Page 1 of Head Over Skis

1

All I wanted tonight was a mindless shag. The sort that would distract me from the shit that is my life for ten minutes, maybe longer if I’m lucky. But whatever it is that’s happening right now, it’s not that. I didn’t realise it could take a guy this long to take off a bra.

‘Nearly got it, strong with the force this one is,’ Tim says, his sentence warped in an imitation of Yoda while his arms wrap awkwardly around me, underwire digging into my chest.

‘Bingo! Be vanquished!’ he says, whipping off my lacy lingerie and chucking it unceremoniously onto his bedroom floor. I wonder how my night got to this stage – straddling this odd-speaking stranger in his studio flat in Tooting Broadway. If you’d told me two weeks ago I’d be here, I would never have believed you. That everything was going to go up in flames so quickly. But it did, and here I am.

I’m drawn back to my unfortunate reality when he starts lowering me onto my back, trailing sloppy kisses down the side of my neck. I shut my eyes, reaching for anything to remind me why I found him attractive in the club. He was very timid, standing at the other end of the bar, occasionally glancing in my direction. It was David who’d figured out he was working up the courage to come and ask if I wanted a drink, so I cut to the chase and approached him myself. He’s averagely attractive, tall and clearly not a fuck-boy, so I thought screw it. Plus, I hate dancing, so I was willing to do anything to get away from the club floor for five minutes.

Earlier this evening I’d made the rather spontaneous decision that tonight was the night I’d have my first one-night stand. It’s not very ‘me’, doesn’t really fit with my ‘must always have a clear plan’ mindset. But I tried doing the conventional thing: meet a guy, take it slow, fall in love, and that all went to shit.

Besides, everyone else I know had one at uni while I was holed up in a long-term relationship. Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised by it. Or maybe not and I’ll never do it again, but at least I’ll finally be able to say I’ve tried it. Only now, as Tim’s mouth is starting to move lower, I actually think dancing in a club might be preferable to this. Or even better, being at home watching Grand Designs, which strikes me as a very sad, yet frequent, thought I have as a twenty-seven-year-old.

His weight disappears from my chest, and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch as he scrabbles towards a vinyl collection next to the bed.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask, relieved to have a moment of physical distance to rethink whether this is a good idea or not.

‘Oh absolutely,’ he replies, letting the needle of the vinyl player drop. ‘Thought we could add a little mood music.’

He wiggles his eyebrows at the penultimate word, and now I’m really running out of reasons why I’m still here. Don’t get me wrong, he seems wholesome, but that’s not what I need right now. If I’m going to do this once, I want it to at least be with a guy who turns me on. Someone who will help me forget about the absolute hell that will be the upcoming two weeks, preferably through the power of orgasms. Something I’m not feeling hopeful about here.

Either that or I need to be back in my own bedroom downing a litre of melatonin tea and praying it knocks me out.

It takes a second for the music to start, but when it does, I recognise it as Mozart, Symphony 40 in G Minor. It’s a piece of music I often have on in the background when I’m painting and trying to channel that fancy, tortured-artist vibe.

That’s it, I think, moving myself up and off the bed.

‘Could I use your bathroom?’

‘Uh yeah, sure, it’s over there in the corner.’

He points and I follow his arm to the far corner of the room where there is indeed a toilet. Separated from the rest of the studio flat by only a curtain.

I make my way over to it, pretending to trip on the pile of our clothes on the floor so I have an excuse to bend down and retrieve my phone before scampering to the other side of the room. I hide myself behind the blue curtain, cursing the inadequacies of London housing, as I unlock my phone. A string of messages immediately pops up from Tilly.

Have you slept with him yet, you cheeky minx? ;)

OMG David’s got with his ex from first year uni, you remember Polly?The one who used to clap at the end of lectures? You’re missing out onsome major drama here.

I rapidly text her back.

HELP! Why did you let me leave with this guy??

I worry that she won’t hear her phone ping, but luckily it’s not long before three blue dots appear at the bottom of my screen.

Um, it’s not my fault you decided tonight was the night you became araging slut and embarked on mission shag-a-thon. Who was I to stop youwhen I was glowing with pride?

Ugh, I am not after a ‘shag-a-thon’. But I can’t deny I threw myself headfirst into my newly single life tonight. Who could blame me when it’s the first time I’ve been single in seven years? Aside from several periods where I was sort-of single for a week or two following ‘break-ups’ that I saw more as ‘breaks’ – though it seems Adam saw them differently. I look back down at my phone and try not to think more about my new relationship status.

Yes well, I wish you had stopped me from pursuing this particular onefurther. How do I escape? I need an excuse NOW.

Ah, you’re in luck as that happens to be one of my areas ofexpertise. Is he within listening distance?

On the other side of the flimsy gauze of the curtain, I can hear Tim trying to hum the violin section of the music.

Yes.

Okay, I’m going to call you in about twenty seconds. Put me onspeaker.