‘Actually, no. That was a lie. I’m sorry Tom. The truth is, I came round here to end things with you.’ I bite my lip as I gauge his reaction. He’s paused half way through buttoning up his jeans.
‘End what?’
‘This,’ I say, wondering what happened to that empowering speech I had planned. Right now I’m just pointing between my boobs and his trousers. ‘You know,this!’
‘You don’t want to be fuckbuddies anymore?’
And just like that, any former horn I had for Hot Tom dies a death.
‘NoI do not. This isn’t going anywhere and it’s a waste of time for both of us. I’m after something more meaningful. We’ve had fun, but all good things must come to an end.’
‘Huh,’ he says, not looking at all upset. ‘Well, there are plenty more birds in the nest, as they say.’
‘Do they actually say that though, Tom?’
‘What?’ he asks, but it’s clear that I’ve already lost him. I grab my stuff with as much dignity as I can muster and walk out of his flat, turning only once to see that he’s flicking through Tinder. And his bed’s not even cold. Shudder.
‘The thing is, I’m starting to think that Violet was right. Maybe I am a complete disaster. I was already on rocky ground before Mila decided to shake things up and now look at me, lurching from one crap situation to another. Nearly molested by a randy Frenchman, splashed across the news with a posho Italian and then there was the godawful. . .’ I stop myself just in time.
Arnie raises his eyebrows.
‘Godawful. . .’ he prompts.
‘Time I went to. . . the cinema? On a date?’
‘You were going to call our pie date godawful, weren’t you?’ Arnie says, taking a sip of tea and spluttering.
‘Of course not! Our date was. . . I mean, the actual date was fun. We had a laugh. There was just no. . .’ I click my fingers impatiently. How have I got myself into this pickle? ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I’m offloading on you. We’re here to work. What’s up with your tea?’
‘It’sEnglish Breakfast?’ Arnie says, though by the expression his face pulls you’d think he’d just said, ‘It’s made with urine?’ ‘I should have said, I’m an Earl Grey drinker.’
Of course he is.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any Earl Grey and I’m all out of the last batch of kombucha I home-brewed, too. I could always decant your tea into a tiny kilner jar if that would make you feel more at home?’
Arnie rolls his eyes.
‘Listen, so far today you’ve spent the entire time complaining about your love life and mocking my creative roots. Need I remind you that you’re not actually paying me to help you out? I’m doing this out of the good of my heart because I’m a nice person. So why don’t you pipe down and pay attention while I walk you through the basics.’
It turns out that Arnie’s use of the word basics is entirely inaccurate. I’ll be honest, he lost me at the words ‘domain name’ during step one. But given that this is my one last hope of gainful employment as a photographer, I’m trying hard to absorb all the information, scribbling away in my notepad every time we go over something Arnie’s just done. It takes quite a while, mostly because I’m a slow learner, and by the time we have the beginnings of a slick looking website on screen, it’s getting late.
‘I’m dying to get some of my photos on there but also, I’m starving,’ I say, stretching out like a cat on my floor to iron out the cricks in my neck. When I’m a proper grown up I’ll have an actual desk for my computer. Maybe even my own office? For now, the floor of my living room will have to do.
‘Me too,’ yawns Arnie.
‘Right,’ I hop up and into my kitchen, rifling through the fridge for ideas. Only, it’s post-Italy empty.
Ipop my head around the door. ‘Two options. One: you go foraging for food. I’m sure there’s a blackberry bush round the back of the recycling bins at Sainsbury’s. You’d probably love that. Or two: we eat the Supernoodles in my cupboard.’
Arnie eyes me suspiciously. ‘What flavour?’
I pause. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Have you ever tried bacon Supernoodles before?’
‘Excellent point,’ I concede. ‘They’re chicken, obviously. I’m not an animal.’
‘Well then, it sounds like you and I are going to enjoy another dinner of shame.’
