|I’m looking forward to getting distracted all over your face ...
Alice Edwards
Replying to Isabelle Moore, Ethan Winkleman
|Please God, why am I still tagged into this conversation. Make it stop, for the love of Christ.
The most important part of any new place is, for me, the bathroom. Orlooas I’m deliberately calling it in front of every American I encounter, just because it confuses them so much.
As far as I’m concerned, that particular room can make or break a holiday. A weak flush, ora cold, leaky shower can be the difference between a happy start to every day, and an angry, annoying one. The perfect bathroom needs a strong toilet, an effective shower, a readily available air freshener, good ventilation, nice towels, and most importantly – especially when it’s an en suite like I have here at this AirBnB – a good solid,sound-proof door. The insulation between sexy boy visitorsand my morning poos could be the difference between me getting some, and me very much not getting some.
And after all the false starts with Noah, not to mention the texts still occasionally coming in fromTD, I really need to get me some hot strange soon. Which means this new loo has to be up to scratch.
As the AirBnB host, ‘Patrick’, shows me around, I’m impatiently waiting to seethe bathroom, and whether it will pass muster. We wander down a short corridor and he stops. ‘Here’s your room and there’s a restroom,’ he says, waving off to the left.
‘Theloois through there, huh?’ I say, emphasising ‘loo’ out of English spite.
‘Huh? The what?’ he says.
I ignore his confusion, surveying my space for the next few weeks. The bedroom is small and functional – acceptable.I hold my breath as I pass through to my favourite room – and breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s perfect. Small enough so farts don’t echo round the flat, and the shower head looks clean and new, with controls I actually understand. There’s even a little shelf in the shower, for me to put theballed-up blob of hair I will peel out of my bumcrack. It hits me now how much women need a hair shelfto save us wasted hours trying to get the hair blob to stick to the wall. Maybe that could be my new career when I get home – a range of hair shelves?
I reach for the towels. They are soft and made of a material that will actually dry my hands. Wonderful. What is with those posh towels that just seem to spread the water around?
I’m happy. It passes all the amenities tests.
To be honest,my bathroom obsession isn’t just about having a nice showerhead. It’s more than that. The loo has always been a kind of sanctuary for me. It’s a place to be alone. Somewhere to run away from whatever your situation is. Whether it’s work, arguments or a boring party. It’s the small room to hide in when you’re on a bad Tinder date with a guy called Quentin who won’t stop licking his lips. It’ssomewhere to sit quietly when you’ve had a long day with your dick boss. And sure, it was somewhere to escape as a kid. A place to disappear to when Mum was crying, or Steven was staggering around drunk again. Everyone needs to shut their heads down for five minutes in the chaos, don’t they? And everyone needs to wee. It’s a legitimate escape when you need that alone time.
I turn aroundand Patrick is watching me with a slight air of amusement. Fuck, how long was I fondling his towels?
‘Would you like a tea?’ he says, nicely. ‘I got some in when I realised it was a Brit staying with me.’
I am so touched, I could cry. And I might.
‘That is so thoughtful, thank you. I would love one, you have no idea,’ I say, following him out into the kitchen. ‘Got milk?’
He laughs.‘Got milk! Like in the ad!’
I laugh nervously along, but have no idea what he’s talking about. And he hasn’t answered my question. I decide against enquiring after sugar.
I sit down on his sofa and Patrick puts water on the hob to boil.
‘Don’t you have a kettle?’ I ask, bewildered. He laughs again and I huff. Why do Americans think everything I’m saying is a joke? It’s this dumb accentI have, that’s what it is.
Handing me my cup of tea, I sniff it suspiciously. He has added milk, but it is a terrible colour and I know this will be bad. Tea colour is sacred – he might as well have set light to the British flag. But I must not be ungrateful, he’s gone to a lot of trouble and not being polite would be just as unBritish.
‘Thank you very much!’ I say as enthusiasticallyas possible, pretending to take a sip and trying not to gag.
‘What have you got planned for the rest of the week?’ he says sweetly, blowing on his own cup of vilemud-water. ‘Need any tips for local bars or anything?’
‘Ah that’s really nice of you,’ I say politely, already bored of being polite –GOD, isn’t making new acquaintances so tedious? – ‘I’d love that. I’m going to do some touriststuff on Friday – visit the Walk of Fame, that kind of thing – but otherwise I haven’t got much specifically planned. Actually ...’ I laugh, ‘I’ve kind of got a date tomorrow.’ I make a face so he knows I know it’s weird.
He looks amused.
But I don’t care. I’m well into week two of myLAadventure, and this leg was definitely, definitely, definitely meant to include sex. I mean, could‘Fun’ have been any more euphemistic? The closest I’ve come so far was when the vagina cult wanted to compare bushes. And Isy promised to help me, but she’s been too busynon-stop fucking that moron Ethan. I still kinda hope Noah might be a possibility, but I’m officially sick of waiting for things to happen naturally. So I have taken matters into my own hands. I have opened Bumble.
I hadthe dating app back in theUK, but it was mostly just forpeople-watching. I never actually met up with anyone for dates, I just went on there to look at humans and get the odd dopamine hit and ego boost from matches I never bothered messaging. Truthfully, I’ve been going through a major dry spell this past year. I haven’t made eye contact with a man in at least nine months. The last night outI had where there were attractive men present – all taken – I actually thanked one of them for standing near me. That’s how bad things have been. Honestly, I think I used up all the men in London in mymid-twenties. And then of course, I was trapped in theTDvortex for far too long.
