I’m halfway home when my phone beeps. Digging it out of my pocket, I look down at the text and then give a startled laugh.
Max: Hope you’re home safely.
A smile plays on my lips as I tap on my phone.
Me: Why wouldn’t I be?
Max: Well, you were walking a bit funny. I was concerned that I’d shagged your coordination out of you.
Me: I think that only happens when people get to your advanced age.
He sends me back a one-fingered emoji, and I laugh.
Me: I cannot even begin to imagine how your number ended up on my phone?
Max: I put it in while you were in the bathroom. Thought it might come in handy.
Me: For what? If I ever happen to need my autobiography written?
Max: I’ve already got the title. ‘Sassy and Shagged Out’. It’ll be a bestseller.
My laugh echoes loudly on the bus, and I attract a few stares.
Me: I don’t need the money. Not now I’ve got a very personalised signed copy of your book. I’m sure I’ll be able to sell it for a fortune. I’ll go and live in the South of France on my yacht surrounded by the glamorous set who’ll bleed me dry and then leave me to bemoan my fate in a seedy piano bar before taking a drunken header into the sea.
Max: Are you sure you aren’t a writer?
Me: How will I know?
Max: Have you got a drinking problem?
Me: Not this afternoon.
Max: Then you should have my number just in case that drink problem rears its head.
Me: Very civic-minded of you, Journalist Max
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