I keep telling people I do not plan these things. That is a lie I enjoy saying out loud. I plan the outfit. I plan the lip. I do not plan the postcode. The postcode just happens, usually south of the river, usually after I have already decided I am not going home alone.
How we even got in the car
We had been in that sticky bit of Soho where the pavement feels wet even when it has not rained. He was tall enough that I did not have to pretend. Fit in that London way where the shirt is a bit too tight and he knows it. He bought two drinks I did not finish and talked about a job I will not honour with a job title. Finance adjacent. Something with a deck. I nodded and watched his mouth.
Mia had already vanished with a boy in a gilet. Sophie had done the sensible thing and gone home at half twelve, which she will mention for a week. I stayed because the night still had a pulse and I am constitutionally opposed to wasting a good dress.
He said his place was Peckham. I said fine. I said it the way you say fine when you mean I am coming but I am not moving in. We stood on the corner like two people who had already agreed and were just waiting for the app to catch up. Surge, obviously. Saturday into Sunday. The estimate jumped twice while we were still kissing against a cycle rack.
I got in first. Back seat. Behind the driver, passenger side. He followed and shut the door too hard. The driver did that little nod drivers do when they have seen worse and would like you to believe they have seen nothing.
The pin dropped on a street I did not recognise. Eighteen minutes, then twenty-two, then the map did that rude thing where it adds time because of a closed bit of road near the Elephant. I checked my reflection in the window. Still good. A bit smudged. Acceptable.
The journey south is never just a journey
London at that hour is all orange lights and people who look like they have made a decision they cannot take back. We went along the river for a minute and then we did not. He put his hand on my knee like he was asking permission from a committee. I moved it higher. Committee dismissed.
There is a particular quiet in an Uber when two people start something and the third person is paid to ignore it. The radio was on low. Some late night station that thinks everyone wants soft house at 3am. His breath was warm and a bit sweet from whatever he had been drinking. Mine was mint from a chewing gum I found in my bag like a professional.
I am not going to dress this up as romance. It was not. It was heat and timing and the fact that I have never been good at waiting until a mattress appears. He kissed me and I kissed him back harder because I hate a timid start. His hand went under the dress. I had already decided the dress was a write off the second we left the bar.
The partition was not a partition. Just that bit of space and a headrest. I caught the driver’s eyes once in the mirror and then I did not look again. He looked at the road like the road had personally offended him. Fair play.
We were somewhere past the roundabout when it stopped being kissing and started being the other thing. I will spare you the mechanics you already imagined. Suffice to say the seatbelt warning chimed once and we ignored it. My heel kept slipping on the mat. His phone lit up with a message from someone called Tom and he turned it face down without reading it. That, weirdly, I respected.
He was close quicker than I expected. Men in cars always are. Something about the motion or the risk or the fact they can see the minutes ticking down on the screen and treat it like a deadline. I told him not yet. He said okay. He did not mean okay.
Then he finished
Peckham was still four minutes away according to the little car on the map. Four minutes is a long time when you have started and a short time when you have not finished. I was not getting out on a pavement I did not know with my pulse up and nothing to show for it. That is not pride. That is basic project management.
So I did not stop. He made a sound he tried to swallow. Failed. The whole thing was over with the pin still bouncing near a chicken shop I have since looked up and will never eat in.
Silence after. The good kind and the awkward kind stacked on top of each other. He laughed once, the shocked laugh, and muttered sorry like sorry was going to tidy the back seat. I fixed my dress. I found the chewing gum wrapper in the cup holder and used it because I am not an animal, I am just chaotic with a decent bag.
The driver cleared his throat. That was the review, I think.
We pulled up on a street of conversions and bins. He lived in one of those buildings that used to be something else and now has a buzzer that does not work on the first press. He asked if I was coming up. I looked at the door. I looked at him. I thought about the fact he had already finished and I had not, and about Sophie’s face if I walked in at four, and about the story I already knew I was keeping.
I said I was going home.
He looked properly thrown. Men do, when the night does not follow the script they wrote in the queue. He offered to send the Uber on. I said I would get my own. He insisted on paying for this one. Of course he did. Guilt is an excellent payment method.
He tipped. I watched the notification land. Not a small tip either. The sort of tip that says please do not tell anyone and also thank you. I kept both meanings.
The bit nobody puts on the grid
My own car arrived in six minutes. Different driver. Woman this time. I sat in the front because I needed air that did not smell like him. She asked if I had a good night. I said it was fine. She said Peckham is lively now. I said I had noticed.
Parsons Green at nearly four is quiet in a way that feels like it is judging you. I took my heels off on the path. The stone was cold. I like that feeling. It brings you back into your body after you have lent it out for a bit.
Sophie had left the hall light on, which is her version of I love you but I am furious. Mia’s door was shut and there was a pair of shoes that were not Mia’s. Good for her. The kettle was still warm. I made tea I did not drink and stood in the kitchen redoing my mouth in the reflection of the oven door, because of course I did.
I wrote the first line of this in my notes app before I washed my face. That is the habit. If I wait until morning I start being polite. Polite is death for a story like this.
What I am actually saying
People love to pretend they would never. They would wait. They would get to the flat, put on a playlist, pour water, do the whole civilised sequence. Some nights I do that. This was not one of those nights.
I wanted him. I wanted it done. I did not want to stand on a Peckham pavement at 3am negotiating the rest of my evening with a man who had already got what he came for. So I took the part that was available and I left the rest. That is not tragic. That is editing.
Would I do it again? Depends on the route. Depends on the driver, if I am honest, which I usually am when it is too late to be anything else. There are Ubers that feel like a continuation of the night and Ubers that feel like a waiting room. This one was the first kind until it became the second.
He texted at noon. A single question mark and then, a minute later, you get home ok. I left him on read long enough to finish my coffee. Then I wrote yes, thanks for the lift. Which is funny, because he did not lift me anywhere that mattered. The car did. He just happened to be in it.
Sophie asked, over toast, why I looked like I had a secret. I told her I did not have a secret. I had a paragraph. She said that was worse. She is not wrong.
I keep thinking about the tip. Not the amount. The reflex of it. He wanted the night to have a clean edge. Paid, closed, filed. I wanted the opposite. I wanted the messy middle, the bit you are not supposed to admit you liked, the bit that makes a Saturday worth the Sunday face.
He can have his clean edge. I kept the story.