Page 1 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
Chapter One
To attract the right sort of chap, a woman must exude allure yet remain virtuous. Modesty is necessary if she intends to receive a proposal of marriage!
Matilda Beam’sGuide to Love and Romance, 1955
I have done many unwise things in my life. And while sex with the new neighbour less than two hours after meeting him is definitely not the most ridiculous of those things, it’s quite high up on the list. As is losing my contact lenses during the mistimed throes of our clumsy copulation, leaving myself blind in his bed this sticky-hot July morning.
Stupid, delicious pear cider, I cannot resist thee.
Somewhere in the room my phone gives off a muffly buzz. Shit, I bet I’m late. The big meeting is today and I swore to Summer that I absolutely, definitely would not be late.
I can’t quite remember my neighbour’s name, though I have a strong feeling that it’s Jim. Or maybe Timothy. Whatever he’s called, his partially hidden face is snoring away beside me, blissfully oblivious to my presence. If I had the power of sight I would just find my clothes and creep across the corridor without having to acknowledge him in any way. At least until the inevitable bumping into him in the hall bit, at which point I’d simply shriek and leg it. But without contacts in I can only see about six inches in front of me.
‘Wake up … ’Jim? Timothy?‘ … boy,’ I croak, nudging neighbour’s burly shoulder with my elbow. ‘Rise and shine! It’s a magical new day and all that jazz. Come on. Time to get up now.’
He mumbles something that sounds like ‘mnnneblurp’, grabs my hand and plonks it onto his willy, clearly hopeful of a repeat performance.
No, ta.
I remove my hand from his junk and use it to punch his arm.
Jumping upright, he blinks once as if stunned by the sight of a real live woman in his bed. I squint at him. His brawny, muscular body looks oddly out of proportion with his head. What a tiny head he has. I probably thought it was a fascinating head last night. Everything’s fascinating after that much booze. I disguise myWhat the blazing arse was I thinking?grimace with an extravagant yawn.
Whipping up the blanket, neighbour discovers that I’m still naked. He smirks, sliding closer. ‘Oh,hellooo, Jess from next door,’ he says, wetting his pale lips with his pale tongue. ‘Do you have a …cup of sugarI could borrow?’
He gazes at me for a moment, eyes narrowed, top lip lifted in a half-grin. I suspect he thinks it’s a sexually alluring facial arrangement, but in reality it gives him the aura of a man restraining a fart.
I do an army roll over to the other side of the bed.
‘Sugar,’ he cracks again, beaming. ‘D’y geddit? Ha-ha. Like a euphemism? For sex? Ha-ha. Ha.’
Good God. My standards – which, let’s face it, were never mega high − have really dropped recently. First Mickey the Butcher, who wasn’t even really a butcher, and then Rupert, who only loved me because I let him take sepia-filtered Instagram pics of my feet. And nowthisguy, whose name eludes me.
‘Hey … fella,’ I improvise. ‘I’m so sorry to wake you, but I’m late and probably in trouble with my boss. I’ve lost my contact lenses and I’m completely short-sighted without them. Would you mind helping find my clothes and walking me back to my flat?’
He stretches his thick arms above his head and raises an eyebrow. ‘Where we’re going … we don’t need clothes.’
‘I think we do. I really think we do.’
‘I’d like it much better if you just stayed naked.’
‘That’s very flattering. But I think I’d likeyoumuch better if you did me a lovely favour and found my stuff.’
He sighs and slithers out of the bed, grabs some stripy cotton boxers and a creased vest from a half-unpacked suitcase and pulls them on. It only takes him a moment to find my clothes, which have been artlessly flung onto his computer desk. My knickers are curled around the handle of an errant mug. He hands them over and watches as I dress.
Yanking up my skinny jeans, I pull the zipper before fastening the safety pin that’s there in place of the button I lost last week.
Everything is so blurry. I really must remember to start carrying a spare pair of glasses in my bag. I must also remember to start carrying a bag.
‘So, do you want my number, Jess?’ neighbour asks, linking his arm with mine and leading me slowly out of his bedroom, down a hall and through a curry-scented kitchen area. ‘I feel a real rapport here. Romantic potential, like. I’d love to get to know you more.’
We trail through a sparse living room, the shockingly bright rays of sunshine blaring through the window making me squint.
‘Thanks and all,’ I say, sidestepping a stack of unpacked boxes on the floor, ‘but I’m not really the “getting to know you more” type. I mean, maybe I’ll get round to doing the whole relationship thing in twenty years or so when my body’s gone to shit and most of the fun of life has already been had. But right now?Nope. Ta for the offer, though.’
‘Right, yeah, totally agree, totally agree,’ he says as we leave his flat. ‘I’m exactly the same. Fucking hate relationships. Relationships can go suck long balls for all I care. Ha. Listen to this: I like ships, yeah? But wanna know what my least favourite type of ship is?
‘A relationship.’
