Look. I told them I went west.
I did not go west.
I went east, with him, in a taxi I had no business getting into, and the receipt is still folded in the inside pocket of my coat like a little paper snitch. Mia has a nose like a bloody sniffer dog. Sophie just does that quiet thing with her mouth. Between the two of them I am never getting away with anything for long, which is irritating, because I am quite good at the first half of a lie. It is the second half that trips me up. The evidence. The smell of someone else’s detergent on a jumper. A postcode that does not match the story.
West would have been simple. West is home. Parsons Green, kettle, makeup wipes, the good side of my pillow. East was a decision I made standing outside a bar in Soho with my phone at 12% and his hand already doing that casual thing on the small of my back, like he had been given permission. He had not. I gave it to him about four minutes later.
The version I sent to the group chat
I typed it while the taxi was still stuck on Shaftesbury Avenue.
heading home xx going west, knackered, do not wait up
Sophie sent a thumbs up. Mia sent a voice note I did not play. I already knew what it would be. Something like are you actually going home or are you being a liability again. She says liability like it is a legal term. I find it quite flattering if I am honest.
The driver asked if I was all right and I said I was fine, which is what you say when you are calculating whether you can get away with this and still make breakfast look normal. He had the radio on low. Some late night phone in. I watched the city flip from familiar to not quite. One minute you know every corner. Next minute you are crossing the river in the wrong direction and pretending that is a personality trait.
I do this. I pick a direction and then I pick a story to match it. West sounds responsible. East sounds like I am still in the middle of the night. I wanted both. That is the problem with me. I want the walk of whatever and the clean version for the kitchen in the morning.
Who he was, roughly
I am not doing the full biography. He does not get that.
He was tall enough. Good coat. The sort of voice that sounds like it has been in rooms with better lighting than this one. We had been talking for maybe an hour, which in Soho time is either a marriage or nothing at all. He laughed at the right bits. He did not mention a startup, which already put him ahead of the last three. He asked if I wanted another drink and I said I wanted to leave, which is not the same as wanting to go home, and he clocked the difference immediately.
That should have annoyed me. It did not. It felt like being read, and I like being read if the person doing it is fit.
In the taxi he sat close without performing it. No hand on the thigh like he had watched a film. Just the quiet of two people who have already decided. I kept my bag on my lap. I checked my phone once and saw Mia’s voice note sitting there unplayed, little red badge, ticking. I turned the screen over.
He lived in a new build near London Fields. Of course he did. East London boys in decent knitwear always do. The lobby smelled of paint and money that is trying not to look like money. In the lift I redid my lipstick in the mirrored wall because I cannot help myself. He watched. I let him.
The bit I will actually admit
I went because I wanted to. That is the whole confession, really. Not because I was too drunk to know better. I knew better. I just did not fancy better at half twelve on a Thursday.
His flat was tidy in that slightly suspicious way. Glasses aligned. No pants on the radiator. A plant that was still alive. I clocked the bathroom first, as you do. Clean towels. A candle that had been lit on purpose. I thought, right, so you were hoping. Fine. I was hoping too. We can both be obvious.
I will not give you the play by play. I am honest, not generous. What I will say is this. He was better than the conversation had promised, which does not happen often enough, and I slept for about ninety minutes and then lay there staring at a ceiling I did not know, doing the maths on how I was going to get back west before Sophie put the coffee on.
He offered to order me a car. I said I would do it. Control. Always. I sat on the edge of the bed in last night’s dress feeling like a rumour of myself and booked the thing while he was in the shower. The app showed the route. East to west. A long, stupid, expensive diagonal across the city. I almost laughed.
That is when the receipt started existing.
Coming home is the dangerous part
Leaving is easy. You put your shoes on. You take one last look in a mirror that is not yours. You say something light so nobody thinks you are about to write about them.
I said I had an early thing. I do not have an early thing. I have two flatmates and a reputation I keep feeding.
The car was a Toyota that smelled of air freshener and other people’s nights. Dawn was doing that grey London thing where it cannot decide if it is romantic or just damp. I watched Hackney turn into the city and the city turn into the bit I actually live in. My feet hurt. My mouth was dry. I kept thinking about the message I had sent. going west. Technically true, now. Just a few hours late and with a detour I had no intention of putting on the record.
I tipped because I felt like I had gotten away with something. Then I stood on our street with my keys already in my hand like a person who had simply been at a late bar and taken a sensible taxi home.
The flat was quiet. Good sign. Sophie’s door shut. Mia’s slightly open, which is how she sleeps when she wants to catch people. I took my shoes off in the hall and winced at the floorboard we always forget. I hung the coat up. I did not empty the pockets. That was the mistake, if you want to be technical about it.
Morning, and Mia’s face
I woke up to the smell of toast and the sound of Sophie being competent. She is always competent at 9am. It is one of her flaws.
I did the whole performance. Hair in a clip. Big jumper over the dress I had not fully taken off, which is a choice I stand by. Concealer. The kettle. I said morning like a person who had been in her own bed since one.
Mia looked at me over her mug.
Just looked.
I said what, and she said nothing, which is worse. Then she said you were home late, and I said the taxi took ages, which is the kind of sentence that is true enough to live on for about twenty minutes.
Sophie asked if I wanted tea. I said yes. I sat at the counter and ate toast I did not want. My phone had three messages from him. I left them unread because unread feels cleaner when you are sitting opposite people who knew you when you still pretended to go home when you said you were going home.
Mia went to the hallway.
I knew. I actually knew. She has this habit of tidying when she is suspicious, which is mental, but it works. She lifted my coat. She said you left your card in here, and I said oh, and she held up the receipt between two fingers like it was a parking ticket.
East. Time stamp. Drop off that was not our postcode. Not even close.
I could have grabbed it. I did not. That would have been worse.
She raised one eyebrow. She is very good at one eyebrow. I said it was a long way round. Traffic. Roadworks. The usual rubbish. She said there are no roadworks that take you to London Fields at twenty past one, Chels.
Sophie did not look up from her phone. She did smile though. Tiny. Traitor.
Why I lied in the first place
I have been thinking about this and it is not as glamorous as I would like.
I lied because I did not want the commentary before I had even taken my makeup off. I love them. I do. But living with two other women means every night out comes with a review panel. Who was he. Was he worth it. Are you going to see him again. Did you use the good towels. Did you at least eat something.
Sometimes I want the night to belong to me for a few hours before it becomes content. Even I get tired of turning myself into a story before the story has finished happening.
That is the joke, obviously. I am writing this. The night is content now. Mia wins. She always does.
The other reason is simpler. West is what you say when you still want to look like a person with a plan. East is what you do when the plan is him and a lift that smells of new paint. I wanted to be both girls. The one who texts the chat and the one who does not come home. I nearly managed it. I would have managed it if I had just emptied the coat.
I am good at a lot of things. Covering my tracks is not one of them. I leave lipstick on glasses. I leave receipts in pockets. I leave the truth sitting in the hallway waiting to be picked up.
What I am doing with the receipt
I have not thrown it away.
That is the other confession, the smaller one that is somehow more embarrassing. It is in my jewellery dish now, next to a pair of hoop earrings and a hotel keycard I also should have binned. I told myself I kept it for expenses. That is a lie. I do not claim nights like that. I kept it because I like proof. I like knowing I actually went. That I did not just invent a better evening in the morning like some people do.
He texted again. I answered this time. Nothing soppy. Just enough. He said next time I should just tell my flatmates. I said next time I will take the night bus and save myself the paper trail. He sent a laughing face. I put the phone face down.
Sophie asked later, properly, when Mia had gone to the shop. She said you do not have to lie to us, you know. You can just say you went home with someone.
I know. I do know. It is not about permission. It is about the ten minutes after I have decided, when the night is still mine and I have not handed it over to the kitchen yet. I wanted those ten minutes. I took them. They cost me a taxi I did not need and a conversation I was going to have anyway.
Mia came back with milk and gave me the look that means she has already drafted the group chat message and deleted it out of mercy. Then she said next time go west if you say west.
Fair.
I will probably say west again. I will probably go east again. I will probably hang the coat up with the evidence still in it, because I am 27 and I still think I am quicker than the people who live with me. I am not. They have keys. They have mornings. They have my coat.
Anyway. That is the truth of it. I lied about the taxi. I went the wrong way on purpose. And if Mia is reading this, which she will be, the receipt is in the dish. You can stop searching the pockets.