‘Yes!’ she said, lowering the book slightly. ‘IamEnglish.’
‘Oh good. In which case,’ he paused and fixed his bright blue eyes on her, ‘who the fuck are you?’
‘Who the fuck amI? Who the fuck areyou?!’
The ridiculousness of the situation didn’t escape her. She was in her own home, her own room, and this stranger was sitting on her bed, playing the guitar, drinking whisky or some other spirit whose smell filled the air and asking her who she was. It was like some sort of far-fetched and less child-friendly retelling of Goldilocks. Only if she had been a bear, this guy would have been in real trouble.
All she’d wanted tonight was a nice, strong cup of tea in bed. Not a tall, rugged stranger, an unwelcome dose of burnt perfume and Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits.
It was ridiculous. It was all too ridiculous. In fact, perhaps it wasn’t happening at all? Perhaps she was having a stroke. What were you meant to do in these circumstances? Check if your face has fallen – she remembered that from a TV advert a few years back. She tested her smile, it seemed to be working. Could she touch her fingers to her nose? Worried, she moved her hand sharply and forgetting she was holding a book, hit herself in the face with the Proust.
It hurt and she let out a cry that sounded similar to the noise their family dog had made when it had injured its paw.
‘Shit, are you OK?’ The man put down his guitar and went to stand closer, peering at her face. ‘Looks like it’s bleeding.’
She dropped the book and put her hands to her face briefly, then withdrew them. He was right; her nose had started to bleed.
The man stepped farther forward, and she stepped back. ‘Don’t,’ she said, holding up her bloodied hands.
‘Sorry.’ He held both his hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘Seriously, I’m not going to hurt you.’ Then added, ‘Seems to me you’re more of a danger to yourself than anyone else.’ He picked up the box of tissues from the nightstand and held it out. ‘Here.’
She grabbed one instinctively.
‘Maybe take two, you know, in case you decide to hit yourself in the face again.’ He grinned.
Was he laughing at her? Laughing? ‘Can you just leave before I call the police?’ she managed from behind the crumpled tissue she was now holding to her nose. ‘You’re drunk. You’ve wandered into the wrong house. You don’tseemlike a burglar. And anyway, I haven’t got anything of value – unless you’re into overpriced high heels and to be honest, you’re welcome to them because they are a total mistake and I shouldn’t have wasted my money on them. But otherwise, there’s nothing… so can you just— Please. Go.’
The man looked confused. ‘This is number 12, right?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘Thought so. I think it’s you who are in the wrong place. Are you feeling OK? Your face looked kind of weird a minute ago. Like twitchy.’
‘Of course I’m twitchy! There’s a strange man in my room. And anyway, I was testing my movement in case I was having a stroke,’ she said, her voice haughty with self-righteousness.
Unless… She couldn’t have gone through the wrong front door? These houses probably looked similar inside, but still… She glanced around her room to reassure herself that she wasn’t under the influence of the cocktails Claudine had paid for (had they been stronger than she’d thought?) and wasn’t wandering into strangers’ houses herself.
But then, there was her mirror. Her hairbrush. Her jacket on the back of the chair. And she’d used her key to get in.
All she had wanted was to have a decent rest. Now she had a nosebleed and a drunken intruder. She almost felt like weeping. Then, ‘Your incense!’ she cried out suddenly, noticing the jar on her nightstand had tipped over, spilling its stinking, smoking contents onto the wood.
‘Holy moly!’
Turning and seeing the wooden surface of the nightstand smoking, the intruder grabbed the offending item, scattering burnt embers onto the carpet, the bed. One of the sparks hit the duvet and began to smoulder. He quickly grabbed a glass of water she’d half drunk last night and doused the threatening flame.
Then turned again to her. Clocking her look of horror, he made a face. ‘Whoopsie.’
This reallywasthe limit.
‘Whoopsie? WHOOPSIE? You’ve burned my bed, soaked it, ruined my nightstand, made a burn mark on the carpet. My room stinks. You’re drunk. You’re in my house. And all you can say is “whoopsie”?’
Still, the stranger looked amused rather than rattled. Perhaps it was a male privilege thing. He clearly wasn’t in any peril from her. All she’d done so far was hit herself in the face.
‘It seemed like quite a good word under the circumstances. I could have gone for “dangnabbit”, I suppose.’ He grinned. ‘Or “Holy cow”!’
And now he was joking. How was this situation funny in any way?
The unfairness of it hit her and tears of self-pity welled in her eyes. ‘All I wanted,’ she managed to sniff, ‘was a cup of tea. A cup of fucking tea.’
