I look around me at this bedroom, which definitely isn’t mine, and definitely isn’t Jamie’s, and I have absolutely no idea whose it is, which would frighten me, if it weren’t for the terrible headache that’s threatening to blow my head apart.
If I weren’t in so much pain, I might possibly appreciate the bedroom. The sheets are blue, the slatted wooden blinds a dark, masculine cherry. There is an antique desk pushed into the corner of the wall opposite, bookshelves next to it. I have no idea whose bedroom I’m in, but I’m pretty sure it’s a man’s.
An ajar door lends me a glimpse of a bathroom, and I creep in, opening the medicine cabinet to find, thank God, a big bottle of ibuprofen. I tip four into my hand and hold my mouth to the tap to swallow them, looking at myself in the mirror with such shame that I have done it again.
I remember arriving at Chez Gerard. I remember having a long chat with the Channel 4 press officer. And then I don’t remember much else.
Thankfully, it could be worse. I am in all my clothes, so presumably I didn’t have mad, unconscious sex with a stranger. But it could be much better, and I don’t even know who to ask.
There is another door. I push it open and find myself squinting in a large, bright living room. On one side is a sectional sofa and coffee table, on the other a dining table and chairs, with an open-plan kitchen. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the light streaming through. My eyes make their way painfully back to the sofa, where there is a man lying wrapped in a bedspread, only the top of his dark hair visible.
Whoever he is, he has to be something of a gentleman, as I am pretty certain we didn’t have sex. I’m completely ashamed to say that while it isn’t a regular occurrence, there have been occasions where I have woken up, like this, in bed with someone I do not know. Naked. Having had a wild night. I presume, for I rarely actually know for certain.
And it’s happened more than once.
Still, whoever this guy is, I don’t want to have to talk to him. I have no idea what my behavior was like last night. I have no idea what I said, what I did, how I ended up here, and I really don’t want to have to face this guy who may have seen me do anything.
If I knew where my shoes were, I would leave here immediately, but I can’t find them, and there’s no way I’m leaving those Manolo Blahniks behind.
There they are, a glimpse of a spiked black heel under the coffee table. I pad over, trying to make no noise whatsoever, refusing to look at the sleeping man because if I look at him he will surely, despite being unconscious, feel my eyes on him and open his own, and I reach for the shoes, then practically scream in fear as I hear “Morning.”
Damn! I can’t believe this. I was so close to getting out of here. I meet his eyes, sheepishly, and say good morning back.
He sits up, the covers falling away, revealing boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and I can’t deny the fact that sitting right before me is a fine figure of a man. He yawns and stretches, his T-shirt riding up to reveal a flat, tanned stomach, the traces of hair disappearing into his boxers, and I feel an unexpected jolt of … something. Something unexpected. I quickly look away.
I don’t even know this man. This is ridiculous.
“Want some breakfast?” he asks, standing up to reveal he is much taller than me, and I’m no shrinking violet at five-eight.
“Um. No, that’s okay. I have to go.”
“I’m Jason, by the way.” He comes over and shakes my hand. “I already know you’re Cat. I’m making breakfast anyway, so you might as well stay. I know you won’t turn down my offer of coffee.” He grins, his hair mussed up, his eyes a warm brown, and I am so disconcerted by his offer, by how nonjudgmental he seems to be, I find myself, against all my better judgment, nodding.
“Sorry about the broom,” he says, pulling eggs and bacon out of the fridge, tipping fresh ground coffee into a cafetière. “I was worried you might throw up while you were asleep, and I didn’t want you to choke on it. When I