Page 3 of A Lot to Unpack
I tidy as I go – mostly so I can make my way through the room – moving the towels, flicking rogue beard hairs from my toiletries. Ugh, I hate the feeling of having someone else’s hair sticking to my hands. I know it’s only hair and that I’m not bothered about it when it’s attached to him, but it’s a bit grim when it’s loose and everywhere… right?
Maybe I’m being overcritical. I think maybe I’m just irked about the trainers because would it really be so difficult to wear shoes for a few hours?
I apply my makeup and blast myself with hairspray, then check myself for Ben’s hairs before I head back into the bedroom. I swear, I need a decontamination unit.
I take my green silk dress from the safety of the wardrobe, sighing as I admire the fabric. I suppose I should be grateful that his trainers are colour coordinated with my dress. At least we can style it out like we’re doing a thing.
I finish off my outfit with gold jewellery and a pair of yellow heels and that’s me ready. See, I told you it wouldn’t take me long.
I grab my clutch from the dresser and spot Ben’s shoes lying on the floor. His real shoes. I wonder about taking them to him, making out like he’s made a mistake, so he has to put them on, but then we’ll have to bring his trainers back, and I don’t want to embarrass him, so I guess he’s won this one.
Shaking my head, I grab my phone from the charger, to chuck it in my bag, when the screen lights up with a notification. It’s a message that says ‘Liberty, you should see this’ and apicture from an unknown number. Curiosity getting the better of me, I click it right away, only to instantly close it again.
Oh my God, ew, I only saw it for a split second but it was unmistakably a dick pic. Who would send me a dick pic? No one I know, but they knew my name, so they know me, unless it’s spam? Some kind of scam? We deal with these things at work all the time – maybe Ben knows what I need to do.
Why do I feel so shaken up? I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to be there, for one thing, but worrying it might be something sinister has me freaking out.
And now I’m even more annoyed that Ben didn’t wait for me because I need him. He’s techy. He can look at this and tell me what I’m supposed to do. He’ll sort it.
Well, he will when it’s halftime, I imagine… Oh my God, if Hannah finds out I’m having a crisis at her party she will freak out, say I’m trying to steal her thunder or something, so I need to get to Ben before he gets to the party.
There has to be an explanation for this, right? I’m sure it’s nothing.
…then why do I have a bad feeling about this?
2
I don’t even think sliding down the shiny wooden bannister on my bum could get me down the hotel staircase faster than my feet are carrying me right now.
I know you might think it’s only a dick pic, lord knows I’ve had a few (never solicited) sent my way by well-meaning (I’m sure) suitors while I’ve been playing the dating game, but something about this one seems so sinister. Not the dick in question (I didn’t look at it for long enough), more like the dick who sent me it – although, while we’re on the subject, they’re never great photos, are they? I’m not saying I want to see them with more artistic merit (I don’t want to see them at all) but a few seconds’ thought to the lighting or the background – most notably what’s in shot, because you’re doing yourself a disservice by leaving the remote control for the TV in the frame. It really helps figure out a scale.
Anyway, I didn’t look at this one for long enough to see if it was giving ‘dead baby bird’ or ‘smart TV remote’, because I was worried that if I left it open too long it might, like, I don’t know, drain my bank account or something. Well, what little there is to drain.
I work as an assistant, for a firm of private investigators in London, and honestly the number of clients we get who are trying to track down the person or organisation who has scammed them is frankly alarming. This is why I need to find Ben. He works for the same company, in IT, so I’m sure he’ll know what to do.
I scan the lobby, looking for directions to the bar, only to be stopped in my tracks.
‘There she is…’
Shit.
‘…our daughter who defected to the south,’ Dad continues, joking for the most part, but he’s one of those Yorkshire men of a certain age who are offended by the existence of London.
‘Hello, darling,’ Mum adds.
I head over to greet them with a smile, trying my best to mask my panic, because my mum has always been able to see right through me.
They’re both dressed in their best – Mum in a beautiful, floaty peach dress, Dad in a navy chinos and blazer combo that makes him look like he just stepped off a yacht.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Mum tells me as she kisses me on the cheek.
‘Thanks – so do you guys,’ I reply.
I notice the look on Mum’s face, almost like she’s analysing me, as she steps back.
‘Where’s your Ben?’ Dad asks me as he gives me a hug. ‘Has he seen the score?’
He says this in a way that suggests something has happened – not that I care, or would understand even if he told me.
