Am I in my own bed?
Yes.
(Bonus.)
Do I know what day of the week it is?
Sunday.
(Double bonus.)
Are all my limbs still attached?
I wriggle them around. Legs, arms, hands and feet are all present and correct.
(Triple bonus.)
Am I alone?
A snort next to me suggests I have company. I crack open an eye and catch sight of the back of a familiar-looking mop of dirty blonde hair and bare shoulders, the one nearest to me marked with a jaggy-edge scar.
Shitting hell, am I naked too? I pat my chest, too scared to risk looking down. Bra-free, but I’m wearing knickers (a G-string, the back of which is right up my arse) and, I kick out one leg from under the duvet, one thigh-length black patent leather boot.
Okay, deduct one point for the bra-less bit, but the knickers are a positive sign. The boots, though. Where did they come from? They don’t belong to me.
I leap out of bed and regret it two seconds later when my stomach lurches and I stumble backwards, unsteady on the one high-heeled boot, hips shrieking in achy protest, and land with a thump on the floor.
“Owwwwwww!”
“You alright, doll?” My sleeping partner turns over and contemplates me through half-closed eyes. The stomach lurching doubles in effort, twisting my intestines into knots.
“No, I am NOT. What the hell, Zander… You’ve got to get out of here. Now, now, now, now, now! Please!”
His top lip pulls upwards into a sneer and shuts his eyes again, pulling the duvet over his head. A wine glass sits next to my side of the bed. Red, sticky stains mark the wood and the pale cream carpet. A bottle of Prosecco lies on its side next to the wardrobe. Fantastic.
I roll onto my knees, push myself up, and yank the duvet off the bed. A foil packet I do not want to examine too closely flies off in the opposite direction.
“Hey!” Zander slaps his hands on top of his crotch. He’s bollock naked.
Shit, shit, shit.
“You,” I point at him, conscious that I’m a ridiculous figure, dressed only in a scarlet G-string (bought while wandering around Primark with Bella after a boozy lunch and never worn until now as red underwear is the pits) and one thigh-length boot. “Honestly. Must leave. This instant.”
“Aw, c’mon, Ginny. Last night, you promised you’d make me breakfast. As a reward.”
A reward for what? Please don’t let it be that… Bits of disjointed memory bob around in my head. At some point, this is all going to make sense, and I know I’m not going to like it.
“The works, you said. Bacon. And scrambled eggs. Sausages, hash-browns, a tattie scone, mushrooms, black pudding, two slices of toast with butter and baked beans.”
I shake my head, diverted. “What, seriously? Baked beans are the devil’s foodstuff. You can’t possibly have forgotten that time at school. Anyway, no more talk of breakfast. Not happening. Ever. I’m going to count to ten, and if you’re not out of here by then, I’ll, I’ll…”
Zander’s smirk stretches across his face. “You’ll… you’ll what?”
Damn the man but he is so pretty. Wheat-blonde hair, the greasiness of it this morning not a detractor, and eyes that are sometimes navy-blue, sometimes flecked with turquoise glints, framed by lashes so long and thick a cow would envy him. A chiselled jawline, the requisite shadows under his cheekbones and a lean, muscular torso, far too much of it on show. He turns heads wherever he goes.
“I’ll start singing!”
It doesn’t sound like a threat. Believe me, it is. Bella describes my singing voice as “the mating call of foxes being electrocuted at the same time.”
Zander wrinkles his nose. Something scratches at the door. I open it, and Freddie wanders in, miaowing plaintively. He leaps onto the bed and then straight off again the second he claps eyes on Zander, shooting straight back out the door as if someone’s set his tail on fire.
“Ten, nine, eight… d’you really want to hear me murder ‘Can’t get you out of my head?’… Seven, six…”
Zander pulls a face. Unfortunately, it doesn’t render him any less attractive. But he sits up and reaches for the abandoned black jockey shorts and jeans lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. “For crying out loud, Ginny! We discussed this last night.”
We did?
“And I told you I’d made a lot of mistakes.”
He did?
He buttons up his plaid shirt, navy blue eyes sweeping up from my one thigh boot to my nipples. I plant a hand over each. Something feels unfamiliar and I glance down. Jesus Christ, I have a nipple ring?
How, how, how, how…?
“Well, my biggest mistake is you. It always is. So now go, walk out the door, turn around now…” Blast it, Zander’s eyebrows quirk and his lips twitch in amusement when he (and I) realises that I’m quoting I Will Survive. Perhaps if I sing it, he’ll disappear faster.
I point at the door, the dramatic gesture spoiled somewhat when I stumble again.
“Ginny…” Somehow, Zander is by my side, one of my elbows in his hand. My nipples, the treacherous little bastards, stiffen.
Zander glances down at them and then up at me. He bites his lip. The turquoise flecks intensify. “If I promise to leave straight afterwards, how about a wee bit of Sunday morning fun? Shame to let this go to waste.”
He indicates his groin, the bulge there all too apparent.
I’m tempted. For all of ten seconds. Maybe twenty. The guy does a-may-zing things with his tongue. Reality kicks in. The New Year’s resolution I made all of ten days ago. No more Zander.
[Granted, it’s now February; I borrowed the Chinese New Year.]
“No, no, no! There’s a vibrator freshly fitted with brand new batteries under my bed that’ll do the job beautifully and—”
“Oh? Can I watch?”
“No, NO! Off you bloody well pop.”
He rolls his eyes and swipes his wallet from my dressing table. “Until next time, eh?”
“There will be no next time!”
Lofty declaration uttered, I march him to the front door. Freddie hangs back, waiting for me in the hallway. I pause at the door.
“Keys?”
“I don’t have—oh, alright then.” He fumbles in his jeans pocket and withdraws the spare key to the flat, complete with its thistle keyring. I snatch it from him.
“Goodbye, Zander!”
His exit coincides with the opening of my neighbour’s door across the hallway. Of course it does. Matthew’s face crumples in what might charitably be described as dismay or could be interpreted as horror, and he vanishes back inside, slamming his door shut.
I slam my own, cringing as Zander’s laughter accompanies his footsteps clattering down the stairs. I stomp into the living room and glance out the window, watching, as he pulls out his phone. He takes a call. When he turns to cross the road, he’s wearing his serious face.
I hope that’s not who I think it is on the phone.
Freddie wanders in, the miaows dialled up from please feed me, to FEED ME NOW, BEFORE I PHONE THE CATS PROTECTION LEAGUE AND DEMAND TO BE RE-HOMED!
He meanders over to one cupboard in the kitchen area at the back of the living room, while I head for the other. His choice is where I store the Dreamies and the Lick-e-lix, but the vet’s words from our last visit there ring in my ears.
Vet, frowning: He’s very overweight.
Me (clamping my hands over Freddie’s ears): Overweight? No, he’s just big-boned. He gets tonnes of exercise. D’you think it might be muscle? Doesn’t muscle weigh heavier than fat?
Vet, sceptical: You see that bit dangling down there? That’s the cat equivalent of a beer belly. Fat cats are no joke. He’ll get joint problems, maybe even diabetes, both of which are not covered by most pet insurance plans. D’you want to know more about the pet weight loss programmes we run…?
I shake the ruinously expensive Science Plan cat diet biscuits into the food bowl, and sigh as Freddie sniffs them and walks away. My phone is on the counter, face-down. The blasted thing is out of charge. It pings the second I plug it in. Six missed calls. One from—yikes!—Bella, and five from Dylan.
The phone beeps, heralding the arrival of a WhatsApp message.
Dylan: Matthew is TRAUMATISED!!!!!!
Beep!
Dylan: No, seriously. He is. He wasn’t breast-fed as a child, so it’s entirely possible he’s never seen a pair of naked tits in his life. Phone me!!!!!!!!
Beep!
Dylan: Phone me NOW!!!!!!!!
The ringtone blasts out and I wince, picking it up. Does using it when charging fry your brain?
“Bitch, I’ve been phoning you all morning.”
A lie. He only started calling me five minutes ago. When, presumably, Matthew scuttled back into his flat, retinas burning. Poor sod.
“Dylan,” I inspect my nails, which are painted black. Another thing for which I have no recollection. “As the founding member of the Scottish Society for the Protection of Exclamation (Re) Marks, SPERM for short, I’ve told you many times that I cannot condone their overuse. You’ve just sent me three messages with at least fifteen of them.”
“Oh, shut up!!!!! There! Bet you didn’t hear the five I added to that sentence.”
“Yes, I did. One of these days, the exclamation marks will go out on strike and I for one will be on the picket line chanting, ‘What do we want? One use per sentence only. When do we want it? Now!’ Anyway, how are you? Everything tickety-boo in your world?”
“Top tickety, thank you very much,” comes the reply, the smugness there unmistakeable. “I was up at the crack of dawn and out for a run. Ten k. Fifty minutes and thirty three seconds. A personal best.”
I cross my eyes and poke my tongue out. Then, because that isn’t gratifying enough, I flick him a two-fingered salute. What does it matter if he can’t see it?
“Stop that!” he exclaims, and I almost drop the phone.
“Anyhoos, I’m outside your door.”
“You’re what?”
“Outside your front door. Bearing a tube of super-strength effervescent tablets. Y’know the ones you can only get in the States because they contain approximately one hundred times the daily recommended Vitamin C dosage? And a Diet Coke so cold my fingers have stuck to it. Gonnae let me in?”
God, no. All I am wearing is the classy knicker and one thigh-length boot combo, and every bit of me craves a long, hot shower before crawling back into bed. Solo, this time.
Dylan rattles his knuckles off the front door. “C’mon! Open up!”
The phrase ‘piss off!’ forms on my tongue. I stop it from slipping out. Dylan may possess the key to my current locked memory box and be able answer two crucial questions.
One, what the sodding hell happened last night?
Two, how in the name of everything righteous and holy, did I end up in bed with the love of Bella’s life?
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© Emma Baird 2024
