Page 96 of Off the Pitch

When the kettle had boiled, I pulled the milk out of the fridge and gave it a tentative sniff before immediately pouring it down the sink. Watching the thick substance crawl down the drain, I wasn’t even sure it could be called milk anymore.

Black tea it was then. I’d just add copious amounts of sugar to make it drinkable.

I grabbed a couple of slices of bread out of the freezer, where I’d started keeping it to stop it going moldy when I inevitably forgot about it, and jammed them into the toaster. There was still half a jar of Nutella in the cupboard as well, which I gleefully stuck a spoon into while I waited, licking the chocolatey goodness off the metal.

Taking my tea and stack of Nutella toast over to the sofa, I stretched out across the worn, squishy leather seats. I was starting to feel a little more human now, but my poor aching body was crying out for sleep. My eyes twitched as I sipped the tea, munching on my third piece of toast.

By the time I put the plate down, I could barely keep my eyes open. I knew it would be better if I went back upstairs and crawled into bed, but that would mean moving again, and the sofa was far, far too comfortable to even consider that.

Maybe if I just closed my eyes for a minute… then I’d go upstairs. I just needed to summon up the energy first…

I woke up sore and disoriented, wrapped in an old knitted blanket, and still on the sofa.

The light levels hadn’t really changed, so I had no idea what time it was, except that my half-drunk mug of tea on the coffee table was stone cold and my mouth felt weirdly fuzzy.

Groaning, I stretched out like a cat, listening as my muscles told meexactlywhat they thought about me sleeping on a battered sofa.

My phone was still in the pocket of the comfy jogging bottoms I was wearing, seemingly no worse for wear after being slept on. The time flashed up on the screen as I tapped it, along with a barrage of messages. 8:53 P.M.

“Bugger,” I swore. I’d slept for over fifteen hours, which was definitely what I’d needed, but I knew it meant I wouldn’t be able to sleep again for a while.

My plans for developing a normal sleeping pattern had once again been derailed.

I thumbed through the messages, most of which were from David checking up on me and then worrying because I hadn’t answered. I chuckled to myself as I fired off a response to let him know that yes, I was alive, and no, he didn’t need to come and batter down the front door. I vaguely mentioned working a rush job, but I neglected to tell him the exact details about my state of living. Otherwise he’d be over here in a flash, bearing food, a duster, and a raised eyebrow, and I really didn’t want to bother him. He’d spent so much time looking after me that I wanted to prove to him I could stand on my own two feet. At least a little bit anyway.

There was one lovely email from Rachel, letting me know she was very happy with the artwork, which meant the whole thing had been worth it.

There was also a missed call from my mother, which I ignored and pretended I hadn’t seen. I had absolutely no inclination to deal with her, especially not while I was still half-asleep.

The other messages were from Hugo.

After we’d spent the whole afternoon together at David and Christian’s party, he’d asked for my number to keep in touch, and I’d been happy to give it to him. He’d been absolutely fascinating to talk to and seemed to think I was interesting too. At least he hadn’t tried to get out of the conversation, and he’d kept asking me questions about art and my opinions on various things. All of it had been accompanied by a warm, kind smile that made me feel like he genuinely wanted to listen to me.

I was still always surprised when people wanted to talk to me.

Years of growing up in all-boys boarding schools and constantly being labelled as ‘the weird one’ who nobody wanted to be friends with had made me surprised and suspicious when people seemed to like me. I always wondered what the catch was.

But so far there didn’t seem to be one with Hugo.

He was sweet and charming, listening to my endless stories and anecdotes and adding some of his own, and it had been fabulous to have a conversation about art with someone who had lively opinions and, quite happily, let me ramble on about Romanticism and Expressionism. Perhaps Hugo would even turn into one of those friends I could wander around galleries with. That would be lovely.

Not that going to galleries on my own wasn’t fun, but there was something especially lovely about sharing it with someone.

Over the past few days we’d messaged off and on, and I’d even sent him a sneak peek at the commission I’d been working on. I wasn’t really supposed to, since I’d signed a nondisclosure agreement and all, but I couldn’t help it. I’d never really met anyone who was so interested in my work. I mean David had always been supportive, but apart from him and my very small circle of online friends, that was it.

HugoDid you manage to get your piece finished?

HugoI’m assuming you’re still working

Hugo[Sent picture] here is a cute cat to keep you motivated

HugoSorry do you even like cats?

HugoI’ll stop bothering you now

I smiled to myself as I read, saving the cute kitten picture for later, before tapping out a reply. I doubted he’d be around to see it, after all I was sure he had better things to do on a Wednesday night than talk to me.

KitYes, I did! Sorry I finished it this morning and spent the whole day asleep. Just woke up.

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