Free State We're In by Adele Parks Page B

pause. I look carefully at the man’s face, his hair and eyes, the arc of the eyebrows, the width of his nose, and I recognise every feature.
    â€˜Hello, son. Thanks for coming.’

8
Jo
    I smell. I smell and I ache. I reek of sweat, alcohol and disappointment. My thighs throb with exertion and my eyes sting with exhaustion. I pinch the top of my nose, but however hard I squeeze, I can’t squeeze out the thought of what I’ve done in the past twelve hours.
    I know that I should probably find my way back to Lisa’s, shower and change before I head into work; my colleagues are the type to notice if someone is wearing the same outfit two days in a row. In most offices you might expect walks of shame to be a legitimate source of gossip and teasing, but in the
Loving Bride!
office (a shrine to the happily-ever-after), they’re actively condemned. It’s a little like it was in the 1950s: unplanned sleepovers are only considered acceptable if the perpetrator ends up marrying the man in question. Obviously there’s no chance of that with Jeff. I sigh as on some subconscious level I acknowledge that there wasn’t a chance with Mick (my fling from three weeks ago) or Darren (a guy I had a brief thing with a few months before that) either. My walks of shame happen with reasonable regularity, and I’m concerned that, while congregated around the water cooler, people might have started to comment that at best I show a lack of judgement and discernment; at worst I’m a ridiculous, desperate slag.
    If I go to Lisa’s to shower and change, I’ll avoid being subjected to more knowing looks from the scandalmongers. However, I run the risk of bumping into my family. I can imagine that encounter with awful clarity. As I sneak in the back door, I’ll find the children buzzing around the kitchen (which will, as usual, be full of delicious smells like buttered toast and fresh coffee), and if I manage to make it upstairs, then I’ll no doubt meet Lisa or Henry on the landing (which will ooze the scent of Lisa’s shower gel) and they’ll throw me that look, the one that is a mix of disappointment and concern; it’s the concern that embarrasses me the most. I can’t imagine my strained and stinky body in amongst their warm, domestic, sweet-smelling environment. No one would actually say anything too cutting, of course, but arms would be folded across chests in a way that would be clearly condemning. The thought makes me freeze.
    I pause for a moment and consider which is the lesser of the two evils: being exposed in front of my colleagues or my family? It’s a bleak choice. I’d care less if I could brag that Jeff and I had enjoyed a croissant breakfast together and that we’d made plans to meet up and catch a film this evening, but as the situation stands, it is pitiless and brutal. I could lie – simply tell everyone I’ve had a night of unprecedented romance and it’s the start of something special – but I’m not quite that pathetic. Not yet.
    A spring breeze nips meanly at my legs. It reminds me of my mother’s infrequent but sharp smacks during my childhood when I’d done something extremely naughty. It seems fitting. I didn’t have time to put on my tights; besides, they’re most likely laddered, as last night they were removed in a hurry. My hands shake. I feel a bit like I did when I fell off my bike last autumn and had to go to hospital to have my head glued. The nurse said then that I was in shock.
    I try to get my bearings. I look left and right but don’t recognise the street I’ve tumbled out upon. We travelled to Jeff’s show home by cab and so I’ve no idea which part of London I’m in. A red double-decker bus hurls by; the number 43 to London Bridge. It doesn’t help much. I could be anywhere between the old Friern Barnet library and Guy’s Hospital. I look around for a familiar