by Amy Daws
Shut up, Freya! Shut up! Why did you say region? Are you trying to ruin your life?
Javier’s face scrunches up as if I’m the foreigner, and he’s attempting to interpret my words. I don’t know why I can’t speak around this man. It’s like the moment I see him and his dimples buried inside his beard, my brain cells start to deteriorate on the spot.
“Would you like the usual for your friends as well?” he asks as he types in the order on his point of purchase device.
“Yes, please,” I mumble. It’s better if I limit my words in front of him because I’ve been popping in here for weeks, and I still can’t string a normal sentence together in his presence.
I pay with the company card and quickly back away from the counter, kicking myself for being so pathetic. There have been roughly three men in my life who were responsible for turning me into this horrid, mumbling idiot in front of blokes.
The first was a boy who sat in front of me in year five. He used hair gel to style his locks into spikey weapons that I always felt an uncontrollable urge to touch, so much so that I actually did reach out and prick my finger on a strand once. The entire class witnessed my lapse in judgment, and I became known as Fingerling Freya for years after. I couldn’t walk to class without the boys in school dashing away from me and covering their heads protectively.
The second boy was my boyfriend in year eleven. I thought that relationship lasted for almost a year until I realised he’d broken up with me, and I somehow missed the notice. I discovered it when I asked him what colour tie he was wearing for the formal, and he said it was the same colour as his girlfriend, Mandy’s, dress.
Okaaay then.
The third was a boy I met in design school. We were partners for the fall fashion show and began dating shortly thereafter. Things moved oddly slow between us, but I thought it was because he was Mormon. During one late night of studying and far too much tequila, the truth came out. The memories of that night still haunt me to this day.
It took me quite a few years to get over those traumas only to discover the new trauma of online dating. The first man I met at a pub called me “Piggy” before walking out on me. When I tried with another guy, he confessed over dinner that he was still sleeping with his ex-wife. And when I finally let my friends in Manchester set me up on a blind date, my stomach was in such horrible knots from the memories of how bad my other experiences had been, I couldn’t even string together human-sounding sentences! It was like an alien invaded my body and was speaking in its tribal tongue through the chubby cheeks of a Cornish redhead.
I was so broken, I gave up on men altogether.
Honestly, Barista Javier is the first man whom I’ve allowed myself to be attracted to in ages. A Spanish barista with a dad bod is apparently what gets my ears burning. Who knew? Perhaps if I could figure out how to actually speak to him, he’d be a suitable prospect for a date to Allie and Roan’s wedding.
Javier loads the coffees onto a tray, and he quickly sticks the receipt on the side of one of the cups as I approach. With a crooked smile, he hands them over to me. “It was nice to see you again, Freya. Say hello to your friends for me.”
I tug on my burning ear. “It’s nice you see me, too,” I state while reaching out to grab the coffee.
I barrel my way out of the shop and find a bench to sit down on to catch my breath before heading back to the boutique. The last thing I need is Allie, Sloan, and Leslie finding out that I fancy Javier. They’d never let me hear the end of it. I grab my iced coffee to take a fortifying drink and notice some extra writing on the receipt that’s stuck to the cup.
Call me. Xoxo Jav
I blink back my shock and stare at the phone number scrawled beneath.
Javier gave me his number?
Bleddy hell!
Walking up to Tanner and Belle Harris’ flat for the party feels a bit like walking into a member of the royal family’s flat. Don’t get me wrong, I know they’re not truly royal. And since Sloan is married to Gareth, and Allie is a cousin of theirs, I’m aware they’re normal blokes with families. But the Harris family story as a whole is extraordinary and reads like it’s straight out of a movie.
There are four painfully attractive brothers who all play professional football for England, and a sister who’s literally one of the coolest women I’ve ever met. They were all raised by their father after their mother passed away when they were very young. Their family is so packed full of talent. The four brothers even won the World Cup for England a couple of years ago.
Now everyone is married and having photographs published in the papers with stunning toddlers on their shoulders and smiling at their brilliant wives like they’re all in a bleddy Hallmark film. It’s properly mental! You don’t even have to like football to consider their family more interesting than the royals. Even their cousin, Allie, who moved here from America last year, found herself a footballer to marry. Talk about a family that has all the luck!
And somehow, someway, little old Fingerling Freya has found herself entrenched in this world of power couples. It’s no wonder Mac and I became mates. We’re the only single people left!
“Have I told you how nice you look tonight, Cookie?” Mac asks, stepping aside to let me climb the stairs to the building entrance first.
“Don’t call me Cookie in front of these people,” I hiss as the noise of the party increases the closer we get. “I doubt any of them has ever eaten a cookie in all their perfectly attractive, wildly successful lives.”
Mac laughs at my remark, and replies, “Well, you’re looking rather bonnie yourself tonight. I know you wear dresses a lot, but that one suits you differently.”
“Thanks,” I murmur half-heartedly and tug at the sweetheart neckline of the dress where I’ve stuffed Javier’s number for some ridiculous reason. I swear I’ll lose it if I put it down, so I’ve been gripping it in my hands for the past twenty-four hours like a lunatic.
Mac joins me on the top step and brushes back his red hair that’s flopped over his forehead, to scan the call buttons on the panel. He looks quite fit himself tonight wearing faded jeans and a green T-shirt. It’s so easy for men to look effortlessly handsome. Meanwhile, I have to scrutinise whether my cleavage is too much or not enough and if these shoes make my ankles look fat.
He finds the proper button and presses it before turning his charming boy-next-door smile at me. His eyes do a sweep of my body. “Are your wee ears on fire yet?”
He touches one, and the contact of his warm finger on my hot ear sends a wave of shivers down my body, so much so that I begin to totter in my strappy black heels.
I slap his hand away. “Don’t do that!”
His head drops back as he laughs. “It’s cute how your ears get hot whenever you’re nervous.”
“It’s not you making my ears hot, I can promise you that.”
“Believe me, I’m aware,” Mac replies, a knowing set to his taut jaw. “I could say you’re a beaut of a lass tonight, and I wonder what it would be like to shag you senseless, and it would have absolutely no effect on your ears.”
I roll my eyes and steel myself to ignore his remark. The thought of Mac wanting to shag me is like a Great Dane having the hots for an overweight Shih Tzu. Just not going to happen.
And, objectively, I know I look nice tonight, so he’s just stating a fact. Leslie was right—this black wrap dress was made for me. With the minor alterations I did, it hugs my figure perfectly as well.
I didn’t always know how to dress for my body type. I grew up with large hips and bustier breasts than all my friends at school. My mother was always on the bigger side as well, and since plus-size fashion didn’t exist in her days, she taught me how to sew at a young age. So I altered my clothes to help conceal my less-attractive bits. Full, flirty skirts, A-line seams, and sweetheart necklines were always flattering on me. When I went to textile design school in Manchester, I really embraced the 50s era for my own style. Now I’ve come to actually like my hourglass sh
ape and double-E breasts, even if they venture well beyond Kardashian sizes.
Regardless of my larger size, I enjoy transforming clothing for any body type. I take great pleasure in the simple act of altering something to work with what the good Lord gave people. The world can often feel like a one-size-fits-all place, but applying a few alterations can make life a perfect fit.
That and Spanx.
God bless the creator of Spanx.
The buzzer goes off, indicating we can go through the door, and my ears swell with heat. “I feel like I could shit out three kittens right now.”
Mac bursts out laughing. “What the hell does that mean?”
I turn an accusing glare at my friend. “I’m nervous, that’s what it means. My ears are on fire because this isn’t my scene. My scene is fuzzy pyjamas, a sewing machine, my cat, and Netflix. You are the cause of my gastrointestinal issues at the moment. Therefore, it’s important for you to know that you and I are in a fight.”
He shakes his head as he leads me up the single flight of stairs to the flat entrance. “That’s the fourth fight we’ve been in this week. I must be trying to break my record.”
The door opens to Tanner and Belle’s two-story flat, and I glance around the crowd full of attractive Londoners packed inside. We step in, and as I hand my bag to the security man at the door, I see the party is already in full swing. Tanner is standing on a sofa table in the living room with his fist thrust in the air while his brothers and several other men cheer him on to, “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” The scene looks straight out of an American college party instead of a party full of adult couples having a laugh.
I spot the ladies huddled around a giant charcuterie spread in the kitchen and sigh with relief when I see that they seem to be acting normally for the most part. First, I see Belle and Indie chatting to each other. The two of them are brilliant surgeons and best friends who ended up marrying the twin Harris Brothers, Tanner and Camden. Then there’s the blond bombshell Harris sister, Vi, who’s the matriarch of the whole family. She’s standing by her husband, Hayden, and they are busy talking with Sloan. Then there’s my dear friend, Allie, who rushes over as soon as she spots Mac and me standing awkwardly in the entryway.
“Oh my freaking God, you look so hot!” she states, pushing past Leslie to get out of the kitchen. “Is this Leslie’s design?”
“Damn right it is!” Leslie sings with her matching muddled American accent. Both Allie and Leslie have spent part of their lives in America, so their tones have a unique sound to them. Leslie eyes me up and down. “Good God almighty, you look even hotter than you did at the shop yesterday! I told you this dress would be perfect for you. Didn’t I tell her, Sloan?”
Sloan smiles from the kitchen, and calls over, “You told her.”
I blush under their praise and feel weird with Mac standing beside me to hear all of it. I make a joke to deflect. “Well, Leslie, you’re the designer, so you’re really complimenting yourself more than you are me.”
“Damn right I am,” Leslie replies with a smirk and takes a sip of her drink.
Allie nods appreciatively. “It’s about time you let them play dress up with you, Freya.”
Mac is still hovering near me like a protective watchdog, so I wave my hand at him. “I’m fine, Mac. Go on and play with your friends.”
He shoots me a wink and then makes his way towards the boys in the living room.
Leslie slinks her arm around my waist. “I should design all your clothes.”
“Like you have the time!” I retort with a huff. Leslie and Sloan are both so swamped with custom order requests that we’ve had to turn some away. “Who has Marisa tonight?” I ask, referring to Leslie’s four-year-old daughter.
“She’s with Theo’s parents in Essex for the weekend. Theo and I haven’t had a weekend off in ages, so this is cause for copious amounts of alcohol consumption. They have Vi and Hayden’s daughter too, so the girls are running them ragged, I’m sure,” she says with a laugh. As Theo and Hayden are brothers, their two daughters are cousins. This group is seriously an interconnected web of not quite related connections.
Suddenly, Leslie’s eyes go wide. “Good grief! You don’t have a drink in your hand. Tisn’t right, tisn’t fair, tisn’t proper!”
Leslie scurries back towards the kitchen, and Allie gives me a rueful smile. “She’s quoting Poldark to the Cornish girl. In case you didn’t know she’s tipsy, you do now.”
I exhale happily as Sloan approaches and gives me a hug. “You look gorgeous, Freya. Like always.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “Mac was yelling at me the whole time I was getting ready because I was taking too long picking out my bag and shoes. I have way too many gorgeous options, I’m afraid. What can I say? Accessories always fit.”
Sloan touches my soft red curls appreciatively. “You two really go at each other.”
“That’s what I keep saying,” Allie chimes in with a sneaky smirk.
“Don’t start,” I reply with a huff. “We’re just mates.”
Sloan mock zips her lips. I can tell she wants to say more, but she won’t. Sloan’s good like that. She always just lets me be me. She’s really the first friend I ever had whom I truly felt understood by. And I loved the little family I stumbled into with her and her daughter back in Manchester.
Leslie emerges with four red and orange mixed cocktails on a tray. She thrusts one into my hand, and I stare down at it dubiously. “I regret to inform you that hard alcohol and I do not mix.”
Leslie waves me off. “They’re tequila sunrises. It’s the drink of all the Harris wives. You won’t taste a drop of the alcohol, I swear.”
We clink glasses, and I take a sip of what tastes like orange juice with cherry syrup. My eyes go wide. “These could be dangerous.”
The rules of the game Never Have I Ever are simple. You sit in a large circle and take turns saying statements about things you have never done before. If anyone in the group has done it, they must take a drink. Sounds like a straightforward game. A bit strange for grown-ups to play, but the host of the evening is a big man-child, so I guess that’s the excuse.
And because a man named Santino—who is apparently the Bethnal Green F.C. team lawyer—walked into Tanner and Belle’s flat three hours ago and oddly attached himself to my side, I must use all of my strength not to vomit out words in nonsensical order. Perhaps if I focus on being really good at the game, I won’t notice the fact that we’re seated right next to each other and our legs keep touching, or the fact that his eyes keep glancing down at my cleavage.
One little problem, though.
Never Have I Ever is a game that is entirely about The Sex.
And considering I’ve never had The Sex, I realise with ominous regret that I am in very big trouble.
There are a number of reasons why I am a twenty-nine-year-old virgin. One of which is because my Nanna Dot used to call my virginity my “maiden tag”, and she mentioned something biological about a skin flap and searing pain. The entire conversation horrified me so much, I never dreamt of opening my legs as a teen.
As I got older, I realised that my nanna may have embellished a bit, but my experiences with men were so bleddy awful, I never managed to get the job done. In fact, the one person I got the closest with was my design school boyfriend who waited until we were lying naked on his dorm room floor to tell me he was gay. It was so horrifying that I still cringe when I think back to my awkward response.
My exact words as I lay there, spread-eagle and waiting for him to enter me were, “Good on you.”
Honestly, I should probably discuss that with a therapist at some point in my life.
But right now, I’m focusing on another problem: The very serious issue of me being gravely overserved this evening.
The bartender did way too good of a job keeping my fruity drink filled. And because somewhere in my genetic lineage there’s a pleasantly plump ancestor who can’t handle booze, I’m in serious trouble.
Why didn’t I stick with wine? Wine and I are mates. I know what to expect from wine. Now the injustice of my heritage means that this room of seriously attractive people and one Italian-looking bloke who smells rather nice are about to get hot-eared Freya who’s never had The Sex…Unplugged.
My ears have basically melted off at this point.
Also, why do I keep calling it The Sex? Even hearing the words in my mind is embarrassing.
My eyes narrow at the culprits who got me into this state. Firstly, Mac for bringing me to this horrid place. He’s sitting straight across from me, laughing with his teammates like it’s a typical Friday night, while I’m over here having a panic attack that I’m going to tell the Santino bloke about the time I licked battery acid off the grasscutter because it was blue, and I thought it might be candy floss.
The paramedics assured me that I was wrong.
Then there are the villainous ladies tonight—Allie, Sloan, Leslie, Belle, and Indie. They were culprits in mixing those delicious tequila sunrises all night. And the title of the drink is deceiving because I didn’t taste a drop of tequila. Every sip tasted like delicious, refreshing OJ. It even gives the illusion of being healthy! But five drinks later, I’ve greatly exceeded my vitamin C intake for the day.
Time to initiate a backup plan.
I’m going to fake my way through the game. I was the Wicked Witch of the West in year ten, after all. The critic claimed I was the wickedest of all the wickeds they’d ever seen. Granted, that critic was my mum, but she doesn’t pass out compliments for free, so you better believe I sewed that quote into my year twelve memory quilt.
Tonight, this room is getting a bit of theatre. Freya Cook is headlining to conceal her lovely maiden tag in front of all these adorable, sexually experienced couples.
Let’s do this.
“Never have I ever…kissed a girl,” Santino states beside me as he takes a drink, and his head swerves around the group of us huddled in the living room with drinks in hand.
