Breaking the Mould

Anne

BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP! I check the clock and see it’s already 7.20am.

‘Shit!’ I whisper to myself. I don’t want to wake up...what’s-his-name next to me. Fuck, what is his name??

I gently step out of the crumpled sheets, avoid the tissues littering the floor along with the discarded (and multiple) condom wrappers, grab my clothes and shoes and run to the bathroom. Hopefully he doesn’t wake up as I’m getting ready for work, that would just be plain awkward. Luckily I didn’t go home last night and had clothes with me otherwise being late would have been a little bit of a disaster! I hear a slight snuffle and freeze for a second, when I’m sure he’s back to sleep I tiptoe into the hallway. The flat is spectacular – granted, I didn’t see too much of it last night, but the long sweeping hallway and high ceilings aren’t something I usually notice when I go back to a mans flat!

I grab my bag and coat from the hall, fix my hair quickly in the mirror and let myself out. Shutting the door quietly behind me I slip my shoes over my heels. Ouch, ouch, ouch! Wearing these shoes was a bad idea, I think as I totter along the pavement, hailing a cab as I go. I vaguely remember stumbling a few times in them, no wonder I have blisters the size of my face along my heels.

“Turnham Green please, mate.’’ I call as I step in. I can see the taxi man looking at me through the rear-view mirror with a bemused expression. I look straight back, thinly-plucked eyebrow raised, daring him to ask me why I’m wearing red skyscrapers and only have my coat half on.

The taxi swings round the corner from what’s-his-names flat and I take my compact mirror out of my bag so as to reapply my makeup. It’s a little skewed from last night and what with the time I couldn’t retouch in the bathroom. I don’t think I even registered I was in a bathroom, come to think of it. No wonder I need a pee.

My phone beeps at me as the taxi turns into Shepherds Bush and I fumble for it. Why must they make phones so small and bags so big these days? How is a girl ever supposed to find it in a bag large enough to hold a carpet?! Clicking open the text I can see it’s from what’s-his-name:

Where’d you go?? Charlie

Ah, that was his name! I knew it was Chester or Chris or something with a C. I wasn’t really listening at the bar last night. Why don’t men get it? When I go back to their flats I’m not looking for white picket fences and a happy ending. It’s generally a means to an end. Men get called studs for this. We women get called sluts. It’s an unfair world, really, but fuck it I’m young and single, I can have as much fun as I like. I look up to see the cab steaming up Chiswick High Road and I grab a twenty out of my purse.

I instruct the cabbie to stop outside the corner Starbucks and hand him the twenty I have. I never wake up right in the morning unless I have a vente vanilla latte to go in with. Plus it’s a coping mechanism to help my smile become stuck to my face and my tongue safely under wraps from being bitten off. God these shoes are uncomfortable, I think. The backs are rubbing my heels and the toes are pinching slightly. They never usually hurt this much but I suppose a night of bar hopping can do that to a girl!

Last night was fantastic, I smile. I know Rachel’s going to want all the dirty details. Queuing up in Starbucks I let the memory of last night wash over me. A bar; a good few drinks with a handsome, tall and blonde stranger (Charlie – aha!), and then a kiss that led into so much more than just a goodnight kiss – fantastic! He didn’t seem the clingy type so his text after I left surprised me. Those hands though, definitely skilled. I reach into my skirt pocket to grab my coffee card and... Oh crap. I left my underwear at his house. I think they’re hanging off one of the doors leading off the hall. And my diary, I needed that but left it. My clothes weren’t exactly in a neat pile this morning, more artfully draped across the doors leading to, but not excluding, his bedroom. Damn it. They were one of a set and I hate to end up with odd sets.