One morning last month, my friend woke up to a text from my one night stand: “Hi Em! Alice left her phone in the Uber and we came to mine, she’s sleeping now. Uber driver contacted me saying he’ll meet us tomorrow to give the phone back. Sleep well.”
I awoke that morning in a beige, sparse room as sunlight flooded through the window onto the mattress—not bed, mattress—I had spent the night on with the lovely young waiter.
The waiter has in fact made an appearance in this column before. I wrote about him in April, after an evening at The Ned (the illustrious members-only club where he works) led me to reflect on my love-hate relationship with London.
I returned to The Ned last month with my former neighbour and favourite entrepreneur, Sheryl, who took my best friends and me out to see Kelis perform on the club’s rooftop to celebrate my friend’s 24th birthday. We were riding an absolute high of champagne as the sun set over the London skyline and we spiralled further into debauchery—huffing poppers, vapes and partaking in what my friends call “baby-birding” (an activity which involves spitting alcohol into one another’s mouths). The contrast between the prestige of the location and the depravity of our behaviour was not lost on us.
It was only right that I should be reunited with the waiter with whom I had shared a passionate kiss all those months ago. His shift didn’t finish until 3am, so my friend and I kept ourselves busy until it was time for her to see me off into the early-morning light, as I clambered into an Uber with my lover…
“Could you pass me my phone?”
Whenever I wake up in an unfamiliar location, next to an unfamiliar body, I know that—before anything else—I must text my friend to let her know I am alive and well.
“You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
I had left my phone in the Uber. I let out a groan, cupping my aching head in my sweaty palms.
“It’s okay though. The driver has it. I called him. We can get it back later today.”
God bless the kindness of waiters from The Ned.
“What if my friends think I’m dead?”
“It’s okay, you got me to text them. They know where you are.”
All was well.
He went to shower. I lay motionless on his floor-mattress. With no phone to keep me occupied, I was forced to confront the space that I was in. I reflected on the night, piecing what I could together from the few fragmented memories I had.
Suddenly I remembered that I’d given my number to several others throughout the night. I was itching to know whether they’d texted me back. But it was nice to feel unplugged from the digital world.
I was temporarily relieved from the 24/7 duty of answering calls and text messages, free from the shackles of social media that keep me perpetually confronted with the perfect faces, strong opinions and enviable lifestyles of others.
This relief soon gave way to a wave of vulnerability. I was alone, on the other side of London, with a man I’d met twice and exchanged little but bodily fluids with. Granted, he was lovely; he arranged for me to pick my phone up from the Uber driver at a designated time and location; he texted my friend to let her know I was okay; he bought me brunch.
After I devoured some delicious and paid-for hash browns, my partner-in-crime dropped me off at the nearest Tube station. All I can say is, thank GOD my London literacy is strong enough now to get me from west to east with relative ease. Barely 10 minutes into my hour-long ride on the District line, I began to feel restless. Beyond intensely (but subtly) analysing my fellow passengers, there was little to keep my listless, hungover mind distracted.
Sweating in the waiter’s turquoise polo shirt, I self-consciously swigged from my Lucozade Sport. A walk of shame feels much more shameful when you’re doing it without Kim Petras’s “Slut Pop” to spur you on.
So I twiddled my thumbs and tried not to think about how bad I must have smelt, until I reached my destination. I was reunited with the best friend who my sexy waiter had been texting and we made our way to Shadwell station to pick up my phone.
I could have kissed that Uber driver when I saw him, sheepishly holding my phone out for me to take. I spared him my morning-after breath and settled for a “thank you, thank you, thank you!!”
Sifting through the notifications that crowded my screen, I tried to discern whether those other eligible bachelors had texted me. They hadn’t.
