Ahhh.

Richie: Where is she now?

Me: Shower.

Richie: And where are you?

Me: Hiding in the bedroom.

Pause.

Richie: You realise she’s going to come there next, yeah?

Me: Shit!

Sit bolt upright. Flounder around looking for clothes. Can only find hers. See her dress, thrown on the floor unzipped.

Me: Hang on. Need to dress.

Richie: Wait, what?

Put him down on the bed as I pull on boxers and tracksuit bottoms. Horribly aware of my bum pointing towards door as I do so, but is better option than facing the other way. Find old vest within reach and throw it on, then breathe.

Me: OK. Right. I think it’s safest to . . . go to the kitchen? She won’t pass on the way from the bathroom to the bedroom. Then I can hide in the bathroom until she leaves.

Richie: What the hell happened? Why aren’t you wearing any clothes? Have you shagged her, man?

Me: No!

Richie: All right. It was a reasonable question.

Make my way across living room to kitchen. Skulk as far as possible behind fridge, so I can’t be seen en route from bathroom to bedroom.

Me: We bumped into each other in the shower.

Richie gives a proper belly laugh that makes me smile a little despite myself.

Richie: She was naked?

Groan.

Me: Nearly. I was, though.

Richie’s laugh scales up a notch.

Richie: Ah, man, this has made my day. So she was in, what, a towel?

Me: Underwear.

Richie groans too this time.

Richie: Good?

Me: I’m not talking about this!

Richie: Good point. Can she hear you?

Pause. Listen. Ahhh.

Me, in a hiss: Shower has stopped!

Richie: Don’t you want to be there when she comes out in a towel? Why don’t you just go back to the bedroom? It won’t look like you did it on purpose. I mean, you did nearly do it accidentally. Throw you together one more time, you never—

Me: I’m not going to lie in wait for the poor woman, Richie! I already exposed myself to her, didn’t I? She’s probably traumatised.

Richie: Did she look traumatised?

Think back. She looked . . . Ahhh. So much skin. And big blue eyes, freckles across her nose, that little intake of breath as I moved past her to the door, way too close for comfort.

Richie: You’re going to need to speak to her.

Sound of bathroom door unlocking.

Me: Shit!

Hide further behind fridge, then, when no noise follows, peek out.

She doesn’t look my way. Her towel is wrapped tightly under her arms and her long hair is darker now and dripping down her back. She disappears into the bedroom.

And breathe.

Me: She’s in the bedroom. I’m going to the bathroom.

Richie: Why don’t you just leave the flat if you’re that worried, man?

Me: I can’t talk to you, then! I cannot handle this alone, Richie!

I hear Richie grin.

Richie: There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? No, let me guess . . . did you get a bit excited . . . ?

I make my loudest, most humiliated groan yet. Richie roars with laughter.

Me: She came from nowhere! I was not prepared! I have not had sex for weeks!

Richie, laughing hysterically: Ah, Lee! Do you think she noticed?

Me: No. Definitely not. No.

Richie: So maybe, then.

Me: No. She can’t have. Too awkward to think about.

Lock bathroom door behind me and pull toilet seat down to sit. Stare down at my legs, heart pounding.

Richie: I have to go.

Me: No! You can’t leave! What do I do now?

Richie: What do you want to do now?

Me: Run away!

Richie: Come on, now, Lee! Calm yourself down.

Me: This is terrible. We live together. I can’t be walking around with an erection in front of my flatmate! It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s obscene! It’s probably a crime!

Richie: If it is, then I definitely do belong in here. Come on, man. Don’t freak out about it. Like you say, you and Kay have been broken up a few weeks and not sleeping together for a fair while before that –

Me: How did you know that?

Richie: Come on. It was obvious.

Me: You haven’t seen us together for months!

Richie: The point is, it’s not a big deal. You saw a naked chick and you started thinking with your – hang on, man, give me . . .

He sighs.

Richie: Got to go. But chill out. She didn’t see anything, it doesn’t mean anything, just relax.

He hangs up.

29

   Tiffy

Rachel is positively vibrating with excitement.

‘You are joking! You are joking!’ she says, bouncing in her seat. ‘I cannot believe he had a hard-on!’

I groan and rub my temples, which I’ve sometimes seen tired people do on television so am hoping will make me feel better. It doesn’t work. How is Rachel so bloody perky? I was sure she drank nearly as much as me.

‘It’s not funny,’ I tell her. ‘And I said he might have done. I’m not saying he definitely did.’

‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘You’re not so out of action that you’ve forgotten what that looks like. Three men in one night! You are literally living the dream.’

I ignore her. The head of Editorial luckily found it funny that I was late, but I still have a huge pile of work to get done today, and it hasn’t helped my to-do list that I arrived over an hour late.

‘Stop pretending to check those proofs,’ Rachel says. ‘We need a plan of action!’

‘For what?’

‘Well, what now? Are you calling Ken the hermit? Going for a drink with Justin? Or jumping in the shower with Leon?’

‘I’m going back to my desk,’ I tell her, grabbing the stack of proofs. ‘This has not been a productive session.’

She sings ‘Maneater’ at me as I walk away.

*

Rachel is right about the plan of action, though. I need to work out what the hell I’m going to do about the Leon situation. If we don’t speak soon, there’s a serious risk this morning will ruin everything – no more notes, no more leftovers, just silent, painful awkwardness. Humiliation is like mould: ignore it and the whole place will get smelly and green.