Happy Hour (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 5

The hotel I'm reviewing is lovely. Four poster bed, amazing views, a roll top bath and incredible food. I can't complain although sometimes I do wish I was sharing these kind of experiences with a boyfriend and not Paige.

Sure, we have a blast together but sometimes I'm very aware of the fact I'm a bit lonely and a man wouldn't be unwelcome in my life. But I also just don't have the time right now. I don't see how I could do a relationship justice.

I have tried, don't get me wrong. And maybe it's just that my heart isn't in it. I've never had much luck when it comes to relationships and apart from the boyfriend who pretty much spanned my whole time at university, I've been pretty much single since apart from the odd fling.

I suppose a boyfriend wouldn't exactly be happy with a five thirty am wake up call after staying in a luxury hotel, I reflect the next day as I shake Paige awake. She sits upright immediately and jumps out of bed, while I still struggle to get my eyes fully open and feel like I'm escaping a mud bath as I try to extract myself from the covers. I envy her boundless energy. I'd try to blame it on her being two years younger than me but I've always been a bit of a sloth.

Despite going to bed at 10pm I'm knackered by the time I've driven back to Glasgow - a full shift at the gift shop is going to be a killer today. 

And of course it's the one day that every bloody person in the shop needs advice on what to buy or wants to have a full-blown conversation, and I just want to sleep in the corner. At one point, during a brief lull in business, I think I actually do nod off for a couple of seconds. 

When the clock turns to five o'clock, I could cry with relief. I retrace my steps to our flat a couple of streets away and curl up on the sofa in front of comforting episodes of "Cheers", a medicinal glass of red in my hand while I wait for a curry to be delivered.

After my chicken tikka chasni and plain naan has been devoured I pour another large glass of shiraz and sink further down into the cushions of the couch, cosying up under a fleecy throw. I click open my Instagram; the first time I've had a chance since before the shop opened.

I don't often post photographs of myself on there; if I do you usually can't see my face. But at the hotel restaurant last night Paige had impulsively snapped a pic of me that I'd actually liked. My winged eyeliner had worked for a change and my reddish-blonde "beachy" waves looked a bit sleeker than usual. There was also a sparkle in my brown eyes that I didn't remember seeing in a long time. 

So that morning I'd posted it on my main grid. "The face behind the account," I'd captioned it, wincing at my turn of phrase, but my knackered brain was unable to think of a better way to word it. 

I wouldn't say I have a massive amount of followers on Instagram, especially compared to Paige, but I do alright. My latest photograph has amassed over 200 likes to my embarrassed delight. My follower count has increased by a few since this morning too, I note.

I'm idly scrolling through my notifications when I freeze at one of the names of my new followers. Could it be . . .? Surely not . . .?

I click on the profile. It's private, unfortunately. And from the avatar, it's impossible to determine any further information about the account holder, as it is simply a photograph of a beach. A Scottish beach by the looks of it, possibly a Hebridean one judging by the ludicrously white sand, possibly taken with a drone. There's a lone figure on the beach, but they're in the distance, and transformed into nothing but a shadow by the sun. There's no way to tell who the person is, or who the Instagram profile belongs to. 

But a familiar prickly sensation is coming over me; all the nerves in my body leaping into life. It's as if I'm a teenager again, hormones fizzing as I sit in Kirsty's kitchen and watch the object of my obsession stalking across the room to the fridge to grab a can of juice. He turns and his eyes meet mine for a moment. I freeze. His face expressionless, his eyes cut away from me, and he leaves the room as quickly as he entered. But my insides continue to tingle.

And back in the present day, as I look at this anonymous private Instagram profile, my skin pricks with unexpected goosebumps.  I have no idea why, but I cannot shake the feeling that this new follower is Chris O'Brien.