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I shake my head. “There was something I wasn’t feeling. Or was feeling. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I wonder if it’s just not the right time. Perhaps now’s the time for us both to lean back a bit, take stock, and don those fluffy pyjamas until we’re ready to come out of hibernation.”
“What about work?” she asks. “Are you really gonna adhere to madame’s dumb fucking stipulations? Because you know, I know a few dozen people who signed one of those things and never stuck by the rules. They stole back their old clients within weeks. Happens all the time. Just gotta do it quietly.”
I shrug my shoulders and pull a “I don’t know” type of face.
“Well, there’s one thing youcoulddo,” she says, eyebrows jumping up and down.
“Yeah… what?”
“You could go out with the CEO and just bag yourself a sugar daddy.” Her expression tells me she’s deadly serious, but a tiny little flicker in her eye has me wanting to gently punch her in the face.
“He’s our age,” I growl.
“Really? I thought you said he has an investment firm?”
I snort with laughter. “He’s one of those little psychos we’re always going on about. Barely taller than me and has to be a weirdo to be so rich so young. Since he also gives off vibes of being self-made.”
“Then maybe I ought to date him,” she says dramatically, “since I seem to collect those.”
The ambient lighting, the food, the drink… a little laughter… and we finally relax, not a hint of schadenfreude to be found. Not that there’s ever been that between us two, only the people we’ve ended up in love with, of course.
“I’m probably going to freelance as a copywriter for a bit. I can afford to slack off a little right now, but it’d be good to just have something. After today, I know I’m nowhere near ready to start anything full-on, not yet.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I know.”
“You’re so strong, Mira. But you don’t have to be, not all the time.”
I smile bravely because she doesn’t know how wrong she is.
Sometimes, I feel barely able to breathe… usually when the latest Albie Hart headline hits.
Chapter Three
After much food and banter, not to mention too much to drink, we grab a taxi home and mine’s the first stop.
“Oi, why can’t ya come and watchStar Warswiv me at mine? Like we used ’a do,” she slurs, sort of begging.
I scream with laughter, replying in kind to her lazy drunk-speak: “I gorra text earlier telling me ’av gorra deliv’ry. Must’ve done some drunk ordering cos I dirrint fink I was waiting on anyfing.”
We both laugh for no reason whatsoever, except perhaps, we’re both drunkety drunk-drunk. On the back seat of the cab, we hug and wish each other well.
“See you soon, babe,” I yell, before stumbling towards my building.
“Bye, you silly slag,” she shouts out of the car window.
I manage to get up the stairs without breaking my neck and decide that was a fully-fledged bastard of a boozy day out, if ever there were one.
Then when I get to my flat door, I’m looking around as if I’ve gone to the wrong floor or if I’ve forgotten which number I actually live at. Because there’s a dozen red roses waiting outside my door. Then I remember I got a text about a delivery.
“Shit, wow,” I laugh, and carry them inside with me.
Once I’ve got my bag and coat off, I wrestle the card out of the little envelope attached to the bouquet.
Hope you’re well, gorgeous. Call me to say hello, so I know you’re OK. Miles x
For a moment I sit and stare at the flowers, then I burst into tears. It’s the first time anyone has ever sent me a bouquet on Valentine’s. The most aggravating thing is that he knows what day it is, but he’s sent them to let me know there’s no expectation—he genuinely wants to know I’m okay.
