‘OK, cards on the table, when we got back last night I thought I might get lucky, but you didn’t even want to sleep with me,’ he explains.
‘Dude, we’d just got back from your dad’s wake – that you didn’t even tell me we were going to.’
Oh, did I not mention that it was his dad’s funeral? I suppose I didn’t want to give Nick too much ammunition when he teases me about this every day until one of us moves out.
‘Yeah, well don’t you think I needed some comfort after that?’
‘So I’m supposed to bang you out of sheer sympathy?’
‘Well, it would’ve been nice,’ he replies, like it’s a fairly reasonable expectation.
‘You’re disgusting, get out,’ I demand.
Jonathan puts on his shoes and heads for the door, slamming it behind him.
Lying back on the sofa, I massage my temples for a moment. My head is banging, and I’ve got to be at work in an hour. Is getting dumped a good enough reason to call in sick?
‘Awkward,’ I say to myself. ‘So, so awkward.’ Not only what just happened with Jonathan, but my dream about Nick too. Not only do Nick and I not get on, but we’re like enemies, both driving the other crazy, but neither of us in a position to move out. The fact we’re stuck with one another only makes us hate each other even more.
I glance around the floor for my outfit from last night, only to find that Nick has folded my dress and placed it neatly over the back of the sofa. I grab it, shaking my head at his anal neatness as I meaningfully and defiantly unfold it. All communal areas of the house must be neat and tidy to a military standard. Sir, yes, sir.
Tossing my clothes through my bedroom doorway, I head straight for the shower. I know that I’m running late, but after an uncomfortable night on the sofa cuddled up to a sweaty, emotional wreck of a man, there’s no way I can go to work without washing some of yesterday’s failed date off of me. I’m literally going to wash Jonathan out of my hair – well, his sweat and tears at least.
I turn on the shower, cranking up the hot water to make the bathroom nice and steamy while I brush my teeth. I’ve got that fuzzy mouth feeling you’re left with after too many sugary alcoholic drinks. Typically, I’m out of toothpaste, but that’s what flatmates are for, right? Borrowing things from.
I can see from Nick’s toothpaste tube that he’s used approximately 1/8 so far, with the used 1/8 neatly folded over a few times, thus giving the appearance of a perfectly full, slightly smaller tool. Does he really have that much spare time on his hands? Really? In another act of defiance, I not only use his toothpaste, but I squeeze from the middle of the tube, leaving behind a big, fingertip-shaped dent in it.
Finally stepping into the hot shower feels glorious, I can feel my bad date washing off me. Sure, I’m annoyed at how he behaved, but mostly I’m just annoyed to have another bad date on my romantic CV. Hardly seems worth putting Jonathan down, for a mere three weeks, but they always say it’s better to put jobs down that you didn’t have for long/got fired from, rather than have big, unaccounted-for gaps in your employment, right?
I grab my delicious-smelling pina colada-scented shower gel and rub it all over my body. I love the smell of it because it reminds me of my two favourite things: cocktails and the beach. Which reminds me, I’m not only washing away Jonathan, I need to scrub myself clean of that sex dream about Nick. Nick Hall! I can’t believe it.
I think to myself as I shampoo my hair. I’ll admit that the first time I met Nick right here in this very flat, the first thing I noticed about him was how sexy he was. A sexy doctor, no less – that’s like every girl’s fantasy. Sharing this small space didn’t suit us though, and it’s amazing how quickly you can go off a person when they start to grate on you. One thing I can definitely put on my CV is that I’m not shallow, because not even Nick’s chiselled good looks, bulging biceps or romance novel-worthy profession can sway how I feel about him.
So why the hell did I dream that about him today? It can’t mean anything, can it? All that stuff about dreams meaning things has got to be a load of bollocks.
I shut off the water, and shut my dream about Nick out of my mind.
Once in the messy confines of my bedroom – where I am free to express my unorthodox organisational skills as I see fit – I grab a dress from the large pile of clothing on my bedroom floor – the division of my floordrobe which I have dubbed Mount Clothesmore – and search for my make-up bag because today my face is going to need everything it has to offer. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for work, but it’s better to be late than ugly, right?
Chapter 2
‘So he took you to a wake and then dumped you? Fuck me, that’s as rough as you look,’ Millsy laughs as I meaningfully drain the takeaway coffee cup I filled with a double shot vanilla latte the second I arrived at work – fifteen minutes late, which isn’t too bad considering.
‘You don’t look so hot yourself,’ I reply.
‘Erm, yeah I do,’ he replies, and he means it.
Millsy leans over and looks at himself in the reflection of the shiny silver coffee machine. He checks his eyes for dark circles before securing the topknot they make him pull his dark brown hair into for work. He makes a noise of approval – the kind that most men would usually reserve for a topless calendar or a bird they fancied. Millsy mostly just fancies Millsy.
Joe ‘Millsy’ Mills has been my best friend my whole life – my entire 27 years on this planet. Our parents lived next door to one another, and because he’s only three months older than me, we started playing together almost immediately and that was it, we became inseparable. We went to playgroup together, then school, and even now we’re supposedly grown-ups, we’re still best friends, still playing together – except our games have changed a little as we’ve become older.
I credit/blame Millsy for the way I’ve turned out. Despite my girly-girl appearance (because who doesn’t love that girly shit? Even Millsy loves a face mask and a regular brow appointment) I’m a total tomboy on the inside. I grew up doing whatever Millsy wanted to do for fun because, as he always reminds me, he is the eldest, and so video games, football and then eventually ‘lads’ nights out have become my hobbies. It’s funny because, to look at me, you’d think I was your typical Sex and the City-loving, spa-visiting, wine-drinking lady, rather than this messy, unscrupulous, coffee-addicted, sailor-mouthed hot mess you see before you.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I ask him.
‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’ Millsy pauses, thinking for a second. ‘Well, no, there are lots of things wrong with you, but none that twat would’ve thought of when he ditched you. It’s because you didn’t shag him, simple enough. I’ve ditched girls for that.’
I can always count on my bestie for brutal honesty.
Sadly, all of the men playing the dating game at the moment seem to be similar in their attitude. One thing I’ve noticed is that I’m always willing to give men the benefit of the doubt about things. So what if they’ve got a bit of grey hair and they’re only 26? So what if they’re not particularly stylish? So what if they could do with using a stronger deodorant? I give people a shot. Men, I am noticing, are not often like this. You can be too fat for them. You can be too frigid for them. You can text them too much. They don’t need much of a reason to ditch you and move on to the next bird.
‘What are your relationship goals?’ he asks me jokily, posing like the sassy girl emoji.
‘My relationship goals are: to have one. I’m sick of being single,’ I tell him.
‘So are all single birds, so you’re not alone,’ Millsy tells me, as though it’s going to be of comfort to me.
‘I am literally alone, that’s the point,’ I joke.
‘Man up. Plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘Which is why I’ve done something stupid,’ I start slowly.
‘Oh God, go on.’
‘I’ve agreed to go on a date tonight.’
Millsy laughs.
That’s the thing with dating apps, you meet all these seemingly lovely dudes and then you kick yourself when you date the wrong ones. You’ll be talking to a few people, and then you’ll have to pick just one to date and you can just guarantee I’ll pick the wrong one. I wind up with guys like Jonathan, who will leave me feeling annoyed I wasted so much time shaving my legs for dates that never worked out. It’s not like the men I meet in real life are much better; my last real-world boyfriend cheated on me, so it’s obviously just my taste that is the problem. Even in my dreams, I’m sleeping with the wrong people. I still can’t get over that I was dreaming about Nick. I know I’m going on about it, but it’s so weird. To dream about Millsy would be weird, because he’s like a brother to me, but Nick is like my sworn enemy and that’s much worse. Like, Batman and Robin getting it on would be weird, but Batman and The Joker shagging is just plain ridiculous because they hate each other so much, there isn’t enough Viagra in the world to facilitate that union. I consider telling Millsy about the dream, but he’ll probably freak out more than I did about it.
Maybe it was stupid of me to make a date for this evening as I was walking to work, but I can’t think of a better way to get Jonathan and Nick out of my head. And no matter how bad things go with one guy, I’m always full of hope that the next one will be the one for me.
Millsy glances towards the door. ‘Ruby would/Ruby wouldn’t?’ he asks.
‘Ruby wouldn’t,’ I tell him with certainty. He’s talking about the rocker-looking dude who just left the coffee shop. What it is, we play this game called Ruby would/Ruby wouldn’t – an obvious pun on my name: Ruby Wood. Whenever a man walks past us, Millsy poses the question and I reply with one or the other. It’s daft, but it keeps us amused during long shifts. Obviously Ruby has no intention of sleeping with any of these people – it’s rare I meet a bloke I don’t want to punch within minutes of meeting him (which is why I’m so annoyed things have fallen flat with Jonathan, but I’m trying not to go on about it). I think one of the best and worst things about growing up with a bloke for a best mate is that it has made me wise. I know all the moves men make to try and get birds into bed (‘oh, but I love you/blue balls are a thing/my dad just died’ etc.), and as such I don’t credit men with an ounce of sincerity when they try to chat me up. There’s no equivalent game where I ask Millsy who he fancies, because Millsy can’t let a pretty girl walk past him without announcing ‘I would’ anyway – usually loud enough for them to hear. It makes me laugh because he says it, but he rarely pursues the girls he announces it to, so even though he ‘would’, he often isn’t going to.
‘Well, I was out last night, and I don’t look half as bad as you, Rubes,’ Millsy brags. ‘And I was on time for work.’
‘For once,’ I reply.
Sally, our manager here at Has Beans coffee shop, is pretty laid back, especially now that she’s pregnant. She’s going on maternity leave any day, so we’re maybe pushing our luck a little more than usual in the hope she won’t care.
I like working here. Well, no one likes working anywhere, do they? But there are worse gigs to have. I mean, it’s pretty easy work, I get to spend my days messing around with my best friend and I’m allowed as much free coffee as my nervous system can handle, but it’s more than that. I just like the vibe in coffee shops. You’ve got places like Starbucks with their contemporary artwork and their jazz music playing in the background, or Costa with their comfortable seating and family-friendly environment. Has Beans is by no means as huge as either company, but of all the branches in Yorkshire, the one I work at in central Leeds is the busiest. During the week, lunchtime is dominated by office workers and shop employees looking for a caffeine fix and something to eat to break up their day and spur them on until the evening, but by the afternoon the place is more peaceful, with writers and students all face-down in their laptops. The thing I love is how the vibe can change depending on the customers. When it’s quiet, it’s quite relaxing, I can sip my latte and listen to the latest James Bay album playing on the stereo – my hangover likes this. Similarly, when we’ve got a gaggle of mums with screaming babies in, I often consider trying to tie my own tubes with the tongs we use with the panini press.
‘So when is your audition?’
‘Monday morning,’ he replies, his usual confidence waning slightly.
‘So I guess you’ll be taking it easy the next few nights then?’
‘Mate, I won’t be out at all – anyway, don’t you have a date?’
‘But it’s Friday night,’ I protest. Going out is what Friday nights were made for.
Millsy, like me, is a bit of a pleasure seeker and as such, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take anything seriously other than trying to get away with being drunk every waking moment of his life – until recently.
At school, our grades weren’t up to much, but we were outgoing, cheeky, confident and – most importantly – excellent at lying. Naturally we gravitated towards the arts, and soon found that acting might just be one thing that we were good at. The thing is, it’s not a realistic career goal, is it? Which is why I gave up trying to ‘make it’, but recently Millsy seems to think he’s got a real shot.
If I’m being honest, I think he’s wasting his time – I mean, if he were on track to be Leonardo DiCaprio-famous I would happily be his Kate Winslet. Let’s face it though, hardly anyone makes it in the acting business. And he’s not going up for a role in the new Star Wars flick, it’s a local production of Macbeth. I forget which part he’s auditioning for, but it’s all very weird and last-minute. The guy they had for it originally got hit by a bus on the way to the first rehearsal. He wasn’t life-threateningly injured or anything, but he wound up in hospital. His understudy went to visit him and fell down a manhole in the hospital car park – you couldn’t make this shit up. So, sucks for those guys but great news for Millsy. Sucks for me too, because it’s going to cut into our drinking time.
‘So, which Macbeth character are you auditioning for?’ I ask, not really all that interested, but willing to pretend I am for my mate.
Millsy throws a chunk of his brownie at me with frustration, which I realise quickly enough to attempt to catch it in my mouth, but not so quick I actually succeed. Man, I want a brownie now.
‘You’re not supposed to say the title, it’s “The Scottish Play” in theatre circles,’ he reminds me. ‘You know that.’
‘Ooh, sorry,’ I say sarcastically. ‘So, go on, then I can stop pretending I give a shit. Who are you auditioning for?’
‘Banquo.’
‘Cool,’ I reply, holding the word on for longer than seems even a little sincere. We were in an end-of-year production of Macbeth when we were at school, and I wasn’t mad about it then either. I liked it when we did Bugsy Malone and Grease, when I got to dress up in pretty clothes and sing – Shakespeare didn’t write nearly enough musical numbers.
Sally shuffles out from her office and hovers around the counter.
‘I can’t sit at that desk a second longer, the baby wants me to move. There’s just so much admin to do though.’
I am in the process of simultaneously toasting a panini and making an Americano for a customer, but I’m pretty sure she’s angling for Millsy to take over and give her a break.
‘Yeah, well, it’ll be out of you soon,’ Millsy replies, oblivious to her hint. ‘Why don’t you come for a post-night out vindaloo with us or get your Robert to give you a good seeing to – that brings ’em out, right?’
‘Is your topknot too tight or are you stupid?’ I ask him. ‘You can’t just “bring them out” when you feel like it. Remember that time we got in from Saturn at 4am and you were so hungry you took your burger out of the microwave when it still had half the time left? You spent the whole day at work throwing up.’
Millsy rubs his chin thoughtfully.
‘I remember having to call the plumber,’ Sally adds, a distant look in her eye, like a solider recalling a horrific war memory. ‘Pass me
a lemon muffin, please. I’ll get back to work.’
Millsy laughs to himself as he obliges.
‘Wasn’t that also the night you pulled a teenager?’ he asks me.
‘You mean the night I kissed a student. And he was twenty – hardly makes me a cougar, does it?’
‘Yeah, but that dodgy beard made him look fifteen.’
‘He was in a nightclub, Millsy, so he had to be at least eighteen.’
‘You were in nightclubs when you were fifteen.’
He’s got me there.
‘Dude, you’ve got to stop going on about this.’
‘But it’s funny,’ he insists.
‘Well, I think the real reason you blocked the work toilet is funny, but I don’t tell people, do I?’
Millsy laughs, but his cheeks flush a little.
‘OK, we take these stories to our grave, deal?’
‘Deal.’
We bump fists, like we always do. It can be to seal a deal like today, to celebrate some sort of victory or even just to say hello.
Millsy begins the much-hated task of cleaning the panini press while I rearrange the pastries and cakes to make them look neater – an excuse, of course, to stealthily eat a brownie, because if it’s stealthy, it’s healthy. Everyone knows the calories don’t count if no one sees you eat it. Seizing my opportunity, I stuff a rather large chunk into my mouth just as a customer approaches the counter.
‘Ruby would/Ruby wouldn’t?’ Millsy asks under his breath as the man crosses the shop.
‘Oh shit,’ I whisper back. ‘Ruby nearly did!’
I watch Millsy’s face light up, like he might be about to witness something hilariously awkward. Little does he know, this is a fella I’ve told him about that I met via a dating app recently, and our final date was a nightmare.
‘Ruby,’ he says as he approaches the desk.
‘Michael,’ I reply. ‘Hello. What can I get you?’
I see a glimmer of recognition on Millsy’s face, he’s heard of Michael. His amusement quickly turns to anger.
Truth Or Date Page 2
