eating my porridge.
17
The following morning, after my bad porridge dream, I wake up bursting for the loo.
Go, a voice tells me. Just go. It’s no big deal. You’ve got to bump into him at some point.
I hear vague noises coming from his bedroom.
I slip the duvet off me, open the door and, like a detective, glance to the left and to the right. Jack’s door is closed. I look ahead. The coast is clear. In my oversized T-shirt and baggy striped pyjamas I tiptoe down the hallway, down two steps and into the bathroom, shutting the door swiftly behind me. Now, this is when I wish I had a lock, for what I am about to do is unforgivable. I turn on the tap full blast, and just to make sure Jack knows the room is in use, that there’s absolutely no doubt about it, I turn on the shower. Then I rush to the loo, slam the loo seat down and go. Ah, thank God!
After a lightning-quick shower I open the bathroom door and sprint back along the landing, and am so close to reaching my destination, until . . .
‘Hi there,’ he says in his dressing gown. ‘Bathroom free?’
I pull the towel closely around me. ‘Yes, all yours!’ I squeak, scampering back into my bedroom.
When I hear the sound of running water I find myself smiling as I imagine Jack, naked in my shower, water running down his broad tanned back.
As I’m getting dressed for work, I decide to wear the new black dress I bought (with Jack’s rent) which shows off my cleavage. As I stick my pyjamas under the pillow, I decide I might upgrade them with next month’s rent. Maybe I’ll buy myself a skimpy silk nightie too.
Applying lipstick, I hear him whispering on the landing. I lean into the door to try to catch what he’s saying.
‘Yeah, I’m off. Thank God it’s Friday . . . I’ve been locked in the edit suite . . . She’s nice, hardly seen her though.’
He must be talking about me.
He laughs. ‘Any plans for the weekend by the way?’
‘Got to go,’ he says, when I walk out of my bedroom. He slips his BlackBerry into his pocket. We both head downstairs, Jack behind me. ‘Is the room all right, the mattress comfortable?’ I ask, as if I am running a bed and breakfast business.
‘Very comfortable.’
‘You have everything you want?’
‘It’s fine. Thanks for the flowers too.’
Our conversation is an ocean apart from how we reacted to one another the first time we met, and it occurs to me that Jack might be as apprehensive as I am.
‘How’s the foot?’ he asks, followed by, ‘I hope I didn’t wake you last night?’
‘No.’ I pretend, still thinking about him naked in my shower.
We need to hit this politeness thing hard on the head. I shift from one foot to the other until Jack says hesitantly. ‘Well, I’m off! Great to see you.’
‘You too,’ I reply with a dopey smile.
‘See you on Monday then.’
‘Absolutely!’
And he’s gone.
Surreptitiously I push open Jack’s bedroom door. It’s dark, the curtains are still drawn but already it has a different smell. I glance over to his unmade bed. On the bedside table is a crumpled packet of cigarettes and some loose change. The top shelf of his chest of drawers is open and I spy a pair of Calvin Klein pants lurking under his dressing chair, which makes me smile about the knickers left in the bathroom incident.
I walk over to the wardrobe, and like a police officer searching for evidence I swing open the doors and see a line of shirts and a leather jacket. Just clothes, things you’d expect to see in a wardrobe. What did I expect or want to see? Disgusted and shocked at myself I leave the room.
I make a coffee, despondent that I am no further on in discovering anything more about Jack Baker. I don’t even know where he lives. ‘Oh Ruskin, why does it matter, anyway?’ I ask him.
‘Hi again,’ Jack says, and I must jump so much because milk sloshes everywhere: onto the floor, under the table, down my brand-new black dress.
‘Oh, sorry!’ Jack grins. ‘I
17
The following morning, after my bad porridge dream, I wake up bursting for the loo.
Go, a voice tells me. Just go. It’s no big deal. You’ve got to bump into him at some point.
I hear vague noises coming from his bedroom.
I slip the duvet off me, open the door and, like a detective, glance to the left and to the right. Jack’s door is closed. I look ahead. The coast is clear. In my oversized T-shirt and baggy striped pyjamas I tiptoe down the hallway, down two steps and into the bathroom, shutting the door swiftly behind me. Now, this is when I wish I had a lock, for what I am about to do is unforgivable. I turn on the tap full blast, and just to make sure Jack knows the room is in use, that there’s absolutely no doubt about it, I turn on the shower. Then I rush to the loo, slam the loo seat down and go. Ah, thank God!
After a lightning-quick shower I open the bathroom door and sprint back along the landing, and am so close to reaching my destination, until . . .
‘Hi there,’ he says in his dressing gown. ‘Bathroom free?’
I pull the towel closely around me. ‘Yes, all yours!’ I squeak, scampering back into my bedroom.
When I hear the sound of running water I find myself smiling as I imagine Jack, naked in my shower, water running down his broad tanned back.
As I’m getting dressed for work, I decide to wear the new black dress I bought (with Jack’s rent) which shows off my cleavage. As I stick my pyjamas under the pillow, I decide I might upgrade them with next month’s rent. Maybe I’ll buy myself a skimpy silk nightie too.
Applying lipstick, I hear him whispering on the landing. I lean into the door to try to catch what he’s saying.
‘Yeah, I’m off. Thank God it’s Friday . . . I’ve been locked in the edit suite . . . She’s nice, hardly seen her though.’
He must be talking about me.
He laughs. ‘Any plans for the weekend by the way?’
‘Got to go,’ he says, when I walk out of my bedroom. He slips his BlackBerry into his pocket. We both head downstairs, Jack behind me. ‘Is the room all right, the mattress comfortable?’ I ask, as if I am running a bed and breakfast business.
‘Very comfortable.’
‘You have everything you want?’
‘It’s fine. Thanks for the flowers too.’
Our conversation is an ocean apart from how we reacted to one another the first time we met, and it occurs to me that Jack might be as apprehensive as I am.
‘How’s the foot?’ he asks, followed by, ‘I hope I didn’t wake you last night?’
‘No.’ I pretend, still thinking about him naked in my shower.
We need to hit this politeness thing hard on the head. I shift from one foot to the other until Jack says hesitantly. ‘Well, I’m off! Great to see you.’
‘You too,’ I reply with a dopey smile.
‘See you on Monday then.’
‘Absolutely!’
And he’s gone.
Surreptitiously I push open Jack’s bedroom door. It’s dark, the curtains are still drawn but already it has a different smell. I glance over to his unmade bed. On the bedside table is a crumpled packet of cigarettes and some loose change. The top shelf of his chest of drawers is open and I spy a pair of Calvin Klein pants lurking under his dressing chair, which makes me smile about the knickers left in the bathroom incident.
I walk over to the wardrobe, and like a police officer searching for evidence I swing open the doors and see a line of shirts and a leather jacket. Just clothes, things you’d expect to see in a wardrobe. What did I expect or want to see? Disgusted and shocked at myself I leave the room.
I make a coffee, despondent that I am no further on in discovering anything more about Jack Baker. I don’t even know where he lives. ‘Oh Ruskin, why does it matter, anyway?’ I ask him.
‘Hi again,’ Jack says, and I must jump so much because milk sloshes everywhere: onto the floor, under the table, down my brand-new black dress.
‘Oh, sorry!’ Jack grins. ‘I
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