The Show Must Go On

Chapter Twelve: I've Got to See You Again

Chapter Twelve Soundtrack: I've Got to See You Again by Norah Jones

My curtains don't usually let in this much light. Did I forget to close them? My pounding head and fuzzy mouth tell me I was drinking—at work drinks—with—

I jolt awake. I am in another bed, one that smells of smoke and cloves. Those aren't my curtains. This isn't my flat.

This is Nas's flat.

This is Nas's bed.

I peer under the sheets.

Thank God. I'm still wearing my clothes.

Now that fear is alleviated, I can look around properly. Nas's bed is enormous, raised on a wooden platform and lit by sloping loft windows that look out over the roofs of Soho. Through the archway, I can see the living room we worked in last night, with a pillow and a rumpled blanket on the couch. Nas must have slept there, after... carrying me to his bed?

On the bedside table are a packet of Paracetamol and a carafe of water.

How pitiful must I seem if Nas, the man who mocked my work ethic after my fiancé died, has left me Paracetamol? The thought spikes my headache.

I have to escape. This is the most mortifying interaction we've ever had. I will not give him a visual comparison to all his past lovers, who have awoken in the same bed, probably without any morning breath. He doesn't need to wonder who swapped them for a frizzy-haired troll.

The clock warns me that it's 10:15.

Where are my shoes?

A door opens and I freeze like a rabbit before a hunter.

Footsteps.

The door closing.

I should have left. One night stands don't stay this long and we didn't even fuck.

What will he think? How could I have shattered last night's fragile truce by being so careless?

My body has frozen around me.

Nas appears through the archway and I exhale.

Then I inhale again, because my lungs aren't working properly.

He's obviously just been running. Sweat sticks his head to his forehead and shines down his arms.

Oh my God. His arms. I have seen arms before, of course, but I am creating a new space in my mind to remember his. They deserve a museum to themselves.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he strides across the kitchen, and I take the chance to absorb the sight of him. Without looking away, I spin my ring, over and over. Then he spots me still in his bed.

He stares at me ravenously. His eyes trace up my bare arms to my tousled hair and I see him swallow, hard. Every treacherous atom of me snaps to attention. I haven't woken up in a strange bed: I've woken up in Nas's bed, and his sheets smell like him, and they brush against my body like they're his hands. His hands—

He takes half a step closer.

'I went for a run,' he says, sounding choked.

'Sure.'

'And I brought us coffees.'

He didn't want me to leave. My body relaxes and I say, just to say something, 'While you were running?'

He rolls his eyes and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. 'From the cafe downstairs.'

He's carrying a paper bag, too, that probably contains pastries.