What Happens Now?. Sophia Money-CouttsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Waking up the next morning, I knew something bad had happened. I could sense it. I opened my eyes and felt a few moments of bewilderment as my brain groped for information. Why this lurking sense of guilt?

      I reached out my hand for my bedside table. And at least my phone was in its usual… Oh. No, it wasn’t. Fuck. Where was my phone? Why wasn’t it charging on my bedside table? Astonishing, the panic this can induce in a fully-grown woman. No phone! I sat bolt upright in my bed and saw my phone lying on my bed beside my pillow. And then I remembered what I’d done. I remembered why there was something niggling at me. A little voice in my head that was whispering ‘Shame.’ A sinking feeling. Already half-knowing what I’d see, I opened WhatsApp. Yep, well done, Lil. I’d sent Max a message last night at… 2.03 a.m. Brilliant.

      I read it back, feeling sick.

      The message started ‘Just to say,’ which was a bad beginning because it already sounded hectoring. People start sentences with ‘Just to say’ when they’re annoyed about something but are trying to sound laid back about it.

      ‘Just to say, I think you’re a dick.’

      ‘Just to say, I never liked your mother in the first place.’

      ‘Just to say, I hate you and I never want to see you again.’

      My intention at 2.03 a.m. was clearly to sound calm. And yet, the underlying vibe was fury. Just to say, last Saturday was my first date in six months, I’d written, which made me groan out loud in bed because it managed to sound cross and tragic at the same time. Quite a skill, that.

      I read on, my stomach sinking further at each word. Just to say, last Saturday was my first date in six months. Which was kind of a big deal for me. And I know you’re busy climbing mountains or whatever but I think it’s polite to reply to messages from people you’ve shagged. X

      FUCK’S SAKE, LIL, TELL IT TO A THERAPIST. TELL IT TO JESS. TELL IT TO GRACE. TELL IT TO THE MAN WHO SERVES YOU COFFEE IN THE PORTUGUESE CAFE. JUST DON’T TELL IT TO MAX.

      The single ‘X’ was a hilariously mental touch too. The subtext, basically, was ‘I’m furious and want to rant at you, but I’m also going to try and sound normal by rounding off this message as if we’re mates.’

      There was no reply, obviously. And he’d read it at… 7.22 this morning. I rolled over on to my front and screamed into my pillow. That was it. I’d disgraced myself. I’d become one of those people you worry about becoming. We knew it was in all of us, this propensity to be a psycho, but the trick was to try and stop it slipping out. To maintain the façade of sanity until you’d been with someone for, what, six months? A year? Only then could you start absolutely losing it over things – their inability to pick up socks, their stubble shavings scattered across the basin like iron filings, when they liked a random girl’s photo on Instagram.

      What you absolutely shouldn’t do is hint at any sort of lunacy after one date. Not that there would be another date with Max. I knew that for sure now. I wouldn’t blame him if he stayed safely up that unpronounceable mountain. And somehow, this pitiful scenario felt worse because Max was famous. As if he’d be sitting round the campfire or wherever they sat on the mountains, joking about it with his climbing pals. He probably had this all the time, groupies sending him desperate messages.

      I roared into my pillow again. How had this happened? We’d been at the gallery for a couple of hours, I remembered that. Then we went to a pub round the corner. Then? I supposed I’d had one too many glasses of wine. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I was livid with myself. And I felt a hot sense of shame sweep through me. I was literally never having sex again.