Free Low Expectations by Elizabeth Aaron Page A

something? Uhh …I’d be … probably pregnant!’ Great, I am a slag with poor taste in films.
    â€˜What’s the most humiliating thing you’ve ever experienced?’ Now, that question gives me a wealth to choose from.
    The truth, which I will not share with Gary, is that when I was fourteen years old I explosively shat myself in the Harrods Food Hall. I had terrible food poisoning after eating a bad oyster with my mum and I was wearing a white sundress. I left a trail of runny defecation as I ran through the labyrinthine corridors, from the Fragrance Rooms to the Egyptian escalators, searching for the exit. Ten minutes of intermittent yet unstoppable diarrhoea feels like a lifetime. However, I sense I should avoid telling this story or his impression of me will forever be: Twenty-four/B-Films/Knocked-Up/Shitter. So I say,
    â€˜Well, this charming new haircut I’m sporting is the result of setting my head alight on a date last week.’ I swish my hair and laugh. ‘Is that bad enough?’
    â€˜I’ll pass on your CV.’
    I try to subtly lean over to work out what he’s scribbled on it. I think I catch: ‘Student. Twenty-four. Some Experience. Friendly. Bit weird’. I’ll take that!
    *
    Beardy answers the door barefoot, in a tight white T-shirt and low slung ripped jeans that show off an inch of his toned stomach. I have to swallow and avert my eyes from thoseglorious hipbones, reminding myself not to slobber like a dog on heat. Lord, give me strength to comport myself like a lady, not a desperate slapper. Though I am agnostic verging on atheist, like all sensible people I turn to prayer in times of dire financial or sexual need. Just in case.
    â€˜Hey there,’ Beardy grins. He’s not wearing the heinous glasses. His eyes are a deep green, the colour of moss on a rock. Which doesn’t sound as sexy as ‘With eyes like the sea after a storm,’ but totally is. His hand reaches out and lightly runs through a lock of hair that’s fallen over one of my eyes. ‘Like what you’ve done with the barnet.’
    â€˜Haha, thanks, sorry for rushing off like that before, I was a bit shell-shocked I think, but I was overdue for a haircut anyway, really, they nearly gave me a mullet-shag though, it was a close shave. Have you had a good week?’ I prattle as I step inside. Slow down. Shut up. Mysterious. Remember: your flirting sounds mean and you are not funny.
    â€˜Hey no worries, that’s cool … I’m all right. I’ve had a lot of work on and been rehearsing with my band and stuff. I would have texted you to ask how you were but I had phone trouble.’
    Ah. Non-specific phone trouble. I used to give more credence to this type of excuse but have had difficulty ignoring my suspicions after running into an old one-night-stand. In a fit of embarrassment, he said the reason he never called was that he’d thrown his mobile into the Thames after a fight with hisbest friend. I believed him, too, until his pocket started shaking wildly, emitting a ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ ringtone. When I asked, quite mildly considering, ‘Then what’s that then?’ he had the gall to respond that it was a musical vibrator.
    These days, I’m a firm believer in the old adage that if he wants to find you, he will find a way; if he hasn’t, move swiftly onwards. And Beardy did find me, even if it was a week late. It’s kinder that he’s offering up an excuse. Now we can both pretend that I gave him the benefit of the doubt, having more self-respect than someone who leaps at a last-minute Saturday night probable sex-date.
    â€˜So that freelance project you mentioned is going well then?’ I ask.
    Beardy, like every third person in the East End, is a graphic designer. As I am a womenswear student, soon to be swelling the ranks of unemployed fashion designers, I can’t really fault him for being a