working it. ‘Very sexy.’
Her cheeks flush. ‘Thanks.’ She grins, then, remembering her hunt for her lost keys, darts across to the countertop and picks up a pile of mail. ‘Darn it, where can they be?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll hide my set.’ Spotting a bag of Kettle Chips, I take a handful. ‘I’ll put them under the potted plant on the landing.’
‘You will?’ She throws me a grateful look. ‘Oh, thanks, you’re an angel.’ She rushes for the door.
‘Hey, but you still haven’t told me where yož€ld me whe£€ yož€ld u’re going—’ The door slams behind her, sending something toppling from the top of the fridge with a crash. Bending down, I pick it up. It’s her vision board.
‘Or who with,’ I murmur, staring at the pasted pictures of dark, handsome strangers and cut-out letters that spell the words ‘soulmate’ and ‘Harold’. Something tells me it’s sure as hell not with him.
Propping it back up on the fridge, I reach for my bag. I need to get ready for my date with Adam, though I still don’t know what the surprise is, or where we’re meeting, I reflect, feeling a flutter of nerves. Digging out my phone, I check again to see if I’ve got a text and notice the battery is completely dead. Damn, where’s my charger? By the toaster, where you left it, I notice, hastily plugging it in. Instantly a message beeps up. It’s from Adam.
It’s a time and a place. Excitement buzzes and I glance at the clock on the microwave. Oh, no, it’s that time already?
Dashing into the bathroom, I jump in the shower and spend the next thirty minutes doing what I call the ‘transformation’. Out goes the frizzy hair, sweaty face, baggy T-shirt and leggings, and in comes natural-looking make-up, a vintage dress I got from a thrift store which is a bit tight under the arms but makes me look like I’ve got a flat stomach, and hair that OK, will never rival Jennifer Aniston’s, but won’t rival Donald Trump’s either.
All done, I glance at myself in the mirror. Now I know how Jesus must have felt. Talk about performing miracles. So he made water into wine? Big deal. I can make a hung-over mess into something vaguely presentable. Maybe even a little sexy, I think, giving myself the once-over and feeling a tingle of excitement.
A thought zips through my brain, and rummaging in my chest of drawers, I pull out my ‘special’ underwear: a lacy thong and push-up bra that cost an absolute fortune from Agent Provocateur. I went shopping there last year after the Christmas party, when I was a bit drunk, and ended up spending far too much on sexy lingerie that I’ve barely worn.
The problem is, I’m worried I might look a bit, well, up for it. Looking sexy is one thing, but pre-meditated is another. As if I’m expecting to have sex with him. I want to look like I’ve just thrown this on, that it’s my usual underwear, I decide, wriggling into it. I glance at myself in the mirror.
Oh, please. Like I usually wear a pink and black satin balconette bra that’s squeezing my boobs together and hoisting them upwards to cleavage-busting proportions. I wear comfy flesh-coloured T-shirt bras from M&S that go with everything.
But I can’t wear one of those, I think with horror, looking at the T-shirt bra discarded on the sink, like a beige jelly mould. It is the most unflattering thing you’ve ever seen.
I stare at it for a few seconds, an internal bra battle raging inside me, then make a decision. Nope, I cannot, repeat cannot, wear my jelly-mould bra on my surprise date. A man would never understand the excuse of comfort and that it doesn’t show any seams. In fact, I remember once mentioning that very reason to an old boyfriend and he looked at me in bewilderment. ‘What, you have to wear an invisible bra?’ Which wasn’t the point at all, but still.
In the end I go with the pink and black satin – just in case – and head to the subway. Adam has given me the address, it’s on 12th Street, near Union Square, and I jump on a train. I’m getting pretty good at the subways now, I reflect, sitting down and glancing at the faces around me. When I first arrived, I used to feel so different, like an outsider, but now I’m beginning to feel like one of them. It’s starting to feel like