Her head feels fuzzy, disoriented, like she drank too much last night, even though she only had a few gin and tonics. It’s like part of her is still there, sitting al fresco on the streets of Paris. She didn’t know she had it in her to conjure a place up so vividly. Maybe she watched a documentary on post-war Paris recently or something?
Bits of it are already fading away, the way dreams always do. But she can still hear the sound of his voice, speaking French no less – who knew her GCSE French had made such a lasting impact on her? Mrs Cullen would be so proud.
She supposes it’s just another way of her brain processing the anniversary of her sister’s death – clearly she still has issues, if she’s imagining drawing her like that. She used to do it in real life, though it started to feel sad trying to capture someone who would never show any laugh lines or signs of ageing, the things about faces she finds so fascinating in art.
But now is not the time to be thinking of any of this. Now is the time to be figuring out how to extract herself from under the heavy, hot male arm currently pinning her to the bed.
She grimaces as pieces of last night come back to her in a blur. It’s often like this, the morning after, if she ever gives way to that reckless side of her that she mostly keeps at bay. She remembers nearly getting run over, yelling at a random man – a man with blue eyes. Then seeing Mark at the bar, that wide smile he gave her as she crossed to him.
She likes that about him – his smile. He has very straight, white teeth. And last night she figured, if that wasn’t a reason to sleep with someone, what was? They’ve been skirting round the edges of it for months at work, and although she’s always used the fact that they are colleagues as a reason not to go there, that key piece of information somehow slipped her mind last night. Something she will pay for in the weeks to come, she’s sure of it.
She tries to edge out from under him, freezes when he lets out a light snore. Then blows out a breath when he doesn’t stir.
She is as quiet as she can be as she shuffles around his bedroom in the half-light, collecting her discarded clothes. His flat is bigger and more modern than hers, and is close enough to the centre that they were able to walk back together last night, neither of them questioning whether she’d go home with him, that having been decided the moment she sent the text. He’d stopped to kiss her in the street, under the glow of a street lamp. It was all very romantic, really.
Now, though, she wants out. She can feel panic spiking her system, and the last thing she wants is to have a full-blown panic attack in front of her one-night stand. And yes, okay, he’s heard about her ‘episode’ in the office, but hearing about it and seeing it are two different things. She cringes at the memory, shoves it aside and fumbles on the floor for her phone instead.
She finds it in the pocket of her jeans. Only 10 per cent battery. Lucky she knows Bath as well as she does, otherwise she’d be worried about getting home. She bites her lip as she sees two missed calls and a text from Mia, asking if she’s okay. Shit, she should have checked in. Mia will be worried, and she hates to be the cause of that. There are also three missed calls from her mum. At that, her heart clenches with something akin to dread. When she’d left, her mum had been tucked under a blanket in front of the TV, seeming settled if not exactly happy. So Lissa had done her duty, hadn’t she? She’s sure it’ll be okay. It’ll all be fine. The more you say it, the more you believe it.
The wooden floorboards creak as she pulls on her jeans. She tenses and glances at the bed. To where Mark’s eyes are opening and he is running a hand through his fair tousled hair.
‘Hey, sleepyhead.’ His voice holds that distinct early-morning rasp. She resists the urge to point out that he, in fact, is the one still sleeping.
‘Hey.’ She bends to pick up her top, slips it on, then casts her eyes around for her jacket.
Mark stretches. ‘Fancy breakfast?’
‘Ah …’ He looks up at her, then frowns, as if he’s only just noticed that she’s been trying to dress herself in the dark. She works up a smile. ‘I’d love to, but I’m meeting my dad for lunch today.’ The lie comes easily, and she has the briefest moment of guilt about it. But she can’t stay here for breakfast of all things. She can’t tell him that it feels too hot in here, despite the fact that it is, objectively speaking, a perfectly normal temperature, or that she didn’t think this through, or that she wasn’t really intending to have breakfast – or anything – with him after. And given that it’s a Sunday, and they’re employed at the same company, she can’t exactly use work as an excuse. Luckily he doesn’t know her well enough to know that seeing her dad – or her half-sister, for that matter – is a rare occurrence.
‘Oh.’ Disappointment flashes across his face. Dark brown Bambi eyes, Darcy calls them, with eyelashes longer than hers. Lissa doesn’t like being the cause of anyone’s disappointment, but in this case she can’t help it.
She hesitates, then leans down to kiss him on the cheek, trying not to breathe out because she hasn’t brushed her teeth yet. ‘Thanks for last night.’
He grins then. ‘No thanks needed.’
She slips her jacket on, hating the embarrassment of dressing in her clothes from the night before, like a big red arrow is hovering above her head telling the whole world what she’d been up to.
‘I’ll walk you out,’ Mark says, throwing the duvet off.
‘No, honestly, it’s fine, I …’ But he’s already up, and she averts her eyes even though it’s stupid given that she saw every inch of his body last night. It’s an impressive body too – all those hours he spends at the gym before work are clearly worth it.
There is a dreadful second when she thinks he’s going to walk her to his front door naked, but he grabs a dressing gown off the back of the bedroom door, fluffy and white like a hotel one.
‘Where are you meeting your dad?’ he asks as he escorts her down the corridor.
‘Oh.’ She gives what she hopes is a perfectly innocent-seeming shrug. ‘Just at his house. It’s in Frome.’
‘Nice. Well, have fun, yeah?’
She’s relieved when he unlocks the front door and holds it open for her – she can’t concentrate enough right now for the obligatory small talk, too distracted by the anxiety of what else she may have said or done last night.
Mark grabs her hand as she steps outside. ‘I had a really great time, Lissa.’
‘Me too.’ Why is her voice squeaky? Why can she not be a bloody grown-up? It was her who initiated things, for fuck’s sake.
There’s a moment where it looks like he’s going to say something more, but thankfully he seems to overcome the urge and kisses her forehead instead. ‘I’ll call you.’
That seems a bit redundant, given she’ll see him in the office tomorrow, but she manages a bright ‘Yes, okay.’ She reaches up, but then isn’t sure what to do with her hand, and ends up patting his arm like a bloody imbecile. ‘Bye, Mark.’
