The Secret to Falling in Love. Victoria Cooke
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to the floor before heaving the rest of my body out of the bed.
So there I was, on the floor in some stranger’s bedroom, stuck in downward-facing dog, too afraid to move until I’d reaffirmed the bloke in bed was still asleep. It was hard to hear any changes in his breathing for all the blood pumping around my head, but he didn’t move, so I assumed he was still sleeping. Relieved, I allowed my knees to slump down to the floor and scanned the room for my belongings. Hanging from the lamp on the bedside table was my blue lacy satin bra. ‘Oh, God,’ I groaned under my breath as snippets of memory started slapping me in the face.
I didn’t dare put my clothes on for fear of being caught, so I scooped everything up into my arms. When I stood up, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror on the wall. Even more horrifying than the predicament I’d found myself in was my hair; it looked like the perfect home for a tittering of magpies.
I didn’t have time to think about that. I scurried towards the door. As I was about to leave, I turned back to check he was still sleeping. My panic had subsided a little, so I could appreciate that no matter how compelled I felt to get out of there, he wasn’t actually too bad. The slow rise and fall of his toned, taut chest was the calm before the storm. At that moment, he was blissfully unaware he’d wake up alone – that his date would have sneaked off after a night of passion. (I’d concluded there had been passion from the location of my bra.)
To my shame, I felt quite excited about being the one to sneak off. On the rare occasions I’d had one-night stands, I’d always been the one to wake up alone without so much as a note, but there I was, holding all the cards. Of course, it was just logistical, as we were in his house and he couldn’t exactly sneak off and leave me here.
Although that did actually happen once, back in my university days. I’d had to suffer the embarrassment of a very forthcoming flatmate telling me the bloke of my beer-goggled dreams had gone into hiding and wouldn’t come out until I’d left. He’d said that it would be better for him if I hurried up about it too, so the elusive one-night stand could return home to his game of FIFA.
I contemplated leaving a note, but it would have increased the risk of getting caught. Instead, I left the room and crept down the stairs. The front door was locked, and there was no sign of a key anywhere. I tiptoed down the hallway to the kitchen, in search of another way out. There was a back door, which was also locked. Shit. I really didn’t want to go back upstairs and wake him.
Looking around, I could see no obvious place for a key to be kept. My own were on a big silly bunch of novelty key rings probably visible from the International Space Station, and I kept them on the floor, under previously worn clothing, but I have lower standards of organisation than most people. Think, Melissa! I gathered my composure, trying to channel the mind of a more resourceful person.
As I cast my eyes around the room, I realised there was another option. It wasn’t ideal, and perhaps a bit of a squeeze, but I’d run out of other options and by that point it felt quite welcoming, like Willy Wonka’s factory gates. It was a dog flap. In my haste, I hadn’t noticed a dog, but as I looked around I saw a dog bed. It was quite a big one too, which probably meant that I, being fairly petite, might actually fit through the flap.
I couldn’t see any alternative, so I slipped into my underwear and last night’s black skater dress and got on all fours. I pushed on the door. It was disgustingly sticky, but luckily it swung open – it wasn’t one of those fancy electronic ones. Ha, he was a cheapskate; the memory came back to me. Last night he’d refused to split the bill fifty-fifty and wanted to tot up each item individually because I’d had a mojito and ‘they’re expensive’. I knew there was something off-putting about him, that taut chest wasn’t fooling me.
Carefully, trying not to let the putrid dog residue touch me, I put my head through. My shoulders, however, were a bit of a squeeze. I couldn’t get them through; it was impossible. The door seemed to be taller than it was wide, so I precariously turned onto my side, jammed my shoulders in and wriggled like a worm, pushing with my toes. Once I’d finally got my elbows through I was able to free my hands and support myself.
I’d just taken a moment to let out a huge sigh of relief when I heard a low growl. Shit, the dog! I tried to work my way through faster, but my hips were posing a similar problem to my shoulders; I’d wedged them in and each push was only budging them a centimetre or so. Something was pulling me back. I realised in horror that the dog had my dress in its teeth and was tugging viciously.
Using my hands and feet together, I gave one big heave. There was a loud tearing noise, as I landed in a heap on the doorstep and slid into the soggy grass before it. Looking down at my dress, I saw it was a complete disaster. The skirt had detached from the waistband, transforming it into an ill-hemmed top and saggy skirt combo that exposed a less than appealing area of my stomach.
Urgh. Damn dog! A furry head appeared through the flap – not one of a ferocious Rottweiler or an Alsatian, but that of a cute golden retriever, panting playfully. Typical.
Once safely outside of the garden, I was struck by the icy January air and the shame of walking home in last night’s clothing – which was now torn, just like my hopes of the date leading to more than just someone’s bedroom. I walked sullenly to the end of the suburban street, taking in the identical red-brick terraced houses that lined both sides.
I couldn’t have changed my mind and sneaked back inside if I wanted to, since I’d no idea which one of them I’d just come from. Plus I didn’t fancy my chances against that dog again; I had very little clothing left to tear. The thought smothered me with shame, and I shuddered, wishing for the first time ever that I’d followed my mother’s advice and worn a bigger coat. The middle of my dress was flapping about, waving at each passer-by: ‘Hey look, walk of shame over here!’
I rummaged in my bag for my keys. After examining my key rings, I selected the one that said, ‘Keep calm, I’m single,’ and removed it from the bunch. My oldest friend, Amanda, had bought it for me because she’d ‘admired the irony’. I’d never asked her why it was ironic but assumed it was because I wasn’t calm about being single – I’d planned my wedding twenty-five years ago (scheduled for five years ago).
Whatever the reason, I hated it and it was about to meet its destiny. I worked the fob around the spiral key ring and removed it so I was left with the just the ring. Pulling together the two torn pieces of my dress, I prised the ring open just enough to slide the fabric in. I turned it a few times and voilà – I was reattached; though I must have looked hideous, I told myself it looked just like Liz Hurley’s safety pin dress circa 1994.
A mother and daughter walked towards me on the opposite side of the road. The girl appeared to be about five; she had a school uniform on and cute golden pigtails, each decorated with a navy-blue bow. Her little hand was wrapped tightly in her mother’s as she looked up at her, chatting away. I smiled to myself at the warmth of the image. The mother caught my eye, and I realised I’d been staring at them. She wrapped a protective arm around the girl and glared at me. I couldn’t blame her. I knew I hardly looked respectable.
When I eventually rounded the corner I was relieved to see the welcoming logo of the Metrolink station; at least getting back to my apartment would be easy enough. Seeking refuge in the corner of the shelter, I lowered my face, hiding away from the burning eyes of the morning commuters. I’d never felt so embarrassed, especially since the excuse of reckless youth was no longer on my side.
A bloody one-night stand had been the last thing on my agenda. That’s why I’d subscribed to eHarmony in the first place and didn’t just get one of those hook-up apps like some of my friends suggested. I wanted something more. I’d spent the last ten years wanting something more, watching everyone around me fall in love, waiting for my turn.
I felt a pang of guilt; it wasn’t Gavin’s fault the evening ended like it did. It takes two to sing a duet, after all, and I’d a vague awareness of suggesting ‘coffee’. Gavin, by the way, was his name; poor bloke, I fully anticipated that he’d wake up feeling as used as I had on those few occasions in the past. I didn’t think