Liam emits a loud snore.
I turn my head to glare at him through the darkness.
With the knowledge of only three hours’ sleep ahead of me, I will him to shut the hell up. Rudely ignoring me (due to his state of unconsciousness), he continues his nasal symphony until I’m forced to tap him on the arm.
“Liam,” I whisper, “you’re snoring.”
Without really waking, he mutters something and turns over, falling silent.
I smugly turn away, too.
When he starts snoring again, I groan and pull the duvet over my head, accepting my fate. It’s my own fault. I know Liam snores and I’ve been meaning to buy ear plugs, but I keep forgetting. I also really wish I hadn’t given him a key. But after last week, I had to.
Liam had stayed Friday night and we’d gone on a coffee run the next morning before he planned to cook brunch back at mine. We were waiting for our drinks when I got a message from an agent that one of her supermodels was taking to Instagram to announce her retirement at twenty-eight—to start her own fruit farm in Devon, naturally—and would I like the exclusive? And if so, any chance I’d be available to speak now?
I apologetically ditched Liam at the café and dashed out with my flat white. It wasn’t until after the interview that I checked my phone. Liam had left his jacket in my flat, which held his house keys and wallet, which meant he had been stranded at the café the whole time. Feeling terrible, I tried to call him, before my phone promptly died.
I gave him a key on Monday.
I’m not sure how much sleep I get, but when my first alarm goes off, it feels like maybe I’ve shut my eyes for thirty seconds.
Liam grunts.
I whisper a half-hearted apology, but he’s already back asleep. I try to doze again, but when the third alarm goes off, I finally force myself out of bed and into the bathroom, kicking aside my rumpled dress from last night.
After showering, I begin my daily morning routine of riffling through my disorganized wardrobe, which is only more difficult in the dark.
“What time is it?” Liam mumbles into the pillow.
I don’t answer because I’m busy confronting the disappointment that nothing new has miraculously appeared in my wardrobe without me having to do any shopping. Then I notice a skirt that has slipped from its hanger and excitedly recall buying it last summer—a pink-purple floral print maxi that looks great with that black blouse I know I have somewhere.
I successfully find the shirt and tuck it into the skirt, and then slip my feet into my white sneakers—comfortable shoes that I can dash about in are a necessity in my job. Checking my outfit in the mirror, I nod satisfactorily at my reflection.
I wouldn’t say I spend a lot of time on my clothes, but I do take pride in my appearance. A fashion journalist once told me that I had a “playful London street style.” I’m notentirelysure what that means, but I was extremely flattered. I wear sunglasses everywhere I go—I have several pairs, partly because I lose them a lot, but also because they are the easiest way to accessorize without making much effort.
My face is a bit of a rush job, but I make do with foundation and dabs of concealer, a lick of mascara to try to brighten my hazel eyes and disguise the tiredness, bronzer and a matte berry lipstick that the magazine’s beauty editor, Amy, recommended for me. Before Amy, I used to always wear nude lipsticks or no lip color at all, preferring to draw attention to my eyes over my lips thanks to my slightly goofy, big front teeth, but I’ve become a bit more adventurous thanks to her encouragement—the teeth, she says, are all part of my “girl next door” appeal and I should be proud of them.
I sweep my thick wavy brown hair back and tie it in a ponytail. I cannot interview, take notes, or write with hair falling into my face. At the start of my journalism career, sometimes I’d spring for a blow-dry before a big interview, but I’d inevitably become frustrated at having to keep tucking it behind my earsand would tie it back about five minutes after I sat down to work. I know better now and tie it back first thing.
Rushing back into the bedroom, I step round to Liam’s side and lean over to give him a peck on the cheek. I admire his mop of dark curly hair and his long dark lashes. He has that relaxed, sexy look and style of an indie rock star, but one that bothers to shower.
He moves as my lips brush his stubbled cheek, but doesn’t open his eyes.
“Sorry, early start today,” I whisper as he snuggles farther into the duvet. “Help yourself to coffee or anything you need.”
“Have a good day,” he mumbles, still not opening his eyes.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I remember my phone charging by the bedside. I run back up, reaching around for my keys—I really should keep them in the inside zip pouch of my bag.
“Harper?” Liam asks, squinting at me as I burst back into the bedroom.
“Sorry!” I whisper, grabbing my phone. “Forgot something.”
“Dinner tonight?” he says, his voice muffled into his pillow.
“Sounds great.”
I make it to the front door before I remember that my AirPods, which I’ll need to do my transcribing later, are on the kitchen counter. By the time I make it outside my building, I imagine I’ve done a considerable amount of my goal steps today, but I’ll never know because the smartwatch I bought is god-knows-where.
