Chapter 2 Andrea
Andrea
Miraculously, Monday morning was going to plan. If James would stop texting me, it might even stay that way.
Me: Yes, James, I’m still asleep. I’m messaging you from my dreams.
I’d texted Rudy as soon as I woke up. No need to delay the inevitable.
I put the phone down and tried to focus on my lipstick—one thing that was still somewhat under my control.
Eliza was still snoring in the next room. My phone buzzed again, and I half hoped it would wake her so I didn’t have to.
James: No need for the snark. Last time you said you were fine, your flat shorted out when Eliza tried to defrost the freezer with a hair dryer.
I ignored him.
James: Traffic is hellish on a Monday.
God, he was relentless. I stuck in my AirPods and called him.
“You know, texting you while I’m getting ready actually slows me down,” I said with a huff. “I’m on time, and I’ve got Saskia’s pass. So you can leave me to it and get on with whatever frivolous tasks you need to get done before noon.”
James didn’t even have a goldfish to take care of, let alone actual obligations. Try a cat with gum disease, a mother who called you to reload her printer paper, and a sister who treated the place like a serviced apartment.
“I know, I know, I’m basically a playboy,” he said. “But can you, just for once, prioritize getting in early? Or—and I know this is radical—on time?”
“And what time did you get into work on Friday?” I picked a blob of mascara off my lashes. “Being late because you couldn’t drag yourself out of Raoul’s bed doesn’t really give you the moral high ground.”
“Maybe not, but Novexia’s new owner wasn’t showing up last Friday. Anyway, lateness due to mind-blowing sex is allowed.”
“And your boss is okay with this?”
“Probably not, but who cares? Anyway, we both deserve it after the crap we have to deal with at work. You should put hot sex at the top of your list, hon.”
“Adding it to my to-do list now …”
“Good.” He paused. “You know your vag can wither away from lack of use, right? Dried out and crispy like nori seaweed.”
“Lovely visual, thanks.”
“I’m talking three-day-old sushi, hon—the type with raw fish.”
“Gross, James. I’m not dead yet, you know.”
“Hon, you’re pushing thirty. Next thing you know you’ll be wearing natty neck scarves and need WD-40 just to get turned on. You need to rejoin the sexual economy while the machinery still functions.”
“I’m miles off thirty, thanks. And I haven’t even been single twenty-four hours, I think I’m safe.”
“Not for long,” he said, in his GP delivering bad news voice. “At least consider some casual sex. You deserve it after Rudy. Live a little.”
I rolled my eyes. Casual sex just wasn’t my thing—I got too invested. One kiss and I was basically offering to be their emergency contact.
“You know orgasms are better for stress than yoga?” he continued. “It’s science. You should look it up.”
“You know Buzzfeed isn’t peer-reviewed?” I said. “Unless the scientific discipline you’re referring to is pseudo, and not biology?”
“Oh, whatever. It’s something like that.” He tutted lightly. “At least get on Bumble, hon. Preventative measures. So you don’t need prying open with a crowbar later.”
“Yeah, sure. Look, I really need to get ready—”
“Andy—picture him. Shredded. Owns furniture. Knows where the clit is. He exists somewhere, hon, I promise you. And he’s waiting for you to swipe right.”
“Tempting, but I’ll pass.”
“C’mon. Think of your future boyfriend. Or at least, your future fuck buddy.”
“My future fuck buddy?”
“Yes. He’s lonely. He needs you. His cock needs you.”
“Just what I want on top of everything else—a needy cock.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“If his cock can do laundry and sort my KPIs, we can talk. Otherwise, it can get in line behind my Q2 target, the mold in my shower, and Gerald’s pass-ag Post-it notes.”
“If I find a cock that useful, I’m keeping it.”
“I’m sure you will.”
*
Seven minutes later and I was ready, with time to spare.
I smoothed my hands down the sides of my ivory dress—lightweight but structured, clinging in all the right places. Business attire, and firmly on the right side of slutty. It even looked expensive. As long as I didn’t sit down too long.
Yes. I looked together. Polished.
Like a woman who Marie Kondoed her knicker drawer.
A woman no new owner would dare make redundant.
A woman—
A horrible gurgling noise interrupted my self-assessment.
What the hell—
Either the drains were dying, or someone else was.
The sound echoed down the hallway, wet and guttural.
Was Eliza awake and choking on her collagen shake, or was there a meth addict in withdrawal looking for ammonia under my sink? Clapham wasn’t exactly Mayfair—you never knew what could happen.
Wait.
I knew that sound.
Was that—
I sprinted into the kitchen to see Mr. Darcy looking stunned, just as my heel connected at a too-sharp angle with the tube of cat vomit on the floor next to him.
My leg shot out sideways, and I hit the tiles with all the grace of a dropped lasagna.
Warm dampness seeped through the thin fabric onto my left bum cheek.
My eyes watered, but pain was the least of my worries.
Back in the bathroom, I dabbed at the puke mark with a towel. My arse hurt, but at least the stain was fading. Then I saw it—a huge gash along my arm, bleeding freely. I caught my breath as a gigantic droplet fell like a ruby, straight onto the hem.
Not only was I smeared in regurgitated kibble, I also looked like an extra from Fight Club.
And I still needed to find Band-Aids, which were somewhere under the earbuds and bottles of fake tan.
Eliza appeared behind me in the mirror, blond hair haloed, eyes half closed.
“Mr. Darcy’s barfed, Andy, can you clean it up?” She yawned.
I briefly imagined smothering her with the puke towel.
The time on my phone now said 8:18. I had less than two minutes to leave if I didn’t want to die at the hands of Gerald.
Yanking the bloody-barf dress over my head, I squeezed blindly past Eliza to my bedroom and grabbed the first thing I could find—a seafoam pleated mini with a plunging V-neck and long sleeves. I gave it a sniff test. Clean enough.
And definitely gorgeous.
For a party.
On thinner weeks.
Fuck it. No time for thinner weeks. It would have to do.
My phone lit up with a notification banner:
Rudy: Can we talk?
Nope.
I swiped it away fast enough to burn my fingerprint off.
“What about the puke, Andy?” Eliza’s face was scrunched.
“Cleaner’s under the sink,” I snapped, pulling the dress down awkwardly. It clung in all the wrong places.
Whatever—better slightly slutty than totally unemployed.
“Oh, and we’re out of marmalade,” she added.
Did she actually think I might nip to the store before I left for work?
“Use jam,” I barked, my eyes darting around the living room looking for my handbag. Ah, there it was. I sprinted for the door. “And have a great day!”
*
By the time my Corolla screeched into the public car park, the red digits on the dashboard were flashing 8:50. Perfect. Nothing like a full-body cortisol bath to start the week.
The car park attendant gave me a look like I’d just run over a guide dog as I fishtailed up the ramp. Pfft. I wasn’t going that fast.
“Morning,” I called, giving him a too-cheery wave as I wafted Saskia’s card at the machine. Thank God it didn’t have her name on it. Plausible deniability—the backbone of my personality. The attendant turned away in mild disgust.
Level one was full. And level two. I circled up another ramp.
Where the hell was Saskia’s bay? Smug early birds had filled every space, no doubt sipping turmeric smoothies and listening to mindfulness podcasts as they reversed calmly in.
Even the gym across the road was already buzzing with treadmill disciples.
All parked in here. All desperate to cram in some personal growth before nine.
I hated every one of them.
Including the smoothies.
Meanwhile, I’d spent the drive to work arguing with ChatGPT’s Voice app about why I kept dating losers.
Did that count as self-improvement?
It had to—right?
Finally, I spotted it—space 172: Reserved for Pixel & Grace. Not ideal, wedged between a concrete pillar and an SUV the size of Wales, but it would do. I silently thanked Saskia’s employer for booking out half of level six—Novexia’s bays were always full.
The car’s sensors shrieked as I edged in, but I ignored them. I didn’t need another drama queen in my life—I already had James.
When I switched off the ignition, I realized I was trapped—the door would only open ten centimeters—significantly smaller than my hips.
Oh well, couldn’t move it now.
I slithered out sideways, one leg first, then the other, emerging like a newborn foal covered in a light sheen of panic-sweat. Exactly what you want when meeting the new boss.
Thank God, the elevator arrow was glowing. I scuttled toward the open doors.
I’ll make it.
Or I could have, if my bag hadn’t decided to slide off my shoulder at that very moment, sending my parking card skidding across the concrete, along with my new lipstick and wallet.
Had I wronged someone in a previous life?
I dropped to my knees, dignity now just a distant memory.
Stretching under the bumper of a blue car, I hooked my fingers around the wallet, then dragged myself sideways to catch the lipstick before it vanished beneath a pay station.
Coins clinked against my palm as I scraped them up, my perfect nails chipping on the rough surface.
The dress hitched higher every time I reached, knees burning where the concrete bit into them.
The parking card was still on the move, skimming across the floor.
I pushed myself to my feet and sprinted after it, eyes locked on the little white rectangle sliding away from me.
I could do it. It was only a couple of feet. The lift doors were still open …