Page 77 of Fighting Mr. Knight

Underwear.

My heart races as I root in my bag.

Where’s my underwear?

All the good work that my run did flies out the window. I packtwolaptop chargers and a mini overhead projector on the rare chance that the boardroom tech will fail, and I forget to pack a bloody change ofunderwear?

How is it that the simplest thingsare the ones that fuck you up?

I’ve brought a grey pencil skirt, so no-one will know but me, but still, the thought of presenting without underwear is a little disconcerting.

Goddamn it, no bra, either?

Wait, I set out my matching lacy power underwear set for luck before I went to bed last night. They were. . .on the chair beside the door to my flat. I groan. And I ran out with a coffee in one hand and my gym bag in the other. I can still see the underwear and bra neatly folded on the chair, right where I left them.

For luck.

Right.

I’m wearing a fucking white silk blouse.

As it stands, I have two choices. Bare breasts, or I wear my drenched tank top with the built-in bra under my blouse. Stinking the room out doesn’t seem like a viable option.

I hope the air con isn’t on in the room.

It’s fine; I don’t exactly have showstopping jugs. It won’t be obvious at all.

When I change into my work outfit and stand in front of the mirror, my heart drops out of my fucking ass.

It’s obvious.

My nipples show through the blouse—subtly—but enough to draw a second glance.With no bra to constrain them, there’s a slight jiggle each time I take a step.

To me, they’re as obvious as meeting a car with blinding headlights head-on. I’d feel more comfortable if a bunch of birds shit all over me.

He’ll think I’ve done it deliberately.

The shops aren’t open yet.

I text Nisha:I need your bra!

Nisha:???

Me:I need to borrow your bra for a meeting. I’ve got no bra! Hurry up, I’m in the gym.

I don’t have time for this. It’s 8:45, and I’m getting more flustered by the minute. I simplycannotpresent to a team of senior construction people with bouncing boobs.

Nisha:Keep your knickers on. I’ll be in the office at 9:15, see you then.

If only I could.

No, no, no, that’s too late. I have ten minutes left before meeting Jack, then it’s straight into the presentation. I feel sick.

Maybe if I can answer what Jack needs over a call, I’ll have time to run to a shop.

Flustered, I pick up my phone and dial his number.

He answers on the first ring. “Bonnie.” No indication to tell me whether it’s sweet Jack or grumpy Jack today.

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