He looks delighted. “I’ll order a cab.”
Thirty minutes later, I have slightly sobered up, and the cab pulls up outside Mark’s house a few streets away from Notting Hill station.
“The entire house is yours?” I ask, bewildered, eyeing the huge Victorian semi-detached house.
“It is,” he responds casually.
For a second, I thought he was joking. This house is the size of Tristan’s house, and he’s a multimillionaire.
“Charlie, you coming in?”
I suddenly realise I am standing in the pathway with my mouth open, and Mark is waiting with the front door open.
Inside the house is even sexier than the outside. It clearly has had every detail professionally designed, from the radiator handles to the art deco pieces scattered casually through the hall.
There’s a stonking collection of art lining the hallway, which seems to expand into every other room.
What did I do to deserve this? I mean, I’m okay looking, and I’m drunk enough to put out, but this guy is seriously out of my league. He could have collected a model influencer type in that bar.
If I rounded up all the blokes I’d been with in my lifetime, and aggregated their looks, wealth, and brains, this guy would still be more intelligent, handsome, and wealthy. With the exception of Danny Walker, of course.
I relax into his cinema-style sofa, which has more appliances than my kitchen with its built-in fridge compartment and speakers. He flips a button, and I yelp as the sofa reclines 90 degrees. Ok, so we are moving to the next base pretty quickly.
He tops my glass up to the brim with wine before I have a chance to say no. I’m not sure that was such a great idea. I actually feel a little queasy after the concoctions of banana and vanilla vodka cocktails. Now this syrupy wine.. eugh….
“Charlie,” he sets my glass down and leans over me. “Am I allowed a kiss?”
I giggle nervously. “I’ve no objections.” One kiss won’t hurt. I mean, I’m single, right? Danny Walker isn’t beating down my door asking for commitment.
This is it. I’ve really got to pull out my best tricks here. This guy is used to models swinging off his chandeliers, not drunk IT support girls.
His tongue enters my mouth, and I carefully edge mine into his. Ahhh, that was a bit of a deep throat! This guy has got a seriously long tongue. A bit too long…my stomach lurches. Oh no, this is not good. Not good at all. I feel wine waves in my stomach. He tries to get on top of me on the recliner sofa, and a hiccup escapes me into his mouth.
“Sorry,” I cover my mouth with my hand as his brows furrow slightly.
“I think you will have to excuse me one moment.” I struggle up from the sofa.
“Of course, if you want to,” he looks at me suggestively, “freshen up.”
I nod, banana very much to the core of my throat now, and rush out of the room down the hall to his ultra-luxe bathroom.
The door is barely closed before the wave of winey bananas is spurting out, like missiles hitting every surface available. Hitting the toilet. Hitting the bidet. Hitting the white marble spa bath. It’s like someone has set off vomit sprinklers from the ceiling.
Cherries from the bourbon cocktails, lime from the Long Island, mushrooms from my pizza before I left; my stomach is emptying out across Mark’s lavish bathroom.
Oh God, it’s everywhere. A yellowy red tsunami has hit the bathroom. In my hair, on my top! Ahhh! On the shower curtain! And the shower mat!. Frantically I grab a towel, but even they look like they were purchased in Harrods.
I rub down the shower curtain and stop in dismay. The stains have only rubbed deeper into the pattern. This guy is going to strangle me when he sees his bathroom or, even worse, make me pay for the damage.
What am I going to do? This is the point of no return.
I can’t go back to him; I can’t own up to destroying his entire bathroom with vomit. There is only
one logical plan of action.
As quietly as I can, I open the bathroom door and creep down the hallway. The front door is only metres away. One step at a time, trying not to breathe, I push forward towards the door. Slowly I turn the wooden latch and creep out into the night.
The huge door slams behind me. Gasping, I sprint down the street until I am sure I’m far enough away he can’t find me.
Panting, I drop down to the ground to catch my breath.
I cannot believe it. I’ve committed a sick-and-run.
Danny
“How’s the hangover?” Karl pushes open the door and swings his head around, grinning. “You look rough.”
I stare at him deadpan. Doesn’t anyone knock around here?
I’ve had 3 hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be prioritising our releases for next year to give direction to the product team, and my skull feels like it has been shattered into a million pieces.
Last night was stupid. I never drink so much I can’t focus the next day. I always sneak off before it slides into debauchery at some strip club. Last night, all restraint went out the window. Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of stupid things recently.
Is this what a mid-life crisis looks like?
He ignores my glare and saunters into the room. He’s too chirpy for my liking considering the night we’ve just had. Mind you, the guy is 5 years younger than me, so hangovers don’t hit him as hard.
I eye the coffee in his hand. That better be for me.
“Why are you so happy?” I growl.
“I was right. You do need coffee” He places the expresso and an energy drink down on the desk in front of me.
“Thanks,” I grunt. “I’m so fucking dehydrated my balls have shrivelled into prunes.”
“What do you do with my sensible CEO brother?” he laughs. “It’s not like you to fraternise with the staff.”