Page 4 of Untamed Heart
‘Covent Garden,’ I blurted, thinking only as far ahead as finding some other shoes and my date with Kyle later this evening. We were meeting early at Christopher’s, his favourite bar near the Opera House. He hadn’t said why, but he loved to surprise me, so I hadn’t asked. At least there was that.
But the closer we got as the taxi wound through the congested streets, thrumming with purposeful people, the more uneasy I felt. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine telling him about what’d just happened, couldn’t picture his reaction.
By the time the cab dropped me off outside the Zara on Long Acre, my stomach was a butterfly-ridden mess. Kyle was the life and soul of every situation, his easy, roguish charm and lazy smile turning every female head. I’d been one of them, a year or so after I’d arrived in London, fresh from uni. Introduced by a mutual friend in one of the City bars, we’d immediately hit it off. In fact, I couldn’t think of a situation where we’d had to navigate something like this until now, approaching our one-year anniversary.
I walked into the store, scouting for shoes but my mind churning. Ignoring the niggling voice in the back of it, I called the one person I knew would say exactly what I needed to hear, however hard that was.
‘It’s me,’ I said as the ringtone cut and she picked up. I kept my voice low amongst the few tourists shopping around me. ‘I’ve just been made redundant.’
There was a pause, then what could only be described as a high-pitched yell, then a celebratory cackle.
‘You’re free! Ding dong the fucking witch is dead!’ Hestia exclaimed. A murmur of voices in the background and some obscure indieEDMconfirmed that she was at work. Recently qualified as a tattoo artist and with an attitude as bold as her designs, she’d just taken the plunge and opened her own studio. ‘Oh Lots, I know you’re probably feeling gutted but honestly, I couldn’t be happier. That boss of yours – what was her name? Cretin? Whatever – she was a fucking asshat, and the hours they made you work were insane. Are you freaking out yet or are you doing that weird stoic, icy-calm thing you do?’
‘Icy-calm,’ I replied, hearing how dull and blank I sounded compared to Hestia’s natural effervescence.
She laughed, then apologized to someone in the background.
‘Listen, I’m mid-ink – let’s meet up later? I’ve got a client until seven-ish, but dinner after, maybe? Or come to mine?’
Suddenly wishing I could ditch my date with Kyle to cry and bitch about Cressida with Hestia, I told her I wouldn’t be able to make it.
‘Well, tomorrow then?’ she replied, as the buzz of her needle started up. ‘Or if the surprise date is boring you to death at the bloody opera again then develop a headache and come over here, okay?’
‘Got it. Thanks, Hes,’ I said, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. ‘Thanks. I knew you’d say the right thing.’
‘Listen, chin up for now and save your breakdown for me – you know I love pretending to use my useless degree. Love you, Lots. It’ll all be okay. Worst comes to worst, you can be my coffee bitch instead.’
I hiccupped a laugh, lovingly telling her to fuck off as I hung up. Pouncing on a pair of soft-looking ballet flats in my size, I was hit once again by our random but fortuitous meeting on campus at Bristol uni. It had been simultaneously one of the most mortifying yet most wonderful moments of my life, and as I paid for the shoes and wandered back out onto the street, I lost myself to the memory. To when, in a desperate bid to meet people and fit in, I’d been persuaded to assist the student union with promoting safe sex in freshers’ week.
Handing out condoms on campus.
Dressedasa giant condom.
Hestia, already the ringleader, had rounded the corner of the library with a new group of friends from halls, and, unable to see properly out of the costume, I’d promptly tripped right over her feet.
She’d stumbled, landing on top of me as condom packets rained down on us like confetti from the bucket I’d been holding.
‘Oh fuck,’ I’d groaned as we untangled ourselves, listening to the laughter around us, other students stopping to survey the chaos. I could feel my mortification growing with every second, the only crumb of comfort in the anonymity of the costume.
There was a pause and her head turned from me as she sat up and shook out her long black hair, strands of flamingo pink peeking out from underneath. My instant impression was that of meeting Goth Barbie, with stunning blue-green eyes and full lips, both painted black, the freckles smattering her nose over-emphasized with eyeliner.
‘Good job you were wearing protection,’ she murmured, turning to me with barely concealed amusement, those bright eyes sparkling in a way that would for ever come to define her in my mind.
I couldn’t help it – I snorted with laughter, the shit joke and ridiculous situation fully dawning on us both.
She joined in, shoulders shaking as I tried, fruitlessly, to wriggle into a seated position, which only resulted in me producing a demented breakdance move on the concrete.
‘Oh God, stop,’ she gasped, tears gathering. ‘I can’t breathe, I’m going to piss myself.’
Caught between mild hysteria and utter humiliation, I tried, one more time, to roll onto my side and bring my legs up.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ a male voice said, vaguely registering as the student union supervisor for the campaign. ‘If you’ve damaged that costume, you’ll have to pay for it.’
‘Here,’ said Hestia, still laughing, a warm, firm hand gripping mine. ‘One, two . . . and up.’
I tried to steady myself, but ended up wobbling into her again, causing us both to giggle again alongside the fresh peals of laughter from the people around us, mercifully hidden from my view.
‘Sorry,’ I replied.
