Try Again Later (Try for Love #2)

Chapter 1 Tuesday 20th April 2027

Lando

Hello there, gentlefolk, and welcome to the show.

On today’s episode of What Catastrophic Shit Has Orlando Oakham-Goodwin Landed Himself In Now?

we’re going to visit one of my top-three favourite discussion topics—myself—whilst I attempt to navigate undetected out of a married man’s inner-city apartment.

I’m what some—and by some I mean me and my best friend Daisy if she’s feeling generous—would label a delightful yet . . . contradictory enigma.

Lactose intolerant but addicted to cheese.

Loaded, though financially incompetent.

And the biggest slut this side of the River Thames . . . but not that into sex.

I’m a riddle. A paradox. An oxymoron. A . . .

Honestly, I don’t know what you’d call me except a fucking mess.

I’m a brie junkie and IBS survivor. I’m the prodigal nepo baby whose father substituted personal interaction, emotional support, and affection with three Mastercards and an AMEX.

And I’m the Southwest’s reigning cum-dumpster champion who’s actually . . . well, ace.

Yep, I’m asexual, or at least I’m fairly certain I am. I don’t enjoy sex, not in the ways other people seem to, and I don’t feel any sexual attraction to anyone, so fuck knows why I spend ninety per cent of my waking hours chasing tail. But there we are.

Orgasms are fun, though, if I ever get to that point. In all honesty, it happens less often than most might assume.

My therapist tells me I’m exhibiting self-destructive behaviours.

Blah blah blah.

I only go to those sessions because Warwick Oakham II, a.k.a. Pops—a nickname he hates, by the way—told me in no uncertain terms he’ll cut me off if I don’t.

Not that he cares. The man has multiple direct debits set up to clear my balances each month. He barely even notices the money leaving his account. Almost never does. Sure makes use of all those air miles I rack up for him, though.

Yeah, you’re welcome, Father. You can thank me when you return from Singapore. Or Copenhagen. Or Abu Dhabi. Or wherever the fuck you are.

Spending problems aside, the therapy conscription is a small price to pay for what’s otherwise a dream life.

Like, people would kill for my lifestyle—probably do—so I should just suck it up and deal with it.

And half the time I don’t even listen to what my therapist is saying.

Not that I need to, it’s always the same thing.

“Lando, we’ve discussed your repetitive behaviours before . . .”

“Lando, this is something the ‘you of two years ago’ would have done . . .”

“Lando, it sounds like you’re setting yourself up for another fall . . .”

I want to hit back with, “Hey, Lisa, I’m gonna be honest with you.

I’m only here for the bank. I won’t change.

You know I won’t change. You’ll be saying this exact shit to me same time next month, so maybe once—just fucking once—we could talk about something else.

Might I suggest Jonathan Bailey? Or Labubus?

Or perhaps we could play a rousing game of Kerplunk? ”

But I don’t tell her that because one, I’m not as stupid as I look, and two . . . I’ve forgotten the point I was trying to make.

I get it. I have “daddy issues.”

Honestly, though, in my position, who wouldn’t? My father’s been around, but he’s never been there.

The man forgot, or deliberately ignored, my twenty-first birthday.

Can’t fool me, though. I know the difference between his handwriting and his PA’s—who, by the way, he’s fucking.

You’d think one afternoon, post shag, she could’ve reminded him.

“Head’s up. Your only child is hitting a big birthday milestone next month, and perhaps we ought to send him something more meaningful than a two ninety-nine greeting card with the price-reduction label still stuck to the back. ”

So if I don’t get the affection or emotional investment from Dear Old Dad, who can blame me for seeking it elsewhere?

My latest “emotional investment” comes—literally—in the form of a tech bro from Harrogate, who’s part-time living in the Southwest for his job, which is something really snorlax to do with computers.

His name is Jordan. He’s a six-foot-two, blonde, gym-sculpted god, with the bone structure of a Viking, the broad shoulders of a German hammer thrower, and the golden tan of a nineties Californian surfer dude, and I am currently trying to escape the confines of his second-floor central Bristol flat.

Jordan is exactly my type. Not because of his looks, I’m not that shallow, but because of who he is: an alpha-hole, a compulsive liar—he’s actually five-eleven—and a sexual narcissist. He’s ten or twelve years older than me, and going by the flash of smooth white skin on his finger and the upturned photograph of two blonde kids on his entryway table, he’s either married or recently separated.

My money’s on the former and . . . I have a lot of money.

His flat is the ugliest, most uninspiring place I’ve ever been railed in, which is saying something since I once let a guy fuck me in a Glastonbury Festival portaloo.

Everything is mirror-gloss shiny and grey or white.

Concerningly, all the surfaces seem to be wipe-clean, and the only splash of colour in the decor belongs to Jordan’s red flags.

It’s obviously his weekday place. His commutable workday retreat, which he’ll leave empty on the weekends when he pisses off back north to be with his wife and kids.

My bare soles slap against the white-tiled bedroom floor as I slide out of his grey satin sheets and creep towards the door. The sound echoes throughout the sterile space, and I stare at his naked sleeping form spreadeagled on the bed.

Don’t wake up. Do not fucking wake up.

I will my size-fourteen feet into being daintier, less slappier, and tiptoe around his apartment collecting my discarded clothes.

Honestly, who in the true crime podcast tiles a bedroom floor?

It’s giving distinct serial killer slash cannibal vibes.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I stumbled across a chest freezer full of eyeballs and femurs and whatnot, or a kitchen cupboard stacked with hydrogen peroxide or whatever chemical it is that removes blood from basic B&Q furnishings.

Jordan stirs, groans, and flips onto his side, occupying the space on the mattress I’d just vacated. I suck in a breath and hold it there.

In my three and a half years of fucking around, I have yet to find out—i.e.

, no one has woken up whilst I’ve been sneaking out.

Tops usually nut and knockout, like condom off, sound asleep.

I’ll let them big spoon me for half an hour because .

. . well, I like cuddles, but then I’ll delicately extricate myself, peel away from their sticky, sweaty limbs, and get the hell out of there.

I locate my clothes, minus my underpants because fuck knows where they’ve got to, and take everything into the bathroom to get dressed.

The same glossy white tiles overflow into this space, and I mentally battle with the risk of sliding around in my socks and potentially cracking my skull open on his glass shower door versus dampening the slapping of my feet.

Not that I’m a “leave-no-trace” type of guy. If I left a four-foot-long streak of blood across these budget tiles . . . not my problem, babes. I’m more concerned about waking him up. I really don’t fancy dealing with the aftermath.

Way back in the good old days—like three years ago—I used to stay overnight, wake up with my conquest in the morning, and have to endure everything that accompanied . . . that.

“Did you have fun last night? Did you come? Man, I was so wasted I don’t remember if you came. I’m so sorry. You didn’t come? Why not? Did I do something wrong? Aren’t you attracted to me? Shit, are you even into guys?”

Followed by the whole existential spiral into their alpha prowess and me attempting to patch up the poor guy’s ego.

Like, babes, it’s not my fault you couldn’t make me come.

Or maybe it is. I don’t fucking know.

In any case, it’s easier to duck away before the detonation of that particular bomb, rather than dealing with the fallout. So that’s why I’m in Jordan’s bathroom, jeans half on, rifling through his cabinets.

He has NHS prescription oxycodone. Why does he have oxycodone?

I don’t do opioids, so I leave them on the shelf, but I do rescue his bottle of Tom Ford’s Noir Extreme by slipping it into my back pocket.

Not only because the idiot stores a bottle of perfume worth two hundred pounds in the bathroom, but also because I like to take a memento each time.

In two weeks I won’t remember his name, but I’ll certainly remember his spicy, woody scent.

My phone’s dead—nothing new—so I hunt around for Jordan’s phone, which he’s remembered to plug in next to the bed. I press random finger after random finger to the screen until the correct print unlocks it. It works after the third try: his left thumb.

I’m half tempted to check through his apps to see if he’s said anything about me to any of his friends, or spy on the other guys he’s messaging on Grindr, or indeed read what lies he’s told his wife, but in all honesty, I’m tired and hungry and I just want to go home.

So I pull up the Uber app and order an Exec to the village that neighbours mine.

A little trick I learned from someone a long time ago.

Piotr is seven minutes away in his BMW 5 Series and is going to cost Jordan a cool one hundred and fifty-five pounds.

Cheers for that. Luckily for me, and for the sake of having to explain myself, the latter of the men is still snoring, and the app doesn’t ask for further password or fingerprint verification.

I unplug his phone and turn it onto aeroplane mode. His charging cable finds new residence in my back pocket alongside his eau de parfum.

“Adios, Jordan. You were . . . tolerable,” I whisper as I slip out of his bedroom and into the shining white-tiled open-plan living area.