Chapter 1

Chapter One

To attract the right sort of chap, a woman must exude allure yet remain virtuous. Modesty is necessary if she intends to receive a proposal of marriage!

Matilda Beam’sGuide to Love and Romance, 1955

I have done many unwise things in my life. And while sex with the new neighbour less than two hours after meeting him is definitely not the most ridiculous of those things, it’s quite high up on the list. As is losing my contact lenses during the mistimed throes of our clumsy copulation, leaving myself blind in his bed this sticky-hot July morning.

Stupid, delicious pear cider, I cannot resist thee.

Somewhere in the room my phone gives off a muffly buzz. Shit, I bet I’m late. The big meeting is today and I swore to Summer that I absolutely, definitely would not be late.

I can’t quite remember my neighbour’s name, though I have a strong feeling that it’s Jim. Or maybe Timothy. Whatever he’s called, his partially hidden face is snoring away beside me, blissfully oblivious to my presence. If I had the power of sight I would just find my clothes and creep across the corridor without having to acknowledge him in any way. At least until the inevitable bumping into him in the hall bit, at which point I’d simply shriek and leg it. But without contacts in I can only see about six inches in front of me.

‘Wake up … ’ Jim? Timothy? ‘ … boy,’ I croak, nudging neighbour’s burly shoulder with my elbow. ‘Rise and shine! It’s a magical new day and all that jazz. Come on. Time to get up now.’

He mumbles something that sounds like ‘mnnneblurp’, grabs my hand and plonks it onto his willy, clearly hopeful of a repeat performance.

No, ta.

I remove my hand from his junk and use it to punch his arm.

Jumping upright, he blinks once as if stunned by the sight of a real live woman in his bed. I squint at him. His brawny, muscular body looks oddly out of proportion with his head. What a tiny head he has. I probably thought it was a fascinating head last night. Everything’s fascinating after that much booze. I disguise my What the blazing arse was I thinking? grimace with an extravagant yawn.

Whipping up the blanket, neighbour discovers that I’m still naked. He smirks, sliding closer. ‘Oh, hellooo, Jess from next door,’ he says, wetting his pale lips with his pale tongue. ‘Do you have a … cup of sugar I could borrow?’

He gazes at me for a moment, eyes narrowed, top lip lifted in a half-grin. I suspect he thinks it’s a sexually alluring facial arrangement, but in reality it gives him the aura of a man restraining a fart.

I do an army roll over to the other side of the bed.

‘Sugar,’ he cracks again, beaming. ‘D’y geddit? Ha-ha. Like a euphemism? For sex? Ha-ha. Ha.’

Good God. My standards – which, let’s face it, were never mega high − have really dropped recently. First Mickey the Butcher, who wasn’t even really a butcher, and then Rupert, who only loved me because I let him take sepia-filtered Instagram pics of my feet. And now this guy, whose name eludes me.

‘Hey … fella,’ I improvise. ‘I’m so sorry to wake you, but I’m late and probably in trouble with my boss. I’ve lost my contact lenses and I’m completely short-sighted without them. Would you mind helping find my clothes and walking me back to my flat?’

He stretches his thick arms above his head and raises an eyebrow. ‘Where we’re going … we don’t need clothes.’

‘I think we do. I really think we do.’

‘I’d like it much better if you just stayed naked.’

‘That’s very flattering. But I think I’d like you much better if you did me a lovely favour and found my stuff.’

He sighs and slithers out of the bed, grabs some stripy cotton boxers and a creased vest from a half-unpacked suitcase and pulls them on. It only takes him a moment to find my clothes, which have been artlessly flung onto his computer desk. My knickers are curled around the handle of an errant mug. He hands them over and watches as I dress.

Yanking up my skinny jeans, I pull the zipper before fastening the safety pin that’s there in place of the button I lost last week.

Everything is so blurry. I really must remember to start carrying a spare pair of glasses in my bag. I must also remember to start carrying a bag.

‘So, do you want my number, Jess?’ neighbour asks, linking his arm with mine and leading me slowly out of his bedroom, down a hall and through a curry-scented kitchen area. ‘I feel a real rapport here. Romantic potential, like. I’d love to get to know you more.’

We trail through a sparse living room, the shockingly bright rays of sunshine blaring through the window making me squint.

‘Thanks and all,’ I say, sidestepping a stack of unpacked boxes on the floor, ‘but I’m not really the “getting to know you more” type. I mean, maybe I’ll get round to doing the whole relationship thing in twenty years or so when my body’s gone to shit and most of the fun of life has already been had. But right now? Nope. Ta for the offer, though.’

‘Right, yeah, totally agree, totally agree,’ he says as we leave his flat. ‘I’m exactly the same. Fucking hate relationships. Relationships can go suck long balls for all I care. Ha. Listen to this: I like ships, yeah? But wanna know what my least favourite type of ship is?

‘A relationship.’

‘You got it! Ha-ha. So you being all independent lady and that, well, it could make us the perfect match, when you think about it. Something to consider?’

‘Hmm-hmm.’

We plod out into the communal hall and down the corridor for the twenty seconds it takes us to reach my flat. I fish inside my back pocket for the door key.

‘Thanks a lot for helping me home.’

‘Oh, always happy to accompany a pretty young thang like yourself.’

‘Right.’ I nod. ‘Cool, well, take care then. Probably see you around the flats sometime!’

I wave and give him my goodbye smile. He does not leave.

‘Um, so yeah, I’ll see you around sometime!’ I repeat.

Still he does not leave.

Why doesn’t he leave?

‘You know, Jess,’ he says thoughtfully, thumb hooked in the band of his boxers, crotch thrusting slightly in my direction. ‘I think you should at least take my number for neighbourly purposes. Like, in case you get burgled or something. Or locked in. Or locked out. Or maybe one day you might need some help with your tinned goods shopping bags. Or what if, right, what if you’re indoors alone one day and your washing machine just breaks? Explodes, like KABLAM, flooding all of your things and you need a helping hand? Or what if − ’ his nostrils flare slightly − ‘what if you find yourself feeling lonely, eh? Very lonely, but of course no one knows how lonesome you are because you pretend your job at the B&Q warehouse fulfils you and you put on your glad face at the Wednesday-night poker tournaments, but underneath the charade you’re bored and alone and in dire, wretched need of soft, comforting human warmth … ’

Woah.

Seeing such raw desperation for companionship makes me feel extra grateful that I have no such urges. The art of a successful one-night stand is dead simple: Do Not Emotionally Attach, OK? I also find this to be an excellent motto for life in general.

Poor guy, with that shrunken head as well.

‘All right, then,’ I say, feeling bad for him. ‘I’ll take that number. Just in case my washing machine does, you know, explode.’

Grinning, he crosses the personal space threshold and hovers by my shoulder, watching as I enter the number he recites.

And then it gets to the bit where I’m supposed to type his name into my phone.

I scrunch up my eyes, hand poised over the screen.

Jim or Timothy?

Jim or Timothy?

If I get this wrong, it could be considered a genuinely skanky moment.

‘Um, Jessica,’ he mumbles, smile fading, ‘do you not know my name?’

I snort and do an over-the-top eye roll. ‘I know it,’ I say breezily. ‘Obviously I know your name!’

Jim or Timothy? It’s a simple fifty-fifty call, Jess. Make the call.

‘Obviously your name is Jjjjiiiiim … ’

His brow dips.

‘ … mmmothy?’

He does a tiny gasp.

‘Did you just call me Jimothy?’

‘Errrrrr.’

‘My name is Paul.’

He throws me a deeply offended look, mutters ‘slapper’ under his breath and stomps off back down the hall.

Paul. Pea-head Paul.Of course.