I look old.
Stepping closer to the mirror, I see the reflection definitely is me, but not the me of yesterday. It’s not just my skin that’s changed, my hair is different, too. My hair is . . . better? It looks like I’ve had highlights done, several shades of honey and gold, and I’ve got a proper haircut with layers around the front. I’ve got fucking Jennifer Aniston hair. How was I able to afford this kind of haircut? And where the hell did I get highlights done south of the river in the middle of the night?
Sitting down on the toilet seat, I rub my face with my palms, reluctant to look at my alarming reflection any longer. This must be some messed-up prank show – a new reality TV idea where they knock you out and make you over to look ten years older. There could be cameras behind that mirror, recording my reaction. But who would watch this? It feels mean-spirited and not at all good television. I tug at my skin to check, but it hurts, so it can’t be a prosthetic.
Pulling down the silk pyjamas, I go to the loo before realising that with all the shock of the mirror, I forgot to find a pot to pee in to keep as evidence for the police. Damn. Will it work if I take a sample from the loo? As I’m mulling pee dilution, I notice my stomach. What has happened to my stomach? It’s fleshy and baggy and – ahhhh! There’s a weird scar across the top of my pubic hair! Did someone cut me? Oh God, I’m a drug mule. It’s like that Scarlett Johansson film where she wakes up and finds she’s had loads of mind-altering drugs sewn into her stomach. Though I don’t understand why that would make my stomach bigger.
Standing up, I pull off my pyjama top to inspect my body in the mirror. What have they done to me? My boobs are bigger too, but lower and there are little white lines all over them, as though they’ve been blown up and deflated. I’m probably the same size I was before, but my skin is less taut, like the middle-aged women I see in the changing rooms at the public pool. Then I lift my arms and notice a small, firm ridge of definition along the top. I have biceps. Where did they come from?
‘Lucy?’ calls a voice from the other side of the door. The man’s awake, and he knows my name. Quickly, I throw the pyjamas back on, my head scrambling with pain and growing bewilderment. If this really is some messed-up reality show, I intend to sue the production company for intense emotional distress.
The knob jiggles, then, ‘Why have you locked the door?’ the man asks.
‘Just a sec!’ I call back. I’m going to have to talk to this guy. He’s the only one who can tell me what’s going on. My hand shakes as I unlock the door, and when I open it, I find the man standing there in his boxer shorts, his hair is bed tousled and his eyes are the most piercing cobalt blue I’ve ever seen.
‘What’s going on? Where am I? Who are you?’ I ask him, my voice panicked and unfamiliar.
‘Big night, was it?’ he says with a smile, then gives me a brief kiss on the cheek as he walks past me and picks up a slim electric toothbrush from a wireless charging pod by the sink. I didn’t even know you could get wireless charging pods.
‘What am I doing here? Why do I look so old?’
He laughs, as though I’ve made a joke. ‘You don’t look old, darling, you look gorgeous.’
Darling? ‘Did someone put drugs in me?’ I ask him, holding my stomach across the small white scar.
‘I doubt it, Luce. You were at a Thursday night work party. Why? Did it all get a bit messy?’
Messy? Work party? ‘I don’t know who you are.’ My voice is serious, but my lip trembles.
‘I know, I know, I don’t recognise myself either,’ he says, turning back to the mirror. ‘Too old to imagine getting drunk midweek.’ He frowns at me in the mirror as he takes in my expression. Then he turns and puts a hand on each of my shoulders, his toothbrush resting between his teeth. ‘Don’t worry, there’s always coffee.’
‘But how did I get here?’ I ask. He really doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation.
‘Taxi. I heard you get in around one. I was surprised you stayed out so late when you’re pitching to the channel this morning.’
Pitching to the channel? Why would I be pitching to the channel? I’m not getting any answers here, just more questions. This man is not acting like someone who’s abducted me, he’s acting like someone who knows me. As I open my mouth to quiz him further, he takes off his boxers, right in front of me, and I lose all power of speech.
‘I’m going to jump in the shower,’ he says, walking into the rustic blue, gloss-tiled wet room and turning on the water. Somewhere close by, a baby starts to cry. ‘Can you grab Amy?’
Amy? Who the hell is Amy? This flat might have nice furnishings and the most stunning shower I’ve ever seen, but it does not have good sound insulation. It sounds like the neighbour’s baby is literally in the flat with us. Backing out of the bathroom, away from the alarmingly naked man, I look around for my phone. My phone will have the answers – phones always have the answers. It’s my best hope of piecing together this brain-melting trip of a hangover.
Stumbling around the bedroom, I search for my battered grey handbag, but I can’t see it anywhere. I can’t even see my clothes from last night. Venturing out into the hall, I’m faced with another bedroom. Through the open doorway I can see a cot and standing up looking at me – a baby. Jesus! This guy has a baby?
‘Mama!’ says the baby, holding out its arms.
My head darts around, checking to see if some other woman has miraculously appeared behind me, but no, the baby is holding out its arms to me. Cautiously, I take a step towards the child’s room.
‘Not your mum, I’m afraid,’ I tell the baby. ‘I’m sure your dad will be out in a minute. I’m just looking for my handbag.’ Why am I talking to this baby? It probably doesn’t even speak yet. I’ve got no idea how old it is, could be six months or two years for all I know about children.
‘Mama!’ it says again, grinning at me. As far as babies go, I’ll concede it’s a cute one. From the pink bears on its romper suit, I’m guessing it’s a girl. She’s got a wild mop of curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes just like her father.
‘Are you Amy?’ I ask her.
‘Aim-eee,’ she says, holding the bars of her cot and jumping up and down. I’m about to go back to the bathroom to tell the guy what a nerve he’s got, asking me to watch his kid, but then I remember his nakedness and the weird scary mirror. I might be better off just finding my bag and getting the hell out of Dodge. Quietly backing out of the baby’s room, I carry on down the corridor, looking for signs of a living room, a kitchen, anywhere I might have left my phone, my clothes, and my sanity. But as soon as I’m out of the baby’s sight, she starts to howl.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I mutter to myself.
‘Mummy said a bad word.’