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“So, Aisha’s choice of cereal then. Got it. I’ll bill Production and blame you for any fallout. Good?”
“Perfect.” I sighed. “And can you add a bunch of nice flowers with that?”
She stared at me.
“For my mum!” I shouted.
“Sure.” Her face was pure evil. “For your mum.”
“Yes!” I shouted. Fuck, what was it with all the shouting?
I survived the day with some of my dignity intact. Barely. My driver took me back to my hotel, along with a bag containing stuff I didn’t dare look at and a huge bunch of flowers. Not the supermarket kind. The expensive kind. The sort flower companies sent you when they wanted shit from you. Influencer kind of flowers.
I hated them already. Matt would hate them too.
I wasnotgiving Matt flowers.
It was the proper thing to do, wasn’t it? As an apology for completely being a dick and getting sick and squatting in someone’s home and all that.
Matt probably never wanted to see me again.
I felt sick just thinking about it. Even more so at the thought of actually walking over to where he lived and attempting to see him again.
The truth was I wanted to. Even though the idea of faceplanting my hotel-room bed was tempting. But I knew if I didn’t do this now, I would lose my nerve.
Never. I was going to bed.
I got out of the car and thanked my driver. Slammed the door and walked into the lobby carrying my wanky flowers and the shopping bag.
Then I turned around and caught a glimpse of myself in the glass.
I was still wearing Matt’s clothes from yesterday. Joggers and a stripy T-shirt that was far too tight for my frame.
I looked ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I was officially a clothes thief. In my defence, I couldn’t find my own clothes this morning, and I’d woken up wearing a dressing gown. I’d just picked up stuff from the floor, got dressed and left.
I turned around again. And again. And next thing I knew I was stomping down Lung Street with determination in my step. Ridiculous or not, I needed to do this.
It was the polite thing to do.
See Matt just one more time so I could finally put this insane crush to bed, and anyway, I was wearing his clothes.
FML.
It wasn’t a crush.
I was not gay. Or was I?
Honestly.
Matt
Thedoorbellgoingatten o’clock at night wasn’t the norm around here. Especially not when I’d been casually sipping chamomile tea, scrolling Instagram and just found the courage to comment on one of Con Telford’s photos. Which was stupid. I wasn’t that kind of person, and he had, like, billions of followers or something. That photo, though? I’d been daydreaming. Stupidly so, but this was my home, and I could do whatever I wanted, thank you very much. The building was quiet and civilised, full of professionals on the inside and the road outside was silent. That was how I liked it, and the shrill of the doorbell gave me palpitations.
Lucky for me, there was nobody standing outside my front door because the doorbell was for the intercom, which allowed me to talk to people downstairs and decide if I wanted to let them in, like the pizza delivery man, the person delivering my Amazon purchases, the guy in the Yodel van…
And apparently Con Telford.
This was unexpected, kind of, despite me having just hung his clothes up on my tiny drying rack in the bathroom.
