One In A Billion Read Free Page B

like she imagined all British wartime officials were obliged to wear. My dad was born after the war ended, and he has never had anything to do with the army, but despite that, Sophia insists on the nickname. 'He said he couldn't get you on your mobile phone.'
    ' It's turned off', I said. 'What did he want?'
    ' Lunch', Sophia said, putting on her best British accent. 'Will be served at two. Don't be late.'
    ' I better get ready', I said.
    ' If you change your mind about the tattoo', Sophia said, as I walked to my room. 'Tad's a real artist.'
     
    I left them to it, and went to my room. It was how I'd left it the night before, when I'd been so full of hope for my date with Marth, and seeing it like this again now, reminding me of what could have been, made me want to vomit. There were several different outfit options on the bed, half of which had been tried on and rejected, and I had make-up scattered all over the desk, amongst assorted story notes, half filled notebooks, pens, post-it notes, and my trusty six year old laptop. It had been far too long since I'd last written anything worthwhile, and the computer sat there half hidden, like a secret I'd tried to bury away.
    I made a mental note to begin again on Monday, the same mental note I'd made to myself several times before, scooped up all of my clothes, piled them onto my writing chair in one big heap and then went to shower off the acrid smell Marth had left with me.
    Sophia and I shared a small, two bedroom apartment in Blackheath. It was difficult to get into central London from there, but it was a beautiful part of the city, and I didn't want to live anywhere else. We were close to parks, markets, and good pubs, and the restaurant I worked in was a short bus ride away in Greenwich. It was an old flat, but because of that it was much cheaper than most of the other properties around. I didn't earn a lot in my job, and Sophia didn't work all that much either by choice, so it suited us perfectly. She found it, in the same way she seemed to have luck finding everything else, and then she found me through a mutual friend.
    The ceilings were high, the sofas were old, the wallpaper was falling off and the shower ran hot and cold for approximately twelve minutes before it sorted itself out. Sundays seemed to be the worst day of all, for a reason neither Sophia and I could ever explain, and every Sunday, when I was running late, I rushed into the shower, completely forgetting about this idiosyncrasy.
    I stood there, hungry and hungover, trying to bear the extreme temperature changes for as long as I could, to clean myself and wash my hair. No matter how you set up the taps, or how minutely you turned them from left to right, there was no way of avoiding it. One moment as hot as the sun, and the next as cold as the sea. Eventually I had to give up, for fear of giving myself hypothermia with a side portion of burnt off skin. I washed the shampoo out of my hair under the tap in the sink, dried the parts of my body that I'd managed to get wet, and went back into my room to try and find something suitable to wear for the day.
     
    Every Sunday my family got together to have lunch, and every Sunday without fail, I was late. I was never late for anything else in my life, but for some reason I was never able to get to this regular event on time, and it made my dad label me as both lazy and forgetful. As I looked at my watch on the train over to their house, I knew that this Sunday would be no different. I decided to text ahead and blame a delayed train.
    I got there at 2:37pm, and considering I'd only had fifteen minutes back at home to get ready, I thought that was pretty good.
    I prepared myself, went to ring the bell to announce my arrival, despite having a perfectly good key, and  mum opened the door anyway, as if she'd sensed me standing there.
    ' Hello sweetie', she said and hugged me. 'Have you done something with your hair?'
    ' You're late', dad said, from the living room,