Right so. Sunday. Parsons Green. The good plates are still in the sink from Thursday and nobody has the moral high ground, which is how these things should start.
Sophie had already done the coffee. Mia had already opened the pizza box from half two in the morning and declared the pineapple one “still legally breakfast.” Three phones sat face up on the table like little witnesses. That was my first clue this was not a hangover. This was a hearing.
I had a full face of yesterday’s mascara and a T-shirt that was not mine. I sat down anyway. I am many things. A coward in my own kitchen is not one of them.
The rules, apparently
Sophie tapped the table once. Not dramatic. Just enough.
“In order,” she said. “Saturday. Every name. Do not skip the boring ones. The boring ones are how you get in trouble.”
Mia made a noise that was half laugh, half betrayal. She had been there for most of it. She still wanted the director’s cut. Course she did.
I said fine. I even sat up straighter, which is embarrassing at 27 but there you go. If they wanted the list, they could have the list. I am good at lists. Journalism degree. Maths brain. Messy weekends. It all lives in the same drawer.
Look. I was not going to lie. Lying takes energy and I had spent mine on a dancefloor that smelled like vanilla perfume and other people’s decisions.
Name one: Callum from the afternoon drinks
Started respectable. That is the joke.
A terrace in Soho that thinks it is still summer. A girl from Sophie’s work had a birthday that began at four, which is always a threat. Callum was someone’s plus one. Finance. Nice shirt. The sort of man who says “shall we get a bottle” like he invented sharing.
We talked about nothing. Weather. The playlist. How the heaters were already on and it was still September. He put his hand on the back of my chair and I let him, because it is Sunday now and I can admit I like being chosen in public even when I do not plan to keep anyone.
Did I kiss him? No. Did I think about it when he went to the loo? For three seconds. Then I remembered I get bored of men who narrate wine.
Sophie wrote “Callum” in her notes app. She has a notes app for my life. I should be flattered. I am slightly haunted.
Name two: the girl who clocked me
Not a conquest. Still counts.
Bathroom queue at the birthday place. Dark tiles. One bulb doing too much. A girl in a silver skirt looked at me in the mirror like she was trying to place a song.
“You were at that thing in Dalston last month,” she said.
I was. I had been on a table I was not invited to, which is my favourite kind of table. She did not say it unkindly. She said it like a fact. I redid my lip and told her she had a good memory. She smiled in a way that meant she also had a group chat.
Mia groaned into a cold slice. “That is going to come back round.”
Probably. London is eight million people and somehow still a village with better lighting.
Name three: Jaz’s brother
Jaz is fine. Jaz works in production and always knows which room the free drinks are in. Her brother is called Theo and he arrived after ten looking like he had been dragged from a Sunday lunch that started on Saturday.
He was fit. I can say that. Dark hair, bit of a smirk, the exact posture of a man who has never been told no in a kitchen.
We smoked outside even though I do not really smoke. That is how you know a night is turning. You start borrowing other people’s habits because the air is cold and the conversation inside has gone circular.
Theo told me he “does not really do clubs.” He was in a club. I told him that. He laughed and said he made exceptions. I nearly liked him for the honesty. Then he asked what I “actually do” and I said I write about my life, and you could see the calculation happen behind his eyes. Content girl. Risk. Reward. Possible screenshot.
We kissed against the wall by the bins. Not cinematic. A bit damp. His mouth tasted like beer and mint, which is the national flavour of 1am.
Sophie held up a hand. “Did you go home with him?”
No. Jaz appeared and did that sister face. The one that says I love you but I will end this. Fair enough. I like Jaz more than I liked the kiss.
Name four: the one in the booth
Afters. Always afters. If you leave when the lights come up you are doing it for your future self and I was not on speaking terms with her yet.
Someone knew a place in Hackney with a kitchen and a speaker that kept cutting out. Twelve of us. Someone’s Deliveroo at an hour that should be illegal. I sat on a counter and swung my heels like I paid rent there.
There was a boy in a navy jumper who did not offer a name for a full twenty minutes. That is either confidence or a red flag in a nice knit. Turns out he was called Ed and he worked in “startups,” which is what men say when they do not want to say sales.
He told me I had a dangerous laugh. I told him that was a line. He said he knew. Then he used it again.
We ended up in the hallway because the kitchen got loud and the hallway had that weird intimacy hallways get at 4am, like the building itself is tired of you. Hands. Mouth. My back against someone’s bike. I stopped it before clothes became a conversation. Not morals. Timing. Mia was shouting my name because the pizza had arrived and I have priorities.
Sophie looked at me over her mug. “You stopped it for pizza.”
“I stopped it for pizza and an exit,” I said. “Do not twist it into character growth.”
Name five: the one I actually brought near the flat
This is the part they wanted. I could tell because both of them went still, which never happens. Even the fridge hummed quieter, or I imagined that because I am dramatic when I am cornered.
His name was Nate. Met him on the way between the afters and the night bus I did not catch. He was with two mates who peeled off outside a chicken shop. He asked if I was heading west. I said Parsons Green. He said he could do west. Men will travel for the idea of you. They will not always travel for the morning after.
We kissed in the street like people who had decided. That matters. I do not like the ones who pretend they stumbled into it. I like a man who knows what he is doing and still might be a mistake.
Outside our building I told him he was not coming up. I meant it for about twelve seconds. Then I looked at him in the hallway light and thought about how empty my room feels when I have performed a whole night and brought nobody home to prove it happened.
Sophie closed her eyes. Mia whispered “Chels.”
He came up. Not all the way into a story I am putting on the internet in high definition. Some things I keep because I like having one private corner. What I will say is this. He was good with his hands and average at leaving. He used a glass from the drying rack. He asked if I wanted him to stay. I said I wanted sleep. He ordered an Uber at 7:40 like a man trying not to look rejected.
I watched the car on the app until it turned the corner, which is unhinged, and then I washed my face and got in bed in the T-shirt he left because it smelled like someone else’s night and I am not above souvenirs.
The bit they did not ask for
I checked my phone before I came into the kitchen. Of course I did.
Callum had liked a story from three weeks ago. Theo had not texted, which is correct. Ed had found me on Instagram and sent a fire emoji, which should be a crime. Nate had messaged that he got home fine and I should drink water. Sweet. Slightly dad-coded. I sent back a tap emoji and no words, because words create sequels.
There was also a screenshot in a chat I am not in, forwarded by a girl I barely know, of me and Theo by the bins. Blurry. Still me. London really needs a hobby.
I put the phone face up with the others when I sat down. Transparency. Or theatre. Same thing on a Sunday.
How the tribunal actually feels
People think this is sisterhood. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is two women you live with trying to work out if you are going to bring chaos home that they then have to step over in their slippers.
Sophie is the one who will say the sentence that stings because it is accurate. She works in PR. She can smell a narrative forming. She does not like being a footnote in mine.
Mia is the one who will come out with me and then act shocked at the receipts. She is not shocked. She is collecting.
I love them. I also want to climb out of the window when they do this. Both can be true. I contain pizza and contradictions.
They were not wrong to ask. I do make my life public on purpose. That is the job I gave myself when I decided being nobody was the actual nightmare. You cannot chase attention all week and then act wounded when the people with keys to your flat want the unedited version.
Still. There is a particular humiliation in saying names out loud in daylight. At night they are scenes. In the kitchen they are a register. Callum. Bathroom girl. Theo. Ed. Nate. A whole Saturday reduced to a roll call, like I am taking attendance at a very stupid school.
I finished. I even put them in order, which Sophie hates because it makes it harder to catch me leaving someone out.
Mia asked if I liked any of them. I said I liked the bits. The terrace. The wall. The hallway. The fact Nate said drink water. I did not like the idea of a second night with any of them, which is a different sentence and people keep trying to make it the same one.
“You do this every week,” Sophie said.
“Not every week.”
She looked at me.
“Fine. A lot of weeks.”
I picked a piece of cold crust and ate it because silence makes me perform and food gives my mouth a job.
What I wanted to say and did not
I wanted to say that the fear underneath all of this is not that I sleep with the wrong people. I am quite good at that, actually. The fear is quieter. It is the Sunday where nobody asks. No tribunal. No notes app. No Mia stealing my leftovers and calling it care. Just a clean kitchen and a phone that only lights up with delivery updates.
I would hate that more than I hate this.
I will not say that to Sophie. She would turn it into a conversation about self worth and I would have to be sincere before noon. Absolutely not.
I will not say it to Mia either. She would suggest we go out tonight to fix it, and my feet still hurt, and I need one evening of pretending I am a person who owns dressing gowns.
Then I asked the wrong question
I wiped my hands on a bit of kitchen roll. I looked at both of them. I felt that little lift you get when a night is over and you can already see the shape of the next one. Dangerous feeling. My favourite one.
“Anyway,” I said. “Who is taking me out next weekend?”
Silence.
Not the funny kind. The proper kind. The fridge again. A siren somewhere down the Fulham Road. Sophie’s thumb paused on her screen. Mia looked at the pizza box like it might answer for her.
I laughed first, because someone had to. It came out lighter than I felt, which is a skill, and also a tell if you know me.
Sophie stood up and started putting mugs in the sink even though they were not finished. That is how she leaves a conversation without leaving the room.
Mia said, “Maybe stay in.”
I said, “Maybe.”
I did not mean it. She knew I did not mean it. The phones stayed face up. Nobody flipped them over. That felt like the closest thing to a verdict I was going to get.
I went to the bathroom and redid my face even though I was going nowhere. Habit. Maintenance. A little proof I was still in the story.
When I came back, Sophie had put the leftover pizza in the fridge like a truce. Mia had put a glass of water in front of my chair. No speech. Just water. Nate would have approved. Annoying.
I drank it. I opened my notes app and wrote the names down again in my own order, with the bits they did not need. The laugh. The bins. The bike in the hallway. The T-shirt. The silence after my question.
That last one is the line. I already know I will use it.
Next weekend is six days away. I can be good for some of them. I can even be quiet for an evening. I can let Sophie have her clean kitchen and let Mia have her moral holiday.
Then someone will send a location. I will look in the mirror by the door. I will tell myself I am only going for an hour.
And if I come home with another name, I already know where I will be sitting on Sunday. Same table. Same phones. Same pizza if we are lucky.
They can have the tribunal.
I will have the list.
