no mirror in here either, so I put the lid of the toilet seat down, sit and touch up my mascara, eyeliner, concealer and lip gloss using a compact. The frizz in my hair will just have to remain. There’s no winning against this drizzle.
Jim hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Sure, he asked for an address, but hadn’t he presumed I was going to the airport? Maybe he thinks I’m going on vacation, that he’s giving me a ride to a friend’s house. It’s kind of him not to ask about the mop – what bizarre excuse would I invent? That I’m going on a bachelorette weekend and the mop is part of a game? Or I guess I could pretend that I’m an actress and the mop is a prop for my one-woman show. One that I’ve written, of course. These musings are a damn good distraction for what lies ahead. It won’t be long until I see Nick again, perhaps within the next thirty minutes.
I allow his full name to settle in my mind for the first time since last night. Nick Gregory. I recall his voice from our previous chats, smooth and drawn out, never in a rush to get anywhere. It’s different to Jim’s accent, only tickled Scouse around the edges of certain words. I need to give him the chance to explain. How unfair that I bolted off. He’s never seen me behave like that before. I wonder how I seemed? Angry? Disappointed? Childish? Any of those reactions would be enough to make him step back, give me space. If he’s done nothing wrong then I’ll struggle to forgive myself for spoiling what should have been a wonderful surprise. Not to mention what a bad judge of character I’ve been.
Adding an extra coat of mascara, I pinch my cheekbones, an old-fashioned trick, but worthwhile. Answers are imminent. I might as well look my best – or as good as possible within the circumstances – when I get them.
Jim is already waiting for me in his car outside by the time I emerge from the bathroom.
‘How do I look?’ I ask, pulling at my seatbelt.
Jim shrugs.
‘Do I look different than before?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Not better? Even slightly?’
‘Slightly.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
Jim says nothing.
‘Are you not wondering where I’m going?’
‘Nope.’
‘Even though I told you I was going to the airport? And where we’re going isn’t an airport?’
‘Nope.’
‘Glad to see the coffee has perked you up, Jim.’
Six months ago, I was at a ladies’ night in Dubai with a group of girls for Katie’s birthday.
Sixty-eight floors high, the rooftop bar – aptly named Sky High 68 – was a current hotspot for midweek partying. Large cushioned sofas created sociable L-shapes amongst small infinity fountains, changeable neon colours zooming from the one long bar. The music was more a series of calm, futuristic sounds playing alongside a monotonous beat, the zesty smell of shisha sprinkled through the hot night air like sweet sherbet, doing a fine job of masking the copious amount of cigarette smoke. Pink cocktails flowed, all free for ladies, of course. The place was a meat market.
True, the look of the bar was impressive, each corner of the floor pristine, but it lacked a soul that I won’t ever give up searching for. It made me miss those laid-back bars in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, with their power ballads and their many, many lanterns. If only I could have found some sort of job there; some reason to stay, to be needed. Promo work in Dubai could be fun, at times lucrative if I landed the right event, but it was ad hoc, inconsistent, and depended upon the weather being cooler – just hot, as opposed to burning like an angry furnace. At least the quiet times gave me the chance to escape, to travel.
‘Shots!’ Katie announced.
I cheered alongside the girls, but made a swift exit to the ladies’ room before having to neck sambuca. Locked in a cubicle, I scrolled through my phone. Nothing. Why hadn’t George been in touch? The last exchange of messages was so promising, the proof in words right there on the screen. Okay, so he wasn’t my dream guy, but we’d enjoyed numerous hilarious dates that included a lot of alcohol and a lot of mutual appreciation for Stranger Things. We also had pretty wonderful sex. Often. So, why the silence?
Ah fuck it, I was going to break the goddamn silence.
Hey You … at Sky High 68 with the girls.