The off-licence across the road from my house is the sort of place where the younger-looking teenagers slip their older-looking mates a few quid to buy them bottles of White Lightening to glug down at the park.
I pull the hood of my purple hoodie up over my head as though that will make me look intimidating, though most kids aren’t even scared of law enforcement these days, never mind a thirty-year-old woman wearing clothes from Matalan.
Yes, I may work at a relatively posh department store but my tastes are a little lower than that. Or at least my budget is. I know Suzy takes home more money than what I do since she’s one of those women who will reveal her salary to anyone who’ll listen, but I must earn more than Janine. Oh my God, I bet she’s after my job for the pay rise!
I consider the hard liquor at this thought but that’s a little out of my budget too. I’m really more of a ‘twelve alcopops for £10’ offer kind of girl. No, thirty is not too old to drink alcopops.
The girl behind the counter bags my colourful selection of Bacardi Breezers and, for a second, I think she’s going to ID me but she just tells me how much I owe, resignedly watching the group of kids outside as though she wishes she could join them. I can’t even remember the last time someone asked me for ID. I always used to resent looking younger in my twenties but now my heart flutters at the thought of someone thinking I look like a teenager.
Taking my carrier bags and handing over the correct money, I head back home where I know it’s likely I’ll drink all twelve bottles while I think of the perfect Suzy Smith-defeating plan.
I don’t know what happened in Janine’s interview but the sugary-sweet smile she gave me when I left work is not a good sign. Suzy probably didn’t even ask her any questions. They probably spent the whole time allotted for an interview gossiping about how Andy from electronics dumped Cheryl from home appliances right after she found out she was pregnant.
Opening my first bottle of pineapple-flavoured Breezer, I think about calling Mark to find out exactly what went down but I don’t have his number in my phone. The only person I can call is Suzy. As if I’m going to do that.
***
Mark Edwards lives in a rather posh Victorian end-terraced house. I know this because the arrogant wanker has told me before how nice it is to live in St. Johns and I rather feel like paying him a visit after only six of those stupid, girlie drinks. How can they get you so drunk when they taste just like you’re drinking pop? Anyway, I’m standing outside the house I know is his because his sporty blue Mazda is parked outside. He’s even got a customised licence plate.
Also, I can see him through the large bay window. He’s got the telly on with some boring broadsheet newspaper spread over his lap. Oh God, I’m a stalker. What am I doing here again? I stumble towards the front door (bright red gloss- just like bloody Kylie’s) but Mark looks up and sees me wobbling like a total loony in his front garden.
“Chloe?” He holds the door open, his expression a mixture of concerned and perplexed.
“Hi Mark. I was just…passing.”
I’m such a regular with my taxi company that the driver, Brian, is sort of friends with me and waves as he passes, having turned the car around at the end of the road.
I think it’s pretty obvious that I wasn’t just passing but Mark doesn’t say anything. Instead, he studies my appearance. Why didn’t I think this through and change out of my comfy hoodie and lounge trousers? I look no better than one of those teenagers meeting their mates down the park.
His eyebrows are raised and I almost expect him to start asking questions such as ‘Have you been drinking?’ like he’s my mother but he reaches out to grab my arm and pulls me inside.
The interior is Ideal Home gorgeous, all laminate flooring, venetian blinds, glass furnishings and even a spiral staircase. I can picture Mark and Janine living here together. Her cooking dinner for him wearing nothing but an apron and a fabulous pair of kitten heels.
Janine. Of course. That’s the reason I’m here.
“You’re going to give the job to Janine, aren’t you?” I slur.
Mark blinks several times, his long, dark eyelashes fluttering like he’s just applied mascara. “Janine?”
“You do know that’s why she went out with you? The cow’s after my job!”
He doesn’t look surprised by my comment but he frowns a little. “Is it so hard to believe that a girl like her might actually fancy me?”
I hate the way he says ‘a girl like her’ as though she’s something special, leagues above the rest of us.
“I never said she didn’t fancy you,” I clarify. “But she’s not really interested in you. In fact, she’s probably totally bored to death whenever she’s with you like the rest of us are.”
My bitter words hang in the air between us. I don’t know why I’ve said that. It’s not even Mark I’m angry with. Well, maybe I am a little bit annoyed with him. But only a tiny bit. And only because I think he’s stupid for falling for Suzy’s tricks, thrown at him in the shape of the walking Barbie doll.
Suddenly I lean forwards and kiss him. No, he kisses me. I’m a wee bit too tipsy to be doing any sort of leaning. Any anyway, why would I just make a move on him like that? I don’t even like him! Not that he isn’t a good kisser. Surprisingly good actually. I’d convinced myself that he’d probably be crap because he’s so confident. But then I’m admitting that I’ve thought about kissing Mark Edwards before, aren’t I? Well, I’m not going to feel bad about that now. He’s an attractive man and I’m a single woman. I’d say it’s perfectly normal to have thought about kissing him before. It’s not like I’ve thought about doing anything else.
But the kiss intensifies and Mark reaches up, sliding his fingers into my hair and running his other hand up and down my back. This scene would be much better if I was wearing some slinky cocktail dress that he could get off with just his little finger. Oh God. What underwear have I got on? I hope I put on that lacy bra and panties set with the little pink rose bud design this morning rather than the comfortable beige Bridget Jones style knickers my mum bought me for Christmas.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can still hear the rational thoughts of the sensible and sober Chloe pleading with me to pull away and go home. But I don’t feel anything like her right now. So I ignore her and loop my arms around Mark’s neck.
Perhaps it’s one movement too much because I suddenly feel a bit queasy. Mark stops kissing me right before I throw up the colourful Bacardi Breezers I’ve drunk all over his laminate floor.
Well, they always did say it was easier to clean than carpet.
YOU ARE READING
Pear Shaped
ChickLit~Chicklit short story contest finalist~ For Chloe Mills, her life starts to go pear-shaped when she turns thirty. Her boyfriend has just left her and soon even her job as a personal shopper at a department store is threatened by recession. Can Chloe...
