Page 3 of (Not) The One
‘Here,kitty-kitty... Ouch! Dammit!’
‘What? What is it?’ Heather’s voice hisses from my phone as it skitters out of my hand, bouncing along the ground, but thankfully landing with the screen facing the evening sky.
‘Well,thatwasn’t fun,’ I mutter, pushing myself up from my knees, my movements shuffling and ungainly. I wince as I brush tiny bits of gravel from my smarting knee. Lurching a little to the left as I straighten, I catch myself on the wall. I totter to where my phone lies in a patch of moonlight.
‘I tripped over a bloody plant pot,’ I say, bringing the phone to my ear again.
‘God, you’re such a lightweight.’
‘Am not. I’m just out of practice,’ I answer a little indignantly.
‘This is what happens when you remove yourself from society. Unless you take thevodka on your cornflakesapproach to breakups, I suppose.’
‘I haven’t even had that much to drink.’ My heelstap-tapagainst the cobblestones as I continue.
‘Maybe I should’ve come back with you.’
‘Ha! That would’ve been like... the tipsy leading the tipsier. Besides, you blew me off for a booty call.’ Along with the reason I’m creeping around in the darkness looking for an escaped cat, cocktails are also to blame for Heather braving the London transport system at this hour just because some oik from Acton promised her a little bedroom action.
But I’m not really drunk. Just a little anaesthetised.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the garden, looking for that cat. Your fault, by the way.’
‘How’d you come to that conclusion?’ Her question burbles with an incredulous sounding giggle.
‘Because if I wasn’t on the phone, the bloody thing wouldn’t have jumped over my leg and shot out through the open back door.’
‘Well, if you hadn’t decided you needed to smoke a sneaky cigarette, then the back door wouldn’t have been open.’
I inhale sharply, my (very occasional) secret vice exposed. ‘How do you know?’
‘I caught you smoking once when we were kids.’
A memory comes into sharp focus; I’m sitting in the window seat blowing smoke rings out of the open window, ever the sixteen-year-old sophisticate. Heather stands at my open bedroom door wearing her “I’m going to tell” look.
‘I nearly fell out of the window from shock.’ I thought I’d locked the door. ‘I pinched your arm.’
‘Yeah, but I was such a little snitch. No need for threats this time. Your secret is still safe with me.’
‘I can’t believe you know.’ My words are part embarrassed groan. ‘I mean, how?’
‘You always look shifty after coming back from a sneaky cig. Furtive, as though you’ve been up to something naughty.’
‘I can count on one hand the number of cigarettes I’ve smoked this summer,’ I reply a little piqued suddenly. No one likes being caught doing something they’d prefer to hide. ‘I’ve had a very stressful few months, you know.’
‘You know what’s better for stress relief? Orgasms.’
‘Yes, but it’s less socially acceptable to step outside the pub to rub one out.’
‘Ew. There is so much wrong with that sentence.’
‘Says the girl who just sent a very wrong text.’
‘Yeah, but it’ll keep him off your back for a few days, won’t it? Cameron’s going to besobusy he won’t have time to keep sending you nasty texts and emails.’
‘Do you know how many Oxfam charity shops there are in London?’
