and signed for packages from the postman in it.
I do a slow twirl. I’m almost terrified to see the back view. Slowly . . . slowly . . . Argghh. It’s worse than I thought. Folds of faded tartan hang loosely from my buttocks like two humungous saddlebags. Think M. C. Hammer. Think Gandhi.
Think new flatmate.
Stripping them off and chucking them on to the floor, I yank open my drawers and reach for my Snoopy nightie – then recoil. A Snoopy nightie? I can’t wear a Snoopy nightie. I forage for another pair of pyjamas that I know are in there, but I can only find the top. Three of its buttons are missing and it’s got a granddad collar. A fucking granddad collar. Why had I never noticed it before? In fact, why have I never noticed that I have appalling nightwear? What on earth did I wear when I lived with Daniel?
Nothing, I remember, thinking back to my old sexy life when I went to bed wearing eyeliner and Thierry Mugler’s Angel. That was before I turned into the single, celibate thirtynothing cliché who sleeps with her cat and wears socks, big period knickers and intensive anti-wrinkle night cream.
Shuddering, I grab hold of myself. There’s the nightgown that Rosemary bought me two Christmases ago, still in its Marks & Spencer carrier-bag. I hold it against my naked body. It’s floor-length, decorated with rosebuds and frilly. Very, very frilly.
But I’m desperate. Next door I can hear taps being turned on and off, teeth being brushed, the loo flushing, a plug being pulled out and the basin draining. Any minute now it will be my turn. I’m going to have to try to make it from my bedroom to the bathroom without being seen. I strain for the noise of the lock. Nothing. A cough. Silence. Then I hear it. The sound of the key turning, the soft click of the door . . .
I press my cheek against the doorframe to peer through the crack between the wall and the door. I see a letterbox of light, floorboards, my fern, which needs watering. Like a learner driver I look left, right and left again. All clear. With a flush of relief, I ease open the door and tiptoe bravely into the hall. Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. I hold my breath, clutching my nightie between finger and thumb like Wee Willie Winkie. Nearly there, nearly there—
‘Argggh,’ I shriek.
‘Wow, sorry, did I frighten you?’
Gabe is still in the bathroom. I mean, he’s just standing there. On my shagpile mat. In the middle of my goddamn bathroom.
‘Oh my God, yes – I mean, no – no, it’s okay.’ Clutching my embroidered lacy chest, I try to catch my breath. Which is when it dawns on me that (a) he’s naked but for a pair of white, rather snug boxer shorts (not that I mean to look, I just can’t help it), and (b) I look like someone’s granny in a full-length nightgown that comes up to my neck in a fluted ruffle.
‘Oh, by the way, you never did say why you’re visiting,’ I blurt, in an attempt at casual chit-chat. I say ‘attempt’, as it’s not easy when he’s standing there, all naked flesh and tufts of chest hair and snug white pouch.
Oh, my God, I’ve done it again. Eyes straight ahead, Heather. Eyes straight ahead.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He squeezes out a facecloth that I hadn’t noticed he was holding. Just as I hadn’t noticed that the bathroom is spotless. No loo seat left up, no soggy towel on the floor, no bristles on the soap. For all my good intentions, my eyes flick quickly round the avocado suite, a souvenir from the seventies that Daniel and I had planned to rip out when we did up the flat. Only he left and I tried mending a broken heart with retail therapy – which means I still have the hideous avocado suite but I also have lots of lovely candles from Diptyque. ‘I’m putting on a show at the Edinburgh Festival.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say vaguely, throwing him my best smile of approval. I catch sight of our toothbrushes standing side by side in a mug with a tube of Colgate Extra and notice its top
I do a slow twirl. I’m almost terrified to see the back view. Slowly . . . slowly . . . Argghh. It’s worse than I thought. Folds of faded tartan hang loosely from my buttocks like two humungous saddlebags. Think M. C. Hammer. Think Gandhi.
Think new flatmate.
Stripping them off and chucking them on to the floor, I yank open my drawers and reach for my Snoopy nightie – then recoil. A Snoopy nightie? I can’t wear a Snoopy nightie. I forage for another pair of pyjamas that I know are in there, but I can only find the top. Three of its buttons are missing and it’s got a granddad collar. A fucking granddad collar. Why had I never noticed it before? In fact, why have I never noticed that I have appalling nightwear? What on earth did I wear when I lived with Daniel?
Nothing, I remember, thinking back to my old sexy life when I went to bed wearing eyeliner and Thierry Mugler’s Angel. That was before I turned into the single, celibate thirtynothing cliché who sleeps with her cat and wears socks, big period knickers and intensive anti-wrinkle night cream.
Shuddering, I grab hold of myself. There’s the nightgown that Rosemary bought me two Christmases ago, still in its Marks & Spencer carrier-bag. I hold it against my naked body. It’s floor-length, decorated with rosebuds and frilly. Very, very frilly.
But I’m desperate. Next door I can hear taps being turned on and off, teeth being brushed, the loo flushing, a plug being pulled out and the basin draining. Any minute now it will be my turn. I’m going to have to try to make it from my bedroom to the bathroom without being seen. I strain for the noise of the lock. Nothing. A cough. Silence. Then I hear it. The sound of the key turning, the soft click of the door . . .
I press my cheek against the doorframe to peer through the crack between the wall and the door. I see a letterbox of light, floorboards, my fern, which needs watering. Like a learner driver I look left, right and left again. All clear. With a flush of relief, I ease open the door and tiptoe bravely into the hall. Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. I hold my breath, clutching my nightie between finger and thumb like Wee Willie Winkie. Nearly there, nearly there—
‘Argggh,’ I shriek.
‘Wow, sorry, did I frighten you?’
Gabe is still in the bathroom. I mean, he’s just standing there. On my shagpile mat. In the middle of my goddamn bathroom.
‘Oh my God, yes – I mean, no – no, it’s okay.’ Clutching my embroidered lacy chest, I try to catch my breath. Which is when it dawns on me that (a) he’s naked but for a pair of white, rather snug boxer shorts (not that I mean to look, I just can’t help it), and (b) I look like someone’s granny in a full-length nightgown that comes up to my neck in a fluted ruffle.
‘Oh, by the way, you never did say why you’re visiting,’ I blurt, in an attempt at casual chit-chat. I say ‘attempt’, as it’s not easy when he’s standing there, all naked flesh and tufts of chest hair and snug white pouch.
Oh, my God, I’ve done it again. Eyes straight ahead, Heather. Eyes straight ahead.
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He squeezes out a facecloth that I hadn’t noticed he was holding. Just as I hadn’t noticed that the bathroom is spotless. No loo seat left up, no soggy towel on the floor, no bristles on the soap. For all my good intentions, my eyes flick quickly round the avocado suite, a souvenir from the seventies that Daniel and I had planned to rip out when we did up the flat. Only he left and I tried mending a broken heart with retail therapy – which means I still have the hideous avocado suite but I also have lots of lovely candles from Diptyque. ‘I’m putting on a show at the Edinburgh Festival.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say vaguely, throwing him my best smile of approval. I catch sight of our toothbrushes standing side by side in a mug with a tube of Colgate Extra and notice its top
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