She pulls down her knickers and sits, swaying slightly. She tries to focus her vision, stares ahead.
Will she be sick?
No, she’s ok. An hour ago, the damp floor and dodgy plumbing and sweet perfume made her feel queasy but now she’s fine. She squints. She can even read the phone number on the back of the door.
Call me…. the door instructs amongst lipstick smears and pen marks.
Why the fuck not? Brexit is happening, Trump is the next President, and her ex-boyfriend turned up at her best friend’s birthday drinks. What’s the worst that can happen?
Maybe it’s a psychic.
Or someone else’s ex-boyfriend.
Or a pizza delivery.
She hasn’t eaten since lunch.
She grabs her bag, fishes around for her phone. She dials the number and it is answered almost instantly.
“Hello?” The voice is deep, gruff.
She waits for a response. Clearly someone’s pissed off ex.
She tries to picture him, sleepy, stubbled and moody, under a white duvet.
Maybe it’s that guy who stalks into the pub holding a pack of cigarettes, muttering into his phone, glaring at the women in their miniskirts and heels as he sits alone at the bar.
He is gorgeous.
“I said, hi!” she repeats.
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?” she flirts back.
“Where did you get this number?”
Does she tell the truth?
“From the back of a toilet door.”
There is an intake of breath, rustling. She holds the phone between her shoulder and ear and pulls up her knickers.
“Who did you piss off so much that your number’s on the back of a toilet door?”
She flings open the door and it slams into the cubicle wall.
“Well….. That’s a long story.”
God, his voice is sexy. He must live near here, she has seen him so many times in this pub.
“Maybe you can tell me about it sometime.”
She applies lipstick, adjusts her skirt and grips the phone again.
“Maybe I can,” he says, huskily.
She might get laid tonight after all. She grins and glances around. All the cubicles are empty.
“Maybe you can tell me about it tonight?”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “And by the way, that lipstick really suits you.”