Chapter 5

Amy didn’t have the heart to stop her. She felt sorry for the lonely girl and simply accepted the missives and made ‘ahhh,’ ‘ok,’ ‘how lovely,’ ‘sorry, I have to go’ comments, hoping the zealous oversharing would eventually fizzle out. Possibly, when Velma acquired a boy or girlfriend—she wasn’t sure which—and she’d have someone else to focus on. Setting Velma up on a date topped Amy’s bucket list.

Amy tried again to lift her head off the pillow, but it pounded from dehydration. She needed water.

Slinking snakelike from under the duvet, she slid silently to the floor. Naked, on all fours, arse in the air, she crawled around the king-size bed, her knees burning on lush, thick-piled carpet. Praying the leg wouldn’t wake and peer over the bed. This is SO not a good look.

Creeping towards the door, she gathered her belongings: underwear, dress, bag, and shoes.

Strangely, she could see only her clothes strewn across the floor with no sign of the leg owner’s clothing. Weird, unless they were very tidy, but who puts away clothes in the heat of passion? Has there been any passion?

She couldn’t feel any discomfort in her body, any sign of a passionate workout. She put her hand between her legs to check for tell-tale wetness. She was dry. No sex…unless they wore a condom and I didn’t come. How bloody selfish...effing typical.

Sitting on her knees, she peered over the bed, trying to make out the leg owner’s identity, but whoever the stranger was, they lay on their stomach, covered in the duvet’s blue and white striped sea, their head tucked under pillows as if blocking out sound. Was I snoring? Shit, I was snoring, wasn’t I? Urrgh…embarrassing and I haven’t waxed, cut my toenails, or worn matching underwear…bloody typical.

Nervously, she braved getting to her feet and tiptoed the last few steps to her exit. Painstakingly, she quietly eased the door handle and heaved it ajar just enough to creep out. As she pulled the door shut behind her, she heard a loud fart blast unceremoniously from the bed. She giggled. That must be a man…although…vegan Velma does have a penchant for beans.

As she turned away from the door, the apartment’s bright light slapped her in the face, stinging her eyes. She recoiled behind her hand. Urrgh…shit.

The cheery morning sun shone through a wall of balcony windows. Squinting, toppling, and struggling to keep her balance, she held onto furniture and stepped into last night’s clothing, which stank of stale perfume, acrid cigar smoke, and alcohol. Why do I smell of smoke? Does the leg smoke? Yuck, ashtray-breath kisses…I must’ve been drunk.

Her head throbbing, she braved the sun’s glare and looked around the sumptuous open plan room, decked in creams and gold. They were up high, overlooking a glistening London skyline. She ran to the window, peered down, and gratefully recognised the bustling Knightsbridge street below. The sign for Brompton Court Train Station twinkled back at her. Checking her watch, she deduced she had 25 minutes to be sitting at her desk; no time to return home for freshening up or a wardrobe change.

Stilettos in hand and bag over her shoulder, she crept through the room in search of an exit, scanning the sideboard and coffee table, trying to work out who owned the apartment. But nothing, no pictures, no ornaments, no sign of life. The expensive, glamourous, tasteful, and very tidy pad was possibly a rental.

Her coat lay strewn across the floor, obviously dumped in a hurry. She snatched it up to pull it on, jamming her arms into the sleeves. As she tiptoed past a sideboard, she peered down and noticed a piece of paper sticking out from beneath it. She checked the bedroom door and found it still snuggly closed.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she popped her bare big toe onto the paper and dragged it out along the carpet into view.

A beautiful young woman’s fresh face stared up at her with sparkling cheeky eyes, high cheekbones, and soft, pale pink hair curling about her shoulders. Her head tilted to the side, giving the camera a bright trusting smile.

She didn’t recognise the girl. Maybe it’s the leg owner’s girlfriend?…sister?.

No time to delve further, she couldn’t risk having the leg wake at any moment; she slid the image back under the sideboard and made her way to the front door.

Heaving it open with a quick, final glance over her shoulder, she exited and pulled it gently shut behind her.

Relieved to have escaped unnoticed, she snuck across the opulent communal hallway to an awaiting elevator, choosing it over using the large circular stairway. She stepped inside and pressed the ground floor button. The doors closed with a gentle chime. A shiny gold panel indicated she occupied the fifth floor, the arrow pointing down.

With a sigh of relief, she turned and fell back against the doors. Her dishevelled image stared back at her from mirrored walls. Good God, I look rough!

Licking fingers, she rapidly wiped tell-tale mascara smudges from beneath her eyes and across her cheeks. She smoothed down her dress and finger-combed her hair. Rummaging through her bag, she found a lipstick tube and skilfully covered her red-wine-stained lips. Disgusting…I’ve got to stick to white.

The elevator hit the ground with a soft thump, depositing her in a lobby where she stepped into her shoes and strode into the lavish silk, marble, and granite concierge area, sauntering as nonchalantly and carefree as possible. She held her head high and blagged it, as if born to be there.

Taking it all in, she gawked at the building that reeked of money, but whom did she know lived here. Oh god, please don’t let it be a client…or Velma.

Her heart began to speed up again. Not again! Shut up and breathe.

Her heels clicked cheaply on the marble floor. The uniformed concierge looked up. She bet he’d grown accustomed to witnessing beautiful young women leaving the building in the early hours, his ready smile and slight nod confirming her suspicions.

She didn’t have time, or the balls, to stop and talk to him, to find out who the hell she’d been with last night. Would he even know? She scampered on, giving him a weak smile and a hasty wave of her hand.

As she reached the entrance doorway, four burly men wearing police uniforms barged past her.

“Excuse me, miss.” One of them turned to look over his shoulder, taking in the view of her long legs and tight-fitting dress.

She pulled her coat smartly around her body, hiding her thighs.

The officers hurried as their radios barked instructions and surrounded an alarmed concierge. The taller officer waved an official looking document at him.

Not waiting to see the fuss unfold, she pushed through the doors, skipped down the pillared entrance steps, skirted around the badly parked police cars with their flashing lights, and marched off into the London sunshine. Coffee...now!