steps from my door to the kitchen and stare at him standing there in only some white underpants.
“I’m inNotting Hillalready,” I mutter as he feeds an enormous juicer with carrots, one at a time, staring intently. The clear difference between Ash and Hugh Grant’s skinny, terminallyunderdressed flatmate, though, is that Ash is built. I mean really built. Broad across the chest, thick thighs, and hard stomach that hints at a six-pack, if he were to flex. I kind of want him to flex, if I’m honest.
“Oh shit!” he shouts as he sees me. Then, realizing he has nowhere to hide, he tries to cover his pants with his crossed arms while holding an insanely large carrot. “I thought you were at work.”
“Right. No. It’s Saturday.” I smirk but feel the heat in my cheeks as I try not to look at the porn carrot, held tight in one fist, pointing upward.
“Yes. Sorry,” he replies, glancing down at himself and looking mortified but unable to really move. “Excellent fucking work, Ash,” he mutters to himself.
A laugh—it’s like a large honk and snort combination that escapes my mouth—and I slink quickly away and back into my room.
“Won’t happen again, Mara!” I hear him shout from the room as I close my door.
I jump back into bed and reopen Instagram.
