Page 21 of Lovers in Lockdown

The mortification I have felt over the last 24 hours is too much to bear.

Getting caught watching Noah bopping his baloney with drool hanging from my mouth was bad enough. But now he thinks I’ve been off having sex with random men in the undergrowth because I look like I’ve had a fight with a bramble bush. Jesus, he must think I’m some kind of sex-obsessed voyeur.

Or a prostitute.

Oh God.

I need to talk to him and set the record straight that I’m not actually a sexual deviant who gets off by creeping on people and having sex in public places, despite what the evidence may suggest.

And as much as the thought makes me want to be abducted by aliens and start a new life on another planet in a galaxy far far away, I know that the conversation about what happened last night, about what Isawlast night, needs to happen, or else neither of us will be able to fit inside the flat around the enormous elephant in the room.

Argh,I need to get a grip.

Once I’m washed, dressed and adequately de-leafed, I slap myself around the face a couple of times, do some preparatory deep breaths and stride out of the bathroom with as much courage and purpose as I can muster.

But Noah isn’t where I left him on the couch, legs sprawled out and watching TV with his hand resting in the waistband of his joggers.

Nope.

He’s dancing in the kitchen with his back to me instead, feet tapping, booty shaking and using a spatula as a microphone while he performs an impressively dreadful rendition of Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I Feel Like a Woman’. It is quite the sight to behold. And I just can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. It stretches my mouth so wide, I’m worried my cheeks will split.

He attempts a pirouette, looking just like I imagine a giraffe would if it decided to take up ballet, but he obviously overestimates his agility, because his legs tangle together like spaghetti and all six-foot-stupid of him goes careening towards the kitchen island.

Sweet Jesus.

I can’t look.

But by the grace of God, his face is spared mutilation, because he narrowly misses the corner of the countertop by the length of a nose hair and ends up heaped on the floor like a baby deer who’s just made its entry into the world.

I gasp in relief.

He whips his head around to look at me with wide eyes and his makeshift microphone goes hurtling across the room and hits me clean in the face.

‘Ow, fuck!’

The spatula got me right in the eyeball. He’s blinded me. That uncoordinated, tone-deaf giant has fucking blinded me.

I feel two large hands grab my face and tilt it upwards. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I can’t open my eyes.’

‘Oh shit. I’m so sorry,’ he whispers. ‘You surprised me, that’s all. Since when did you stop clonking around all over the place? That’s twice you’ve snuck up on me in the past twenty-four hours.’

Lord save me.

This was not how I anticipated beginning this conversation.

‘What?’ I prize my swollen eye open.

‘You,’ he grabs the spatula and points it at me, ‘are constantly sneaking up on me like a weird, creepy cat.’

The colour drains from my face. I am not prepared for this.

‘First of all,’ I hold my hands up in front of me in case the spatula comes flying at my face again, ‘can you stop with the kitchen utensils? You clearly can’t be trusted.’

‘Sorry,’ he sets the spatula down on the side and I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘And second of all, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Now,’ I pause, ‘or yesterday.’

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