More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  First things first: I need to get rid of those eggs – the reek of blocked drains is making me queasy – so I wrap them in a napkin and make a beeline for the Ladies, where I stuff them into a tampon bin, trying not to gag at the sulphurous stink. Then I brave the mirror and tackle my face, wiping away the smudges of mascara and reapplying my make-up, majoring on blusher and bronzer for the healthy glow of one who absolutely does not have a drink problem.

  On leaving the Ladies, I march up to the bar, my confidence boosted by the make-up and infinitesimal amount of vodka coursing through my veins.

  ‘I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please. Double.’

  I watch the barman pour in two teeny measures of vodka. Honestly, it’s barely a teaspoonful.

  ‘Could you put in an extra shot, please?’

  He does so without comment. ‘How were the pickled eggs?’

  ‘Delicious, thank you.’

  ‘My nan’s recipe,’ he says. ‘She used to run this place. That’s her over there.’

  He puts my drink on the bar and nods at a framed photo of a woman who clearly eats a dozen pickled eggs for breakfast.

  ‘She looks like quite a woman,’ I say, perching on one of the stools. ‘How much do I owe you for this?’

  ‘On the house.’ He grins. ‘Nan would have insisted.’

  I smile gratefully while thinking: God, I really hope he’s not responsible for emptying the tampon bins.

  By the time I leave the Admiral Nelson an hour or so later, the sun has come out, I have gained two Facebook friends – Clive the barman and Bob, one of the regulars (the others, Tony and Del, don’t yet do social media, although they’ve promised me they’ll take a look) – I have been treated to several of Clive’s ‘special’ rum cocktails, and I am absolutely, undeniably shit-faced. It’s a lovely, floaty drunkenness, though, not an angry, slurry one, and as I stroll back to the bus stop with the sunshine warming my face, I can’t imagine why on earth I was getting so stressed out about Luke. Seriously, what’s the big deal? I don’t need that emotionally constipated loser! I am a strong, confident woman who can take on the world. Just like Clive’s old nan, Gawd bless her.

  As I fumble in my bag for some chewing gum, I stumble on an uneven paving slab – oopsy daisy! – but recover with a giggle. Honestly, pre-lunch drinking is massively underrated.

  I eventually arrive at the next property, the penthouse apartment of a flashy Thames-side development, half an hour behind schedule, but apparently the owner, an American investment banker, lives in New York so – no problemo. Judging by the number of security guards loitering in the marble-lined lobby, the residents here are strictly mega-bucks only. I have to put a code into the lift to get it to go to the penthouse, and when it reaches the top floor, the doors open straight out into the apartment.

  ‘Woah, this place is uh-mazing!’ I announce to the vast room, which has floor to ceiling windows facing the Houses of Parliament across the river. Wow. The view alone must be worth millions.

  I spin around with outstretched arms and then belly-flop onto the sofa and lie there watching the boats gliding up and down the Thames, feeling pleasurably woozy. I actually start to drift off, but then my stomach rumbles with the force of an accelerating 747, reminding me that I haven’t really eaten since breakfast. I am instantly overwhelmed by an urge for something fatty, salty or sugary – or, even better, all three – so I drag myself off the sofa and have a poke around the kitchen, singing Barbra Streisand hits at top volume. I might not have her look anymore, but boy, can I still belt out her back catalogue! Sadly, the kitchen cabinets are largely empty, apart from some jumbo tubs of whey protein and a half-finished bottle of Grey Goose, so I wander through to the bedroom, which is dominated by a bed on a raised plinth that would comfortably sleep at least a dozen supermodels (although only if they were lying on their sides, like a tin of sexy size-zero herrings). I slide open the expanse of fitted wardrobes to reveal a row of designer men’s suits and a squash racquet. Honestly, this place couldn’t be more of a millionaire bachelor cliché if it had a 50 Shades-style sex dungeon in the airing cupboard. (It doesn’t – I checked.) There is, however, some obviously big-ticket artwork about the place, including a huge Chinese vase that I earmark for an iPhone snap later. It’s only then that I remember I’m supposed to be here to do some actual work. Doh!

  The marketing photos are dead easy, because the rooms are so huge that there’s no staging or trickery required, and I discover that photographing while pissed stops me obsessing over every tiny aspect of each shot like I usually do. I’m literally done in ten minutes. Result! Right, now for that vase . . .

  I crouch down in front of it to get the best angle while effortlessly hitting the high notes in ‘Woman in Love’. I hadn’t actually realised before, but I’m a really good singer. I check the photo on the screen: yes, this is going to look bloody brilliant. Perhaps I should move it over by the window so I can get the Houses of Parliament in the background? It looks quite heavy, but if I get my shoulder under it, I’m sure I’ll be able to shuffle it across the carpet . . .

  ‘Nice vase, isn’t it?’

  And then I spin round in shock to discover a man standing in front of the lift doors, which are closing behind him as silently as they apparently opened.

  17

  Despite my drunken state, I immediately notice two things about the new arrival. Firstly, he pronounces vase as ‘vayse’ rather than ‘vaarse’. This clearly makes him American, which means he must be the owner, and therefore not in New York after all. And secondly, he is fit. As in, well fit. He is about my height, with a sandy-coloured beard, broad shoulders and the sort of chest that would make a perfect place to nestle your head. His nose, while not XXXL like mine, is impressively prominent and noble. The overall impression is of a sexy, suit-and-tie-clad lumberjack. Probably not everyone’s cup of coffee, but, right now, most definitely mine.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I was just taking a closer look,’ I say, gesturing at the vase. ‘I’m a big fan of, um, Ming Dynasty porcelain.’ (If I’ve learnt anything from Rudy, it’s that if you say something with enough confidence, people will believe you.)

  ‘Right,’ he says, narrowing his eyes. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Annie Taylor. From Kindis Curtebey – I mean Curtis Kinderbey. Curtis Kinderbey! Ha! The excellent estate agents. I’ve just been taking marketing photos. Not just vase photos, honest! Hahaha!’

  He nods thoughtfully. ‘Well, Annie Taylor from Curtis Kinderbey, you’ve got quite a loud singing voice. I could hear you from inside the lift – and I believe it’s lead-lined and bomb-proof. Barbra would be proud of you.’

  Before I realise it, I snigger. I know I’m being massively unprofessional, but I can’t help it; nothing seems that important right now. Plus, he’s smiling, so hopefully that means he’s not going to report me for misconduct. And he knows his Barbra songs! Gosh, he really is very attractive . . . Bloody hormones – or bloody alcohol. Could be either to blame right now, TBH . . .

  ‘Well, I better get my things together,’ I say, making a particular effort not to slur my words. ‘I will be out of your way in just one little tiny minute.’

  ‘It’s no problem, take your time.’ He strolls into the room and slings his rucksack onto the sofa in such an assertively manly fashion that I immediately find myself imagining that I’m the rucksack and the sofa is his gigantic bed (minus the fishy supermodels).

  ‘Can I get you a drink before you go?’

  ‘Grey Goose and tonic, please.’ Shit! It slipped out before I could stop myself. ‘Just joking! Water would be super, thank you.’

  A moment later he hands me a glass and then sits on the arm of the sofa fiddling with his phone as I pack up my camera. I keep taking surreptitious glances at him, just to reassure myself of his attractiveness, and get a shock one time when I discover he’s looking straight back at me. Our eyes meet and he smiles; my cheeks flare red in response.

  ‘This is such an amazing view,’ I enthu
se, trying to detract from how flustered I suddenly feel.

  ‘I know, right?’ he says, jumping up and crossing to the window with endearing enthusiasm. ‘What this room really needs is a telescope – then you could look right inside the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s an excellent idea! There’s probably some juicy sex scandal going on right this moment.’

  He turns to me, eyebrows raised. ‘You reckon?’

  Shit, I shouldn’t have mentioned sex. That was inappropriate and makes me sound like a perv.

  ‘Or just a . . . normal type of scandal,’ I say quickly. ‘Like bribery or something. And if you caught them in the act, you could sell the pictures to the newspapers and make loads of money.’

  He gives a half-smile. ‘And this would be the act of . . . ?’

  I stare at him, mock-outraged. ‘Bribery, of course!’

  He laughs. He really is being very friendly, almost – and I’m sure I’m not imagining this – flirtatious. All the eye contact, the frequent smiles: yes, the signs are most definitely there. Ha, I’ve still got it!

  ‘So, do you live nearby?’ he asks.

  ‘Not far,’ I reply, putting on my coat while wondering: is he asking that as polite chit-chat, or because he wants to get in my pants? I swing my bag over my shoulder and turn to face him, a flame of anticipation flickering inside me. It’s not just that I fancy him – although I blatantly do – but even in my drunkenness, I feel like here is someone who is right for me; we’re definitely each other’s sort of person. We might have only just met, but I know that for a fact.

  ‘I better get going then,’ I say, hoping he’ll ask me not to.

  He gets up off the sofa, another of those sexy smiles playing about his lips. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s got the most amazing teeth: white (but not fake, Simon Cowell white), perfectly straight, totally American. A thought suddenly pops into my head: if I made a move right now, he would respond. I’m not sure where it came from, but now that it’s in my head, it’s firmly stuck there.

  ‘Well, thank you for coming,’ he says. ‘It was great to meet you.’

  ‘You too. The agency will be in touch with the photos and floor plan within the next few days.’

  I turn and head towards the lift and although most of my focus is devoted to making sure I walk in a straight line, I can sense that he’s following me. Sure enough, when I reach the doors I turn and discover he’s right there next to me. He’s still smiling – although his smile has now changed. This smile has a question in it.

  There’s a lightness in my head and my breathing is shallow. This is completely different from when I was lusting over Dr Tom ‘Hot Dentist’ Ford the other day, because this time I am 99.9 per cent sure the feelings are mutual – and I’m too pissed to care about the remaining 0.1 per cent. Our eyes are now locked; it’s like he’s daring me to make the first move.

  So this actually happens in real life and not just in the movies, does it? You meet someone and there’s an instant, compelling attraction? I feel a pleasurable stirring in the vicinity of my knickers as my hand hovers over the lift button, playing for time.

  Go on, do it, urges my inner MILF. I dare you.

  But what about Luke? He’s Dot’s dad, and we haven’t officially broken up, after all.

  Luke is screwing Sigrid. He’s betrayed you again and again. He doesn’t care about you.

  I really should leave. I’m drunk and I don’t know the first thing about this bloke.

  Jess said you needed to have a one-night stand, didn’t she? I’m sure a one-day stand would do the trick, too . . .

  I take a step towards the American, trying to keep the drunken wobbling to a minimum, and fix him with my best seductive stare. We’re standing so close that I get a whiff of his alluring, citrussy fragrance; I just hope the chewing gum has taken care of my own alluring vodka-y fragrance. A look appears in his eyes – it could be excitement, or it could also be confusion – but he makes no attempt to move. I do think that given the opportunity, most blokes wouldn’t turn you down, so I take another step towards him, until we’re standing close enough for me to reach out and touch his chest. And so I do.

  His eyes flick down to my hand and then back to me with a quizzical look, but again, he doesn’t move. Mission Control, we are go!

  Is this completely unprofessional? Oh yes. Am I going to get fired? Probably! But right this moment I couldn’t give a stuff. The flicker of anticipation has turned into a blaze of excitement. I am a strong, sexual woman. I used to do crazy stuff like this all the time; God knows I deserve a bit of fun.

  Before I can change my mind, I lean in towards him for a kiss. I catch a glimpse of his expression, which is admittedly rather wide-eyed, but he doesn’t pull away, and a moment later our mouths touch. His lips are soft and yielding and his beard just the right side of scratchy, and as I close my eyes, any worries are washed away in a flood of feel-good hormones and I surf the wild rush of oxytocin, letting myself be sucked down into a whirlpool of lust . . . but now my head is starting to spin and actually I’m feeling a bit queasy and I – oh fuck fuck fuck what the fuck am I doing?

  I don’t know which one of us pulls away first, but suddenly we’re most definitely not kissing, and I’ve sobered up as quickly as if someone has just chucked a bucket of cold water over me.

  My hand flies to my mouth in horror. I have literally just forced myself on someone. And not just a randy stranger in a bar, on a client in his own fucking home.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ I am stammering, too mortified to string a sentence together. ‘I can’t . . . I don’t know . . .’

  Oh God, just look at his expression! He has the face of a man who’s discovered he’s just been given herpes. By me. Right now I can’t begin to fathom why I ever thought he might want me to lunge at him. For all I know he might be married. Christ, he could be gay!

  He wipes his mouth of my pickled-egg slobber and then runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to work out how to deal with this sex-crazed lunatic.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says, his voice deliberately calm, as if negotiating with a terrorist. ‘It’s fine. Really, I . . .’

  ‘No no no, I behaved appallingly, it’s all my fault!’ I hammer at the lift button. ‘I feel absolutely terrible, I . . . I’ve had a hard week, personal issues, no excuse, but . . .’ Thankfully the lift arrives and I dive in, lunging at the button to make the doors close, not daring to look back at him. What have I done?

  Then I hear him say: ‘Just wait a minute, I . . .’

  But thankfully the lead-lined lift doors now glide silently closed, drowning out the rest of his sentence, sparing me further mortification. It’s only then it occurs to me that I didn’t even find out the poor bloke’s name.

  18

  There’s a tipping point between gloriously drunk and grimly hungover, which for me is heralded by a spinning head and a creeping awareness that I’ve just made a complete tit of myself – although said tittery is generally drunken dancing and/or karaoke, mere japes compared to forcing myself on a client. I’m usually nearing bed when I reach this state, but today I’ve plunged straight into the opening credits of The Hangover From Hell while sitting on the early afternoon bus back to Streatham surrounded by old ladies, mums with babies and a couple of nuns. I now realise that the reason we generally get pissed in the evening is because fewer people notice if you do embarrassing things in the dark. Also, self-loathing and existential angst are far worse during daylight hours. (Not to mention, there are fewer, if any, nuns around at night.)

  I’ve done some dumb things in my life, but today I have literally scaled the Everest of idiocy. Best case scenario, I’m going to be fired; worst, I’ll be arrested for sexual assault. I get a sudden flashback to the American’s appalled expression and am body-slammed by another wave of shame. Of course he didn’t pull away when I threw myself at him: the poor bloke was in shock! I shakily cram down another mouthful of the kebab that I bought before getting o
n the bus and force it down along with my rising nausea. If today’s taught me anything – apart from the questionable wisdom of pre-lunch boozing – it’s that if a man’s smile seems to have a question in it, that question isn’t necessarily ‘Fancy a snog?’ It’s actually more likely to be: ‘Could you please get out of my home?’ Or: ‘Why are you looking at me in that weird way? Seriously, you’re scaring me.’

  I shrink into my seat, attempting to make myself invisible, and am hit by a visceral need to see Dot, to hold her close and remind myself that there is something good in my life, that I’m not a total fuck-up. But Luke’s collecting her from the childminder today and keeping her with him tonight; besides, I definitely shouldn’t be parenting in this state. I’m not even capable of looking after myself.

  I have two more work appointments this afternoon, but there is no way I can struggle through those feeling the way I do now. I need my bed and the oblivion of sleep. I’m going to have to call Karl to let him know; I just hope to God that the American hasn’t already phoned the office to report me for aggravated snoggery.

  I dial Karl’s direct line and it goes straight to voicemail; thank God, my first bit of good luck today . . .

  ‘Um Karl, hi, it’s Annie Taylor here. I’ve just finished up at the riverside penthouse apartment but I’m afraid I’m feeling really ill, sort of shivery and achy – in fact, I think I might be coming down with the flu – cough cough – so I’m going to have to go home to bed. I’m so sorry, I’ll make sure the other photographs are done early next week. Sorry again. Cough. Bye.’

  I catch one of the nuns’ eyes; she knows I’m lying. She gives me a piously pursed-lip look that says: you, my child, are going straight to hell.

  A few minutes later my phone vibrates with a WhatsApp from Fi; Karl has obviously already been moaning about my unreliability.