CHAPTER TEN
Mercifully,Ben had left for work by the time I woke up this morning. I burrowed under the duvet with a hangover and the vaguest memory of an uncomfortable scene last night. It’s all a bit blurry. On the plus side, Arnie of Pie with The IT Guy fame has messaged to say that he’d be happy to help me set up a website so at least something is going in the right direction. On the downside, it’s been twenty-three hours and thirty-two minutes (not that I’m counting) since I left Violet in Italy and Istillhaven’t heard from her. I’m bricking it. What if she sacks me? I’ve come back to mine to spend the morning searching for jobs in my field and absolutely all of them require some hot damn qualifications. I’m basically screwed. To make things worse, I’ve decided to kick myself when I’m down, padding over to the wonky bookshelf in the corner of my living room and pulling out a dusty old photographybook. It’s the one Dad and I would pore over for inspiration for my art projects at school. Automatically, my fingers turn to the message he wrote written inside the front cover.
‘Reach for the stars, my snap happy girl.’
Sadness sears through me and I snap the book shut, grateful for the distraction of my phone beeping right on cue. Please let it be Violet! Much better to have a job in photography working for a complete arse than no job at all, surely.
Sorry I wasn’t around this morning, early meetings. You okay?
Ben. My thumbs wiggle around as I try to think up a response.
So. . . last night was a bit weird.He adds.Sorry. Hope I didn’t creep you out. Can we just put it down to being super drunk?
Definitely SUPER DRUNK,I tap back, happy to knock whatever this is on the head.Don’t worry, you’re always creepy, it’s just your thing.I add a smiley face for good measure.
Today is the first week day I’ve had nothing to do in forever. I’ve shampooedand conditionedmy hair. I’ve saved all of my latest photos to hard drive and cleared two memory cards. I’ve eaten a bowl or two of Coco Pops. I’ve emptied my suitcase and put a wash on. I’m about to find out what daytime guff my TV has to offer when I spot my passport holder on the floor next to a pile of other travel crap. Phone charger, stolen Nutella pots, that kind of thing. I grab it, pull the folded-up piece of paper from inside and re-read ‘my type on paper’. Three dates in and I’m definitely no closer to finding The One. Maybe that article was a load of BS after all.
My intercom buzzes and I run down the stairs to open the main door into my block of flats, where the postman hands me a long white box. Underneath folds of delicate tissuepaper, pretty cream flowers nestle next to sprigs of foliage. I feel like a kid at Christmas as I unwrap the blooms and cast about for a vase to put them in, carefully tipping out the flower food before adding water. Finally I open up the tiny envelope and read the message inside.
I’ll miss you this week! But while I’m away, I just wanted you to know that I’m super proud of you. I believe in you, boo! Now go get your date on.
xx Mila xx
Gulp. She is so incredibly thoughtful and, not for the first time, I find myself wondering how the heck I managed to bag such a supportive best mate. It’s like she could sense that I was wavering and got these flowers delivered right in the nick of time. I’m wondering if Mila has actual super powers as I pull a light jumper over today’s t-shirt, take a final glance at ‘my type on paper’ before popping it back into my passport, and head out the door. If Mila believes in me, then I should have a ruddy good go at treating myself with the same respect.
I LOVE MY FLOWERS! I LOVE YOU! Thank you, you’re the best. Good luck with work this week, I miss you loads already. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’m off on a mission as we speak. It’s not a date, because my heart could do with a break from catastrophic dates right now, BUT there is something positive I can achieve.
YES GURL! Keep me posted pls.She taps back.
I’ve been rehearsing what I’m going to say all the way to Clapham and I’m pretty sure Taylor Swift would be proud. This is going to be the break up speech to end all break up speeches. I’ve got cute memories in there, a poignant thought or two, and a little bit of humour to brighten the mood at the end. After all, I don’t want poor old Hot Tom to be toodevastated when I put an end to our, um, relationship of convenience. Mila was right when she said he no longer deserves VIP access to my pants. Hot Tom has been a dead end for over a year now and this girl needs some. . . what’s the opposite of dead ends? Motorways? Yeah! Feeling fired up, I ring the bell.
Tom opens the door to his flat wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
I try not to stare.
‘I’m just back from the gym,’ he’s saying. ‘I was about to get dressed. Unless. . .?’ The glimmer in his eye sets my pulse racing.
‘No, no! You get dressed!’ Why am I squeaking? I bite a fingernail for distraction. I need to focus.
‘If you’re sure,’ he shrugs, resting his hands on my shoulders to gently move me out of the way. He smells like shower gel and shampoo. We’re so close I can see a post-shower sheen on his skin. If I just reached out I could. . . Get a grip, Jasmine! That Taylor Swift speech isn’t going to recite itself, is it?
So, here’s the thing. I *may* have accidentally fallen on top of Hot Tom’s penis. Twice. I know, I know. But please don’t judge? I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this already, but he’s HOT. Also dark, handsome, hench. There are just one little problem with Hot Tom. . . Even I can see that he’s a bit of an idiot. But Tom is never more than a call away when I need him, he’s my go-to guy when things get difficult. Had a shit few days? Hot Tom will fix it! Keep getting dumped by men who you thought were the one? Don’t panic, just call Hot Tom. Developed an awkward-ass situation with your male best friend? WHO YOU GUNNA CALL? Hot Tom!
Tomis very good at taking my mind off anything other than Tom. However, given that things have gone from bad to worse lately, I really do not know why I thought right now would be a good time to end things with him. Let’s face it, my speech fell right out of my tiny mind the minute I saw him in his pants and only now, lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling, have I realised exactly what I’ve just done. Hindsight is such a bitch.
‘Are you ready for round three?’ Hot Tom is completely naked and striding back from the bathroom.
Round three.It’s not a boxing match, Tom.
He winks, points at his groin and adds, ‘You know, round three?’
God he’s an idiot. To make matters worse, the guilt is creeping in. This is most definitely a hiccup in the plan.
‘I’m actually good,’ I say, jumping up and pulling my clothes on as fast as I can. ‘I need to go. I’ve got, um, work to do.’
‘Tonight?’ he asks.
I pause to look at him as I pull my t-shirt back on. He looks crestfallen so I decide to woman-up and try a little honesty.
