‘Oh Jesus, Dale, I don’t think I’m ready to see that,’ I say, my voice calmer than I feel.
‘I like you. You like me. Our time on the planet is short. Let’s not overthink this.’ He laughs again. Okay, he definitely laughs too much.
‘Goodbye, Dale,’ I say, retrieving my phone and my bag.
‘Can you at least suck me off before you go?’
And once again, my desire to date has been tempered by the depressing reality that is ninety-nine per cent of men.
Chapter 4
Back in the street I kick myself for being so stupid. Clearly, Dale29 was going to be a weirdo. Every man I’ve dated since uni has been a weirdo, or a misogynist, or harbouring some secret fetish for eating crisps off my thighs. （I went with it, but could never get the vinegar smell out of my sheets.） Where were all the normal men? As I cross the road, rolling my poor bruised tongue around my mouth, the sky cracks wide open – releasing a sudden downpour. The sole of one ballet pump gives way, the cheap glue dissolving at the first sign of water. When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t aware of how long my tether was, but now, I realise I’m at the end of it. I allow myself one melodramatic groan, two foot stomps, and one fist shake at the sky.
How am I going to get home? Maybe I should call Zoya, apologise, beg her to come and meet me with a pair of trainers. But my phone is dead – after all that, it didn’t even charge. So, I start running, hoping to see somewhere familiar. Soon, I’m out of breath and my feet are too sore to go on. Turning right down Baskin Place, past an old red telephone box, I notice a twenty-four-hour newsagent’s a few doors down and race towards it, hoping I can wait out the worst of the rain. It’s a small, tired-looking shop with a blue and white awning and shelves full of dusty cans. The elderly lady behind the counter smiles at me. She’s wearing a tartan beret with a matching waistcoat and playing a game of solitaire on the counter with a faded pack of playing cards.
‘Can I help you, duckie?’ she asks in a broad Scottish accent, putting down the four of diamonds. ‘Looking for anything in particular?’
‘A new life,’ I say, smiling so she thinks I’m joking, though at this point, I’m not. My tongue aches, and I decide then and there I am deleting all the dating apps from my phone. I’ll have to find love the old-fashioned way – drunk at a bar. As I’m wondering how long I can lurk in this tiny shop without buying anything, leaving wet footprints across the lino, I come across a curious machine tucked away at the back of the store. It looks completely out of place. It’s the size of a large ATM and across the top, in faded gold writing, are the words, ‘Wishing Machine’。
‘You need a penny and a ten pence to make a wish,’ the old lady explains, following my gaze.
My hand moves to the coin slot. There’s something tactile and pleasing about the worn metal. It feels like a machine from a different era, like a nineteen fifties fairground attraction that has toured the country for decades and finally come here to retire.
‘Why is it here?’ I ask the woman.
‘People need wishes as much as they need bread and milk. Maybe more so,’ she says, smiling at me, and there’s a kindness in her soft, lined face. Something tells me she won’t mind if I wait out the rain without buying anything. ‘You look like you could use a wish, duckie.’
‘I don’t have a penny,’ I say, pulling wet hair off my neck as I glance back at the torrential rain and listen to the drum of water beating down on the awning outside. The woman holds out a shiny penny and a ten-pence piece to me.
‘Here you go, duckie. Best make it a good one.’
It’s only eleven pence, but after the day I’ve had, the kindness makes me want to cry with gratitude. She moves away, as though wanting to give me some privacy. Though I’m under no illusion that a wishing machine is going to solve my problems, I’m curious and it’s still pouring outside so, what the hell.
The coins clunk into the slot, and the old machine lights up a ring of warm orange bulbs. A tune starts to play, something like ‘Camptown Races’ with several notes missing. The ten pence disappears into the bowels of the machine, but the penny rolls along a narrow wire track, round and round towards a central metal plate. At the back of the box, neon yellow words illuminate – Make Your Wish – and even though I know it’s just a toy, I find myself holding the sides of the machine and channelling all my frustrations into it.
I wish . . . I wish I could skip to the good part, where my life is sorted. I’m so tired of being broke and single and stuck. I wish I could fast forward to when I know what I’m doing, when I have some semblance of a career, when I’ve met my person and I don’t need to go on any more soul-crushing dates. I just want to live somewhere nice, with a sturdy ceiling and a shower with no bones in it. If the love of my life is out there, I want to get to the part that he’s in. I just want to get to the good part of my life.
It’s as though the machine knows when I’m done, because the moment I finish my thought, there’s a grinding of gears and a second plate comes down to press the penny. Then it falls into a separate slot, below my left hand. It has been crushed flat with new writing layered on top: ‘YOUR WISH IS GRANTED’ inscribed in small, swirling capitals. Turning the pressed penny over in my palm, I do feel marginally better – maybe it’s therapeutic to vent to a machine, cheaper than a therapist anyway.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ the old woman says, and I look up to see her watching me from her seat behind the till. ‘Life is never quite sorted, whatever stage you’re at.’
It’s only when I’m halfway home, wearing plastic bags over my feet, that I pause, confused, because I don’t remember saying any of that out loud.
Chapter 5
I wake up with a headache. Not a normal headache; this feels like someone took out my brain, sautéed it, flambéed it, rolled it in barbed wire and then slopped the whole mess back into my skull. Holding my head with one hand, I try to open my eyes to look for water, or paracetamol. That’s when I notice the curtains, the navy-blue, beautifully textured, heavy linen curtains. Those aren’t my curtains. Then I look down at the cream-coloured, brushed cotton duvet. This isn’t my duvet. Above me, there is no sign of the damp, yellow stain on the ceiling, only a large, rattan lightshade. This is not my bedroom.
The searing pain in my head makes me wince as I turn and find a man in the bed beside me. The shock of seeing another person makes me freeze, and I pull my lips closed to stop myself from squealing in alarm.
Why is someone in bed with me? Did I sleep with Dale? I know I didn’t sleep with Dale . . . Unless I did. How much did I drink last night? Three glasses of wine in the pub and then two gin and tonics with the face sucker, so drunk, but not so drunk I wouldn’t remember going home with someone. Looking at the body beside me, I quickly conclude it does not belong to Dale. This man’s shoulders are broader, his hair is darker. Could I have picked someone up between Dale’s house and mine? What if I had my drink spiked? Maybe this guy spiked my drink and then kidnapped me to his perfectly furnished house.
Cautiously, I lean over to get a better view of my potential abductor. He’s lying on his front, his face away from me, with one arm draped over the pillow obscuring my view. He has a nice back. Even in the disorientating fog of a killer hangover, I know a nice back when I see one. His skin is smooth and tanned, his muscles clearly defined, and he can’t be flexing because he’s asleep. Unless he’s fake sleeping while flexing, but that feels like a lot of effort to impress someone you’ve kidnapped.