Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Pippa
-that don’t impress me much-
Mondays are evil. There’s no other word for them. Pure, unadulterated evil.
I sit cross-legged at my desk in my tiny, one-bedroom apartment, my hair piled up in an intentionally messy bun.
I’m deep inside a soft, oversized hoodie that kinda swallows me whole.
And that’s the only thing that makes this Monday bearable.
Thank God, I’m a freelance graphic designer, which means I can work from home.
Well, from anywhere really, but Mondays usually mean working from home and slumming it.
I stare at my laptop like it’s personally offended me.
The cursor blinks on the screen, a mocking little metronome keeping time with my lack of progress.
I’m supposed to be finishing a client’s logo today.
A sleek, minimalist design for a wellness brand, but all I’ve managed so far is: pick a shade of teal that is all the rage at the moment, then delete it.
My head is foggy, my eyes are gritty, and my brain keeps wandering back to Saturday night like it’s stuck on repeat.
I thought I’d paid the price for that yesterday with an appallingly bad hangover, but nope, it is the gift that keeps on giving.
I keep replaying a scene in my head. Me in that Jessica Rabbit dress. The whistles. The cheers. The exaggerated walk that will haunt me to my grave. And him. That bloody stranger with the dangerous green eyes and the scowl. I really don’t want to keep thinking about him, and yet, I do.
My cell phone buzzes on the desk, dragging me out of my spiral. I pick it up and look at the screen. Messages are pinging into the group chat I am in with Sandra and Lucy. I open it, already knowing it’s going to be a mistake.
Sandra: Morning, Jessica. Or should I say Internet legend?
I groan out loud as a winky-face emoji pops in next, before Lucy’s message pops up too.
Lucy: I can confirm that you’re famous. I just saw a video of you on TikTok. It’s got like 250k views already.
My stomach sinks.
What? “No. Nope. No, no, no,” I mutter, pressing my palms over my face.
Another ping from the group chat, and Sandra has sent a link to the video.
I hesitate. Watching it will only bring the horror back, fresh and garish, into my mind.
But not watching it will leave me wondering just how bad it actually is.
I tap the link, filled with morbid curiosity.
And there I am, in glorious high definition.
It’s not too bad at first as I have my back to the camera, but then I turn around and begin strutting across Mason’s Bar in that bloody scrap of a dress, my hips swinging like I’m auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing: The Adult Edition.
The video cuts out just as I take my bow.
The video is bad enough, but the comments!
Oh my God! Worse. Far worse. I scroll through them.
There are few comments with nothing but fire emojis and a few with laughing emojis which I try to tell myself are people laughing with me, not at me.
To my surprise, the majority are actually positive, but somehow, that is more mortifying.
@GingerAndProud: Omg QUEEN
@PintsAndGiggles: Marry me, Jessica Rabbit.
@ThatOneBloke: Lads, she’s brave. Respect. And those tits! Whoa!
@SophieLou89: I’d die before doing this sober. Legend.
I bury my face in my hoodie.
“I can never show my face again,” I whisper, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
My cell phone pings, and it’s the group chat again. Sandra, this time.
Sandra: You should be proud. Look at you owning it.
Lucy: We told you it was iconic.
Sandra: Also, your man is hot, like hot HOT. Have you heard from him yet?
Before I can reply, my cell phone rings. It’s my mum. I debate ignoring it, but that’s a fool’s game. She’ll just keep calling until I pick up.
“Hi, Mum,” I say cautiously, praying her timing is just a coincidence and she doesn’t know about the video. Her voice is already full of laughter when she speaks, and I know before she has said more than my name that she does indeed know about the video.
“Pippa Hart, you wicked girl. Why didn’t you tell me you had a hidden talent for cabaret?”
I groan so loudly she cackles.
“Not you as well. Please tell me you didn’t see that video.”
“Oh, darling, of course I have. Everyone’s seen it. Your Auntie June sent me the link. She said isn’t this our Pippa? And I said, yes, it is, and doesn’t she look fabulous in red? Honestly, sweetheart, you should wear that color more often.”
“Do we have to talk about this?” I groan.
She laughs. “I’m serious, sweetheart. It suits you. I’ve never seen your bust look so …”
I slap a hand over my eyes. “Do not finish that sentence,” I say, cutting her off.
She giggles like she’s still twenty. “OK, forget your bust. Tell me about the man.”
“There is no man.”
“Oh, come on now. The tall one in the suit you asked out. When are you seeing him?”
“I’m not. It’s not like he’s actually going to call. That’s not …” I wave my hands at the ceiling, exasperated. “It was just a joke. A dare. That’s all.”
“Hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Well, I think he looked rather handsome. And if he does call, you’ll at least give him a chance, won’t you? It’s not like you’re exactly …”
I cut her off before she says getting any younger.
“Mum, I’ve got to go. I have work. Love you, bye.”
“Bye,” she says.
I hang up to the sound of her still chuckling merrily.
Tossing my cell phone back on my desk, I try to refocus on the logo design, but my brain refuses to play ball. All I can see is a pair of green eyes and the pitying smirk of that woman at his table. Bitch.
Hours later, after a half-hearted lunch of leftover chicken and some salad, and two more mugs of coffee, my cell phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text, not a message from the group chat. And it’s from an unknown number.
My stomach flips. Could it be George? Did he change his number? Did he finally realize that blocking me was cruel, and he does, in fact, want me back? With trembling fingers, I unlock the screen.
Unknown number: Jessica, meet me at Mason’s tonight at eight. Roger.
My shoulders slump. It’s not George. But who is it? Roger. Who the hell is Roger? I don’t know anyone named Roger.
I stare at the words on my screen, my heart pounding. It can’t be George. George would never send something so commanding. So presumptuous. He’s more of the would you like to grab a coffee sometime if you’re not too busy type.
The commanding tone, the telling rather than asking, it reminds me of the man from the bar. Oh God. It’s him. It has to be. The man in the suit. The stranger from the bar. He actually texted me.
I sit back in my chair, wide-eyed, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind.
Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and part of me wants to scream, and most of me wants to pretend I never saw this message.
If Sandra and Lucy don’t know, I don’t have to go – my forfeit is complete if he doesn’t contact me.
I can just delete the message and carry on with my life, and this embarrassing chapter will close.
My mind made up, I open a reply, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Sorry, no. Can’t, I type out.
I nearly hit send. But then something twists in my chest, and I find myself once more thinking of George.
George, who blocked my number. George, who couldn’t even be bothered to reply to my drunken, pleading texts.
George, who was safe and dependable and apparently had no problem throwing me away.
And with those thoughts, for the first time, comes anger rising like a tide inside of me.
How dare he just ignore me? Why should I waste my time pining over him when that’s the way he treats me?
Before I can overthink it, I delete the text I have written, and instead, I type just three words.
Me: See you there.
I hit send. The second the message whooshes away, panic sets in.
“Oh, shit. Oh, no. Oh, God.” I clutch myself, rocking in my chair as if that might undo it. But it’s done. I said yes. I actually said yes. This is bad. This is so bad.
All afternoon, I can’t think of anything except the fact that I agreed to go and meet the man from the bar - Roger. My cursor blinks accusingly on the blank screen, but all I can do is cycle through reasons why this is a terrible idea.
He’s too good-looking. Too intense. Too not George. He’s not someone who is interested in someone like me. It’s obviously a joke. Maybe he and his friends are laughing about it now. Maybe he wants me to show up so he can reject me publicly.
That doesn’t feel right, though. He doesn’t seem like the sort of man to waste his time like that.
By five o’clock, I’ve worked myself into such a frenzy that I consider texting Sandra and Lucy for advice. But I already know what they’ll say – go, live a little.
So, I don’t. I keep it to myself, letting the nerves eat away at me.
If I don’t go, I’ll hate myself for chickening out. If I do go, at least I can get it over with. Be polite, make it clear this is a one off, have a quick drink… and leave.
It’s the right thing to do. Deep down, though, I know it’s about more than it being the right thing to do.
It’s about George. He didn’t even fight for me.
He didn’t even try. And maybe, just maybe, going to meet this stranger is my way of proving I can survive without him.
And maybe it will be great. Or more likely, it will be a disaster, but that’s ok, because no one need ever know about it but me.
At least spending the last few hours overthinking this has meant I haven’t stalked George’s social media once, and that’s got to be a win.