Page 8 of The Girlfriend Clause
“Mr. Darcy’s barfed, Andy, can you clean it up?” She yawned.
I briefly imagined smothering her with the puke towel.
The time on my phone now said 8:18. I had less than two minutes to leave if I didn’t want to die at the hands of Gerald.
Yanking the bloody-barf dress over my head, I squeezed blindly past Eliza to my bedroom and grabbed the first thing I could find—a seafoam pleated mini with a plunging V-neck and long sleeves. I gave it a sniff test. Clean enough.
And definitely gorgeous.
For a party.
On thinner weeks.
Fuck it. No time for thinner weeks. It would have to do.
My phone lit up with a notification banner:
Rudy:Can wetalk?
Nope.
I swiped it away fast enough to burn my fingerprint off.
“What about the puke, Andy?” Eliza’s face was scrunched.
“Cleaner’s under the sink,” I snapped, pulling the dress down awkwardly. It clung in all thewrongplaces.
Whatever—better slightly slutty than totally unemployed.
“Oh, and we’re out of marmalade,” she added.
Did she actually think I might nip to the store before I left forwork?
“Use jam,” I barked, my eyes darting around the living room looking for my handbag. Ah, there it was. I sprinted for the door. “And have a great day!”
*
By the time my Corolla screeched into the public car park, the red digits on the dashboard were flashing 8:50. Perfect. Nothing like a full-body cortisol bath to start the week.
The car park attendant gave me a look like I’d just run over a guide dog as I fishtailed up the ramp. Pfft. I wasn’t goingthatfast.
“Morning,” I called, giving him a too-cheery wave as I wafted Saskia’s card at the machine. Thank God it didn’t have her name on it. Plausible deniability—the backbone of my personality. The attendant turned away in mild disgust.
Level one was full. And level two. I circled up another ramp.Where the hell was Saskia’s bay?Smug early birds had filled every space, no doubt sipping turmeric smoothies and listening to mindfulness podcasts as they reversed calmly in. Even the gym across the road was already buzzing with treadmill disciples.
All parked in here. All desperate to cram in somepersonal growthbefore nine.
I hated every one of them.
Including the smoothies.
Meanwhile, I’d spent the drive to work arguing with ChatGPT’s Voice app about why I kept dating losers.
Did that count as self-improvement?
It had to—right?
Finally, I spotted it—space172: Reserved for Pixel & Grace. Not ideal, wedged between a concrete pillar and an SUV the size of Wales, but it would do. I silently thanked Saskia’s employer for booking out half of level six—Novexia’s bays were always full.
