It Started With A Tweet(109)
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If you enjoyed It Started With A Tweet, why not try
Anna Bell’s hilarious romantic comedy .?.?.
When Lexi’s sport-mad boyfriend Will skips her friend’s wedding to watch football – after pretending to have food poisoning – it might just be the final whistle for their relationship.
But fed up of just getting mad, Lexi decides to even the score. And, when a couple of lost tickets and an ‘accidentally’ broken television lead to them spending extra time together, she’s delighted to realise that revenge might be the best thing that’s happened to their relationship.
And if her clever acts of sabotage prove to be a popular subject for her blog, what harm can that do? It’s not as if he’ll ever find out .?.?.
AVAILABLE NOW IN EBOOK AND PAPERBACK
Read on for an exciting extract .?.?.
1
‘Ouch!’ I shout as my elbow whacks into the cubicle wall for the zillionth time, and I start muttering swear words like I’m Gordon Ramsay. Hiding in a cubicle in my work toilets and squeezing myself into a tight dress requires the acrobatic skills of a ninja. There seems to be an obstacle at every turn. One wrong hop when I’m putting my tights on and I’ll be plunging my foot into somewhere only a bath in Dettol would fix, but hop too far the other way and I risk poking an eye out on the door hook.
It’s a tricky minefield, and something I wouldn’t be doing if this wasn’t a true emergency, but my boyfriend Will and I are meeting my parents for dinner and I’m running late. I’d intended to nip to the gym en route to dinner to have a proper shower and change, but I’ve been swamped at work and left it too late.
I tried to tell my parents that a six o’clock dinner reservation midweek was a bad idea, but it’s my dad’s birthday and it was at his insistence. Knowing him, and his frugal ways, there will be some special offer for eating early.
I finally wrestle the zip up my back and make a break for freedom out of the cubicle to pop some make-up on, only to find a woman standing at the sink washing her hands. No need for the extra blusher I’m about to apply; my cheeks automatically pink up in embarrassment at my swearing.
‘Going somewhere nice, Lexi?’ she asks, clearly trying not to laugh. She’s one of the serious women who works in finance and I can never remember her name. She’s probably my mum’s age, all twin-set and pearls, and I’m guessing she’s never had to do a quick change in the toilet. It’s practically an impossible task worthy of The Cube.
‘I’m off to dinner at Le Bistro.’
‘Nice. Special occasion?’
‘My dad’s birthday.’
‘Well, have a nice time,’ she says, looking at me again and hiding what looks like a smirk.
I quickly glance down at myself, and can’t see what she’s smirking at. I think I’ve scrubbed up pretty well. I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m alone once more, and I focus on my face, slapping on my foundation defiantly.
I’ve discovered on many occasions that the fluorescent lighting in the toilets is not conducive to make-up application. When they designed the 1960s-style council building, with its minimal windows and abundance of strip lighting, they hadn’t thought what that would mean for any girl trying to get ready in the windowless toilets. The lights are so bright it’s like being on the telly, and it’s very easy to overcompensate, which means that when you go back out into the real world, your office colleagues either mistake you for some type of hooker, or you look like your five-year-old niece applied your blusher.
Make-up done, I give myself a quick look in the mirror. I’m wearing a tight-fitting dress with a floaty lace overlay. I bought it in the sale last year and have been dying to find a reason to wear it ever since. I’ve perhaps put on a couple of pounds since I bought it, and while it might be a little snug, I think it still looks pretty good – no matter what the finance lady thinks.
At least my mum will be impressed that I’m wearing an actual dress and tights. If I’d turned up in what I wore to work this morning (frumpy black palazzo pants and a baggy, misshapen grey cardie), she probably would have sent me back home to change. The last time she met me from work she looked at my outfit and told me that it was no wonder I was thirty-one and unmarried if that’s how I dressed.