Head Over Skis

1

All I wanted tonight was a mindless shag. The sort that would distract me from the shit that is my life for ten minutes, maybe longer if I’m lucky. But whatever it is that’s happening right now, it’s not that. I didn’t realise it could take a guy this long to take off a bra.

‘Nearly got it, strong with the force this one is,’ Tim says, his sentence warped in an imitation of Yoda while his arms wrap awkwardly around me, underwire digging into my chest.

‘Bingo! Be vanquished!’ he says, whipping off my lacy lingerie and chucking it unceremoniously onto his bedroom floor.

I wonder how my night got to this stage – straddling this odd-speaking stranger in his studio flat in Tooting Broadway.

If you’d told me two weeks ago I’d be here, I would never have believed you.

That everything was going to go up in flames so quickly. But it did, and here I am.

I’m drawn back to my unfortunate reality when he starts lowering me onto my back, trailing sloppy kisses down the side of my neck.

I shut my eyes, reaching for anything to remind me why I found him attractive in the club.

He was very timid, standing at the other end of the bar, occasionally glancing in my direction.

It was David who’d figured out he was working up the courage to come and ask if I wanted a drink, so I cut to the chase and approached him myself.

He’s averagely attractive, tall and clearly not a fuck-boy, so I thought screw it.

Plus, I hate dancing, so I was willing to do anything to get away from the club floor for five minutes.

Earlier this evening I’d made the rather spontaneous decision that tonight was the night I’d have my first one-night stand.

It’s not very ‘me’, doesn’t really fit with my ‘must always have a clear plan’ mindset.

But I tried doing the conventional thing: meet a guy, take it slow, fall in love, and that all went to shit.

Besides, everyone else I know had one at uni while I was holed up in a long-term relationship.

Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised by it.

Or maybe not and I’ll never do it again, but at least I’ll finally be able to say I’ve tried it.

Only now, as Tim’s mouth is starting to move lower, I actually think dancing in a club might be preferable to this.

Or even better, being at home watching Grand Designs, which strikes me as a very sad, yet frequent, thought I have as a twenty-seven-year-old.

His weight disappears from my chest, and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch as he scrabbles towards a vinyl collection next to the bed.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask, relieved to have a moment of physical distance to rethink whether this is a good idea or not.

‘Oh absolutely,’ he replies, letting the needle of the vinyl player drop. ‘Thought we could add a little mood music.’

He wiggles his eyebrows at the penultimate word, and now I’m really running out of reasons why I’m still here.

Don’t get me wrong, he seems wholesome, but that’s not what I need right now.

If I’m going to do this once, I want it to at least be with a guy who turns me on.

Someone who will help me forget about the absolute hell that will be the upcoming two weeks, preferably through the power of orgasms. Something I’m not feeling hopeful about here.

Either that or I need to be back in my own bedroom downing a litre of melatonin tea and praying it knocks me out.

It takes a second for the music to start, but when it does, I recognise it as Mozart, Symphony 40 in G Minor. It’s a piece of music I often have on in the background when I’m painting and trying to channel that fancy, tortured-artist vibe.

That’s it, I think, moving myself up and off the bed.

‘Could I use your bathroom?’

‘Uh yeah, sure, it’s over there in the corner.’

He points and I follow his arm to the far corner of the room where there is indeed a toilet. Separated from the rest of the studio flat by only a curtain.

I make my way over to it, pretending to trip on the pile of our clothes on the floor so I have an excuse to bend down and retrieve my phone before scampering to the other side of the room.

I hide myself behind the blue curtain, cursing the inadequacies of London housing, as I unlock my phone.

A string of messages immediately pops up from Tilly.

Have you slept with him yet, you cheeky minx? ;)

OMG David’s got with his ex from first year uni, you remember Polly?

The one who used to clap at the end of lectures? You’re missing out on

some major drama here.

I rapidly text her back.

HELP! Why did you let me leave with this guy??

I worry that she won’t hear her phone ping, but luckily it’s not long before three blue dots appear at the bottom of my screen.

Um, it’s not my fault you decided tonight was the night you became a

raging slut and embarked on mission shag-a-thon. Who was I to stop you

when I was glowing with pride?

Ugh, I am not after a ‘shag-a-thon’. But I can’t deny I threw myself headfirst into my newly single life tonight.

Who could blame me when it’s the first time I’ve been single in seven years?

Aside from several periods where I was sort-of single for a week or two following ‘break-ups’ that I saw more as ‘breaks’ – though it seems Adam saw them differently.

I look back down at my phone and try not to think more about my new relationship status.

Yes well, I wish you had stopped me from pursuing this particular one

further. How do I escape? I need an excuse NOW.

Ah, you’re in luck as that happens to be one of my areas of

expertise. Is he within listening distance?

On the other side of the flimsy gauze of the curtain, I can hear Tim trying to hum the violin section of the music.

Yes.

Okay, I’m going to call you in about twenty seconds. Put me on

speaker.

Have I told you how much I love you? Xoxo

Nowhere near enough. Now go act like you still want this guy to stick

his dick in you for twenty more seconds and then you’ll be free and I’ll

buy you a J?gerbomb.

I do what she says, flushing the toilet and washing my hands to keep up the ruse, then stepping out from behind the curtain.

Tim is crouched next to the bed, sorting through more records.

The floorboards creak as I cross them, simultaneously scanning the floor to locate my clothes in preparation for a hasty escape.

‘Ah, there you are, I’m selecting something a bit saucier. And nothing says naughty to me like Bach, don’t you agree?’

He’s sitting there crossed-legged and smiling, and I have no clue how to respond to that statement. Unsurprisingly, I can’t say I’ve ever spent much time considering which classical composers I find ‘naughty’.

‘I—’

I’m saved from having to speak by the ringing of my phone, and I try not to show how relieved I am.

‘So sorry, but I’m going to have to take this,’ I say, swiping across the screen and holding it up in front of me.

‘Hello, oh my god, Lottie are you there? I need you to come back right now, it’s an emergency!’

Tilly’s voice is high-pitched and hysterical on the other line, and I’ve never been more grateful to be best friends with a drama graduate.

‘Yes, I’m here, what’s happened?’ I ask, trying to sound a convincing mix of surprised and concerned.

‘I’ve been attacked!’

‘Attacked?’ Tim appears at my side, eyes wide. ‘By what?’

‘Uh…’ Tilly pauses, clearly not expecting Tim to get involved and ask any questions.

‘A… magpie!’

Oh lord. I take it back. Three years at drama school and that’s the best improv she can do? I bet she saw one flying outside the club. And it was probably a pigeon, but her knowledge of birds is distinctly below average.

‘A magpie?’ Tim’s face screws up and I start worrying this won’t be the slick escape I had hoped for.

‘Yes! A whole flurry of them, or is it a flock of them?’

‘A tittering,’ Tim says, and the fact he knows that doesn’t make me any more inclined to stay and sleep with him.

‘That’s it, well, one of them has pecked at my eye and I think I’ve been blinded – I need you here right now to take me to the hospital. Do magpies in London have rabies?!’

‘I’m on my way,’ I say, hanging up before she can say anything else more ridiculous. ‘Sorry, I really do need to go and help her out.’

I hurriedly chuck my white bandeau back on, shove my bra in my bag to save time and shimmy into my red mini skirt.

‘No, no, of course, go be the hero. Maj ram.’

I stare at him as I slip on my heels and throw my jacket over my shoulders, wondering if he mispronounced something.

‘It, uh, it means “good night” in Klingon. I tend to quote Star Trek when I’m nervous.’

‘That’s, um – you’re very sweet, Tim.’

I pat him on the shoulder, hoping he won’t take too much offence as I take the fastest route towards the door.

‘Maybe I could have your num—’

I don’t hear the end of his question as I speed down the stairs and push through the door to his flat, instantly hit with the cold, heavy air of London. I push my arms through my sleeves as I walk back towards the tube.

As I’m leaving the station I text Tilly to let her know I’m on my way.

I’d rather not go back – as there are few things I find as intolerably awkward as clubbing – but if I get a few more J?gerbombs in me I’m sure it’ll be bearable, and I really don’t want to go back to Tilly’s flat by myself.

I’m young, newly single, and it’s barely midnight on a Saturday night.

I should be out, not playing solitaire on the sofa while choosing between a cup of camomile or peppermint tea.

When I click off my messages with Tilly, my background photo comes into view and my stomach drops.

I haven’t changed it since Adam and I ended things two weeks ago and this snapshot from our recent holiday to Greece makes me feel like I could throw up.

We were on a private sunset cruise in Santorini that I don’t want to know how much he paid to arrange, and it was one of those perfect nights you know you’ll never forget.

It’s stupid of me. I should’ve changed it as soon as I’d packed up my things and left, and yet…

It might be what any sane person would do, but we were together for seven years and changing my background feels like finally acknowledging it’s over.

Maybe over.

Part of me thinks it can’t really be finished between us, and in another month I’ll end up back at our place, which I guess isn’t really ours at the moment.

That hurts too much to think about. I want to stop thinking about Adam, but I can’t drag my eyes away from the picture and how happy we both look.

Because we really were happy. And even though at times I questioned whether we were the right fit, I worry that I might never be happier than I was right there. With him.

I’ve always had a plan, a clear picture of how I want my life to pan out.

And in every version, Adam’s been there.

And despite what he’s done, a big part of me would like to keep it that way.

To attempt to stick to the plan and allow myself to be pulled back into his orbit, with all the history we’d built up together. The life we’d built together.

I’m so busy staring at the photo I don’t realise I’ve walked all the way to Clapham South. The fresh air has left me feeling completely sober, which makes the idea of going back to the club even less appealing.

As I round the corner, I’m still so distracted that I don’t notice the man in front of me until I feel the cold splash of liquid hitting my chest.