Page 3 of Head Over Skis

When I click off my messages with Tilly, my background photo comes into view and my stomach drops. I haven’t changed it since Adam and I ended things two weeks ago and this snapshot from our recent holiday to Greece makes me feel like I could throw up. We were on a private sunset cruise in Santorini that I don’t want to know how much he paid to arrange, and it was one of those perfect nights you know you’ll never forget. It’s stupid of me. I should’ve changed it as soon as I’d packed up my things and left, and yet…

It might be what any sane person would do, but we were together for seven years and changing my background feels like finally acknowledging it’s over.

Maybe over.

Part of me thinks it can’t really be finished between us, and in another month I’ll end up back at our place, which I guess isn’t really ours at the moment. That hurts too much to think about. I want to stop thinking about Adam, but I can’t drag my eyes away from the picture and how happy we both look. Because we really were happy. And even though at times I questioned whether we were the right fit, I worry that I might never be happier than I was right there. With him.

I’ve always had a plan, a clear picture of how I want my life to pan out. And in every version, Adam’s been there. And despite what he’s done, a big part of me would like to keep it that way. To attempt to stick to the plan and allow myself to be pulled back into his orbit, with all the history we’d built up together. The life we’d built together.

I’m so busy staring at the photo I don’t realise I’ve walked all the way to Clapham South. The fresh air has left me feeling completely sober, which makes the idea of going back to the club even less appealing.

As I round the corner, I’m still so distracted that I don’t notice the man in front of me until I feel the cold splash of liquid hitting my chest.

2

I squeal as brown droplets spill down my front and onto my phone. I jump backwards, but it’s too late to avoid whatever damage has been done to my top – although my leather jacket is waterproof, the drink managed to get through the one part that was unzipped.

‘Shit, I’m so sorry, let me help.’

I hear the male stranger’s apology, but don’t pay attention to him as I assess the stain that’s growing across my chest. That’s going to need more than soap from the club bathroom, I think, as I zip up my jacket fully.

I shake my phone and a puddle of drips forms on the pavement. Watching it pool, I start panicking about the fact I need to put it in rice or something, and they likely won’t have any of that behind the bar of London’s shittiest nightclub.

I look up as the guy in front of me starts to pull something out of the McDonald’s bag balancing in his hand, but I don’t notice what it is because my attention is solidly plastered to his face.

Holy hell, where on earth did he come from?

I know Clapham’s full of rich people probably splashing obscene amounts of money on gym memberships and perfectly tailored clothing, but this guy. He’s something else.

He reaches an arm towards me and I’m too busy watching the way his biceps stretch as he moves to notice the napkins in his hand. He waits as I drag myself away from any indecent thoughts and accept his offering.

I reach down my jacket to dab the paper against the top part of my chest, knowing it’ll do absolutely nothing to get rid of the Coca-Cola stain that’s only growing beneath. There’s a depressingly slim chance I’ll be able to attempt to get it out until I’m back at Tilly’s later, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeats, but I quickly reassure him.

With a face like that, I’m not mad about the way this night has panned out, ruined top and all.

‘It’s fine, it’s not your fault. I was the one who wasn’t looking,’ I say, which is kind of ironic because now I can’t stop looking at him.

‘I still feel awful though,’ he says, guiltily eying the now-empty paper Coke cup that lies on the pavement between us.

His dark brown eyes move from the cup back to my face, but not before taking a slow journey up my body, and I feel myself blushing, wondering if he’s thinking any of the same thoughts about me as I have been about him.

‘My place is across the road, and I was heading back there anyway. How about you come up and I can lend you something to wear, and we can try and get that out before it stains too badly? Really, it’s the least I can do.’

The fit, six-foot stranger points over my shoulder and I follow his finger towards the white-pillared townhouses across the street. They’re the kind of beautiful buildings my friend David does viewings for all the time in his job as a high-end estate agent. I’ve always wondered what they might be like inside.

I do a double-take, flitting back between him and the place he’s pointing at to confirm he really means he lives in one of those. I pause before answering, trying to give the impression that I’m deliberating, when really, there is no way I’m turning this down. Say no and head back to the club with shit all over me like I threw up on myself, or say yes and get to follow this gorgeous man into his swanky house? Maybe it isn’t too late to get this night back on track and commit to having my first one-night stand.

Of course, there’s always the chance he could be an axe-murderer, but given the fact he’s wearing a University of Durham hockey team hoodie, I’m going to take my chances. I nod down at the brown Maccies bag still clutched in his right hand.

‘Throw in a few of those fries too and we have ourselves a deal.’

He smiles, and I didn’t realise his face could become any more attractive. He walks up to my side and looks both ways before leading me across the street, his hand placed on my lower back to guide me safely to the other side. My pulse jumps, and I wish we were crossing a seven-lane junction and not a one-way road so I could keep feeling it there a little longer.

‘This is me,’ he says once we’ve reached the opposite pavement, removing his hand to pull out a key and open the door to number twenty-two.

I follow inside and try not to gawk at the size of the entryway, the ceiling stretching for miles above me. A glass chandelier hangs down in the centre and there could be over a hundred shimmering pendants dripping from it.