Happy Hour (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 8

Waiting is something I've never been good at. 

This is a trait of mine that goes back so far that I'm told that once, when I was a toddler, I opened all my Christmas presents three days before Christmas because I couldn't resist finding out what was inside the sparkly wrapping paper. I don't remember it myself, but it does sound like something I would do.

"What do you want for dinner?" Paige shouts from the kitchen.

It's the following evening and we're planning an evening of watching rom-coms and stuffing our faces with chocolate before a daytrip through to Edinburgh the following day. There's an old railway tunnel full of murals right outside the city and Paige has decided it would be the perfect venue for some posing. For me, it will be the ideal place to include in an article about street art I'm planning. I love how we can often, metaphorically of course, kill two birds with one stone.

"Oh Christ, I have no idea." I get up and join her. "Do you know, I saw a meme the other day that said something like being an adult is just having to decide what you want for dinner every night until you die, and I don't think I've ever related to anything more."

She laughs. "I remember being a kid and wishing that I could eat what I wanted for dinner rather than just having a plate of whatever my parents decided put in front of me. Right now I would welcome that though." 

"Yep." I open the freezer. "At least they usually gave us healthier options. Whereas I'm about to suggest a fish finger sandwich, which is probably not so healthy."

"It sounds perfect though," Paige grins, taking the frozen box from me. "On white bread. With some mayo and melted cheese added, obviously."

"And we should probably add a red onion so we can pretend it's healthy," I suggested with a snigger. That's what I do in Subway after ordering double cheese on my 6 inch meatball marinara.

"Sounds like a plan to me!" 

"Oh, I had a bit of good news today," I remember, pulling cheese out of the fridge as Paige lines fish fingers neatly up on an oven tray. "Ally at the gift shop wants to sell some of my photos as prints."

"That's amazing!" Paige throws her arms around me.

"Yeah, it won't make me a massive amount of money obviously but it'll be good to have a wee bit extra potentially coming in."

I pour us both a glass of Coke and take them through to the living room, throwing myself on the sofa and glancing at my phone. 

Can I resist? I wonder.

I've checked it obsessively since Sarah pressed that pesky follow button on the anonymous account yesterday. Every bloody time the screen has shown my request is still pending. I'm so antsy about it I have squealed out in sheer frustration  a few times.

One of the times I think I scared a customer in the gift shop but we won't dwell on that. 

It's the not- knowing that is driving me crazy. As well as waiting, I also hate secrets and surprises. Even good ones. And to be honest I'm not sure if this is a good one anyway. 

I take a long sip of my drink as I look speculatively at my phone. It's been at least two hours since I last logged onto Instagram. It's probably time I checked again anyway. 

And when I click on my anonymous follower, I'm delighted to discover that my request has been accepted this time. 

I'm in.

But . . .

I swallow back another frustrated cry.

The 20 posts that were lying behind that private account yesterday are no more. There is only one post, uploaded earlier today, and it is the original photo from the profile avatar.

Time for a new start, the caption reads.

So I'm still none the wiser.