Mr. Park Lane (The Mister)

“Do you enjoy it?” I asked him.

He looked at me, having exhausted every available line of sight save the one immediately in front of him, and sighed. “Can I be honest with you?”

Here it was. He was going to confide that he’d had a shit day and was having trouble mustering enthusiasm for our date. But that would put us in an excellent position, because I could be a wonderful listener while he relayed all his troubles. “Of course,” I said. “Be as honest as you like. It’s the only way to be, as far as I’m concerned.”

He slid off his seat and downed his glass of rye. “This isn’t going to work out. You’re just not my type. I go for . . . sexy girls and . . . you’re . . . This feels like a waste of an evening. I’m going to go.” He pulled out his wallet, left thirty pounds on the bar, and walked out. Just like that.

Heat crawled up my skin. When it reached my face, it was as if I were on fire.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I focused ahead, hoping stillness would help me disappear. If I made eye contact with another person, and saw confirmation that there were witnesses to what had just occurred here, I might never recover.

As the heat on my face mellowed, I realized I was gripping my glass a little too tightly. Slowly, I slid my almost-finished cocktail onto the bar. People around me seemed to be chatting, and I couldn’t swear to it, but no one seemed to be staring.

I sucked in a breath and tried to figure out what to do.

I hadn’t even had the chance to respond. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have known what to say. The guy couldn’t stand to make a bit of small talk and have a drink with me? Was I so hideous? Boring? Ridiculous?

I longed for the ease of the hospital, where social interactions were easy and low-stakes. Where I knew my role, thrived with purpose. I’d not felt as utterly hopeless as I did in this moment since the paramedics pulled me out of that ditch over a decade ago.

The barman came over and asked if I wanted another drink. What I wanted was some kind of magic button that could transport me from my stool to my bed. I settled on asking him for the bill. There was no way thirty pounds was going to cover both our drinks in a place like this.

I willed the barman to move at warp speed so I could leave as soon as possible.

But where would I go?

I was only two streets away from home. What I wanted to do was crawl between my sheets and eat cake, but Joshua would surely hear me come in. I couldn’t face him, couldn’t tell him what just happened. Maybe if I was quiet enough, I could slip in unnoticed. I could text him at the two-hour mark and tell him I was too tired to debrief. In the meantime, I could slip into bed with Netflix, a cupcake, and a lifetime’s humiliation.

Eighteen

Joshua

There were only two flats on the top floor of the residences, and so the light footsteps in the outside hallway were most likely Hartford’s.

Except she shouldn’t be back for another hour. I checked my phone. More like an hour and a half. There was no way she’d ditch a date so quickly. I stalked toward my front door and pressed my ear to the wood. Nothing. It must have been a cleaner. Or a staff member checking something.

And then I definitely heard the grind of a key going into a lock. I flung open the door to find Hartford letting herself in across the corridor.

“You ditched a date after half an hour and thought I wouldn’t catch you creeping back in?” I shook my head, gleeful at the thought the shoe was firmly laced up on the other foot now. “I don’t know, Hartford, you can’t even hold down a conversation for two hours with someone.”

She didn’t turn around as she opened the door. “Actually, I’m not feeling very well. I’ll catch you later.” She slid inside and closed the door.

Confusion and shame mixed in my gut. I’d been joking. Had I offended her? I took my phone and typed out a message.

Sorry for assuming the worst. Hope you’re okay.

After five minutes, she hadn’t responded.

But that was understandable if she was throwing up or . . . stuck on the loo.

After fifteen minutes, she still hadn’t responded and I got worried. I texted again.

Can I get you anything? Or send for a doctor?

I’m fine, she responded.

At least she was alive. I ordered some cupcakes from Dragonfly and then instantly regretted it. If she had an upset stomach, buttercream wasn’t going to help.