It Started With A Tweet(12)

Uh-oh.

My blood starts to run cold. I feel the simultaneous urge to throw up and wee. Neither would be socially acceptable. But then again, neither was the tweet I’d posted.

What the hell have I done?

I panic as I click to view the profile, and there in black and blue is my tweet:



Sexy knickers ￡25, Brazilian ￡35, New outfit ￡170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless



I reread it over and over again as the magnitude of what I’ve done hits me. Why did I have to make a joke out of the MasterCard ad? We have loads of financial clients, and one of them is a rival credit card – surely they’re not going to be impressed with this.

The beads of sweat that were hangover related turn from mild perspiration to full-on drips as I try to come to terms with what I’ve done.

I attempt to force my wrist to work as I hastily try to remember how to delete a tweet. I’m not naive enough to think that’s solved the problem – I saw the look of horror on Sara’s face when I mentioned Twitter. I’m just wondering how I’m going to get rid of the evidence of those who have done the old-fashioned retweet using the words RT, but a shadow falls over my desk and I realise that I’m out of time.

‘Daisy. So glad you can finally join us. My office, I think.’

And there it is. As I do the walk of shame behind Andrea to the other end of our office, people actually stop their work and stare at me as I go by like I’m a dead man walking – which, I’m guessing, after what I’ve done, I am.

*

I don’t hear the voices at first, I’m too busy holding a Twitter vigil in my Harry Potteresque bedroom, but soon they are so loud that I can’t ignore them.

‘I don’t know why it’s such a big deal,’ I hear Erica shout. ‘It’s not like she’s here that much anyway. You stay over most of the time as it is. It’s not going to be that different when you’re living here.’

It takes me a minute or so to process what’s been said, my mind still trying to process the fact that I got fired for the use of 140 ill-advised characters.

Chris is moving in?

It sounds like they’re having quite a heated discussion about me, and I can’t help but eavesdrop. I know that I should go out of the bedroom and let them know that I’m here, only I can’t tear myself away from my screen.

‘Of course it’s going to be different,’ he says sighing. ‘I want to feel comfortable in my own home. I want to walk around naked. Hell, I want you to walk around naked. I don’t want us to be constantly checking to see if Daisy’s in before we strip off.’ He sighs loudly. ‘It’s just not what I had in mind when we talked about moving in together. It’s bad enough on the few nights I stay over having to remember to put boxers on in the middle of the night when I need a wee, let alone doing it every night. It’s not like we need the money and have to have a lodger.’

I can’t believe this, not only is Chris moving in, but he also wants to evict me!

Great, first I get fired, then I become homeless.

‘It’s not about the money,’ says Erica. ‘She needs a place to stay at the moment. It’s not going to be forever. She’s just under so much pressure. I can’t add to that by telling her she’s got to move out. She’s my best friend and I know that she would do anything for me.’

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why she’s my bestie.

‘I know she is,’ says Chris. ‘And I have nothing against her. You know I like her a lot, and really, as housemates go, she’s perfect as we rarely see her, but it’s not the same. I want it to be our place, just you and me.

‘Think about it. I want to know that if I want to have you right here and right now on the sofa that I can, that you’re not going to be panicking that Daisy will walk in while we’re doing it.’

‘But you know I can always check to see where she is on the Find My Friends app.’

Chris laughs. ‘How romantic slash borderline stalker.’

‘Well, I can promise you she’ll be at work now. There’s no fear she’ll interrupt.’

Oh God. I can hear them kissing, and very soon I think I’m going to be hearing a whole lot more. I really wish I’d at least shut my door, but it has the worst creak on it, and they’d definitely have known I was here.

I stare at my bedroom window for a second and wonder if I can escape. But assuming I’d be able to fit through it, which is questionable with my hips, where do I think I’m going to go? We’re on the top floor of a large Victorian town house, and unless I’ve got some previously undetected Spiderman skills, I’d be like a cat stuck on a roof.

I’ll just have to hide out here and hope that they go to the bedroom after and I can sneak out of the flat.

I try to block out the smooching sounds and focus on what they’d been discussing. Even in my emotionally heightened state I can’t blame Chris. If I was shacking up with someone I’d want the freedom he craves too; surely that’s part of the appeal of living together. I know it’s not really about me, it’s about them taking the next step of their relationship and wanting it to be perfect, but it just couldn’t have come at a worse time. Losing my job and where I’m living in one day: talk about brutal.