Page 2 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
‘You got it! Ha-ha. So you being allindependent ladyand that, well, it could make us the perfect match, when you think about it. Something to consider?’
‘Hmm-hmm.’
We plod out into the communal hall and down the corridor for the twenty seconds it takes us to reach my flat. I fish inside my back pocket for the door key.
‘Thanks a lot for helping me home.’
‘Oh, always happy to accompany a pretty young thang like yourself.’
‘Right.’ I nod. ‘Cool, well, take care then. Probably see you around the flats sometime!’
I wave and give him mygoodbyesmile. He does not leave.
‘Um, so yeah, I’ll see you around sometime!’ I repeat.
Still he does not leave.
Why doesn’t he leave?
‘You know, Jess,’ he says thoughtfully, thumb hooked in the band of his boxers, crotch thrusting slightly in my direction. ‘I think you should at least take my number for neighbourly purposes. Like, in case you get burgled or something. Or locked in. Or locked out. Or maybe one day you might need some help with your tinned goods shopping bags. Or what if, right, what if you’re indoors alone one day and your washing machine just breaks? Explodes, like KABLAM, flooding all of your things and you need a helping hand? Or what if − ’ his nostrils flare slightly − ‘what if you find yourself feeling lonely, eh? Very lonely, but of course no one knows how lonesome you are because you pretend your job at the B&Q warehouse fulfils you and you put on your glad face at the Wednesday-night poker tournaments, but underneath the charade you’re bored and alone and in dire, wretched need of soft, comforting human warmth … ’
Woah.
Seeing such raw desperation for companionship makes me feel extra grateful that I have no such urges. The art of a successful one-night stand is dead simple: Do Not Emotionally Attach, OK? I also find this to be an excellent motto for life in general.
Poor guy, with that shrunken head as well.
‘All right, then,’ I say, feeling bad for him. ‘I’ll take that number. Just in case my washing machine does, you know, explode.’
Grinning, he crosses the personal space threshold and hovers by my shoulder, watching as I enter the number he recites.
And then it gets to the bit where I’m supposed to type his name into my phone.
I scrunch up my eyes, hand poised over the screen.
Jim or Timothy?
Jim or Timothy?
If I get this wrong, it could be considered a genuinely skanky moment.
‘Um, Jessica,’ he mumbles, smile fading, ‘do you not know my name?’
I snort and do an over-the-top eye roll. ‘I know it,’ I say breezily. ‘Obviously I know your name!’
Jim or Timothy? It’s a simple fifty-fifty call, Jess. Make the call.
‘Obviouslyyour name is Jjjjiiiiim … ’
His brow dips.
‘ … mmmothy?’
He does a tiny gasp.
‘Did you just call meJimothy?’
‘Errrrrr.’
‘My name isPaul.’
He throws me a deeply offended look, mutters ‘slapper’ under his breath and stomps off back down the hall.
Paul. Pea-head Paul.Of course.
