It Started With A Tweet(6)

I’m just about to start finding the pieces Marvellous Marcus wanted when my phone beeps with a WhatsApp message from Erica.

What time are you going to be home tonight? Thinking of making a chilli if you are up to eating again! x

Scratch crawling into bed for an early night after doing the laundry, staying at work or going on a date with a super-hot guy. I’d much rather be sitting on the sofa with my bestie dissecting the hen do. Despite living together, we haven’t seen each other since she grunted in her hungover state on Sunday morning that she was off to her boyfriend Chris’s house.

I’m going on a date with Dominic, the Tinder guy. Maybe I won’t be home at all .?.?.

I know that’s a lie, I have the ultimate chastity belt on as the leggings are hiding a hairy forest. I can’t remember the last time I shaved my legs.

Ooh, hope it goes well! In that case I’ll stay at Chris’s tonight. Don’t forget to keep doing updates so we all know you’re safe. I’m out tomorrow night, but catch up on Thursday if you make it back from work early enough? xx

I quickly reply:

Of course xx

It’s funny, as I thought that living with Erica, I’d see her more, but in actual fact in the three months that I’ve been living in her flat I’ve seen her less. We’re like ships that pass in the night. At least when we lived separately we used to make formal arrangements to see each other, now we’re lucky if we bump into each other for long enough to gossip over a bowl of cornflakes.

Perhaps it’s yet another reason to find my own place again. It’s been on my to-do list for the last six months, ever since my previous landlord gave me notice that he was selling the flat I rented. I was so busy at work that I kept missing appointments to view other places and found myself homeless. Luckily for me, Erica has a spare room, or at least an estate agent conned her into thinking it was one. I’m more convinced it’s a broom cupboard, but for all the time I’ve spent in it, I can cope with being Harry Potter. And, despite having to pay for storage of the majority of my belongings, the rent Erica’s charging me is so low that I’ve actually been able to save. Which means that when I finally do get a chance to look for somewhere else, I might be able to afford something a bit better than my last mildew-infested basement flat.

But there’s no time to dwell on that now. I put my phone down, turn my attention back to my work, and I soon start to feel the adrenaline pumping round my veins. I desperately try and achieve as much as possible and I’m actually on fire. I’m almost matching Sara’s fake typing speed. If only I could keep this sort of a pace up all day, I would probably be able to leave work on time every day.

I email Marvellous Marcus his attachments and hastily shut down my computer. All that stands between me and my departure is a quick tweet from our work account to prove to my big bad boss Andrea that I’m still working, which I do on Tweetdeck on my phone. I quickly tap it out before shoving my phone into my bag and voila, Dominic, here I come.

‘Are you going home to get changed?’ asks Sara, looking me up and down.

‘I haven’t got time, and besides, nothing’s clean. I was going to do my laundry tonight.’

Her eyes almost pop out in horror. Of course they would. She’s dressed in a charcoal-grey shift dress and blazer, with neatly polished brogues on her feet. She’s one of the few people I know who doesn’t have to dress up specially for an Instagram outfit photo.

‘You can’t go like that,’ she says horrified. She roots around in her office drawer and pulls out a scarf.

‘Here,’ she says, standing up and wrapping it elegantly round my neck. Without asking, she pulls off my cardigan, does up a couple of buttons, then hangs it round my shoulders like a middle-aged man stepping off a yacht.

She stands back to admire her handiwork. I can’t be sure, but I think she’s just caught sight of the Snoopy knickers situation, and so she pulls the scarf off and ties it round my waist like a belt, before knotting the arms of my cardigan to make it look scarf-like.

‘There,’ she says, smiling. ‘It’s not perfect, but I think it’s making the best of a bad outfit.’

‘Great, thanks, Sara.’

‘Now all you’ll need to do is hair and make-up.’

‘Yep, going to do that on the tube.’ I see her wincing but I don’t have time for anything else; it’s already ten past seven and I’m going to have to run to catch the train. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘That’s if you don’t get swept off your feet and never return.’

I laugh sarcastically and give her a wave as I go.

I hurry down the metal staircase and pause briefly at the end that faces a mirror. I might not be able to take a full-length selfie with these clothes, but I can take an arty one of my new suede espadrille boots. I position half a foot down the final step, then take a photo of the reflection. I quickly apply a Mayfair filter and add the caption ‘Hot date tonight’ before posting it to my Instagram. Thank heavens for clean shoes, as there’s no filter out there with the ability to turn the rest of my outfit into one worthy of getting those ego-boosting likes.

I jog out across the reception and make it out onto the street. I can’t help feeling guilty that I’m leaving while it’s still light outside, but I keep my fingers crossed that tonight will go so well with Dominic that we’ll fall madly in love and it’ll totally make my early departure seem worth it.