Portia MacIntosh - It's Not You, It's Them

I made my way outside the hotel, booking my Uber as I took the stairs, before heading outside into the cool air to wait for my ride. As I stood there, I felt a hand touch my arse and, before I knew what I was doing, I spun around and struck my attacker with my baseball bat.

‘Hey, hey, calm down,’ Mark said reassuringly, his Yorkshire accent instantly soothing me. He took my bat from me and placed it on the wall next to us – I imagine just in case I tried to strike him again. ‘You just… you’ve got some frosting on your shorts.’

‘Sorry, I thought you were a pervert,’ I babbled.

Mark laughed as he rubbed his arm.

‘I think you broke my arm,’ he teased.

Convinced I’d blown my chance to seem cool in front of him, I gave up trying and let who I really was take over.

‘Are you kidding me? I think your arm broke my bat,’ I joked as I nodded towards his bicep.

That first night when I met Mark, I took two things from his appearance: first of all, I knew he must have a great sense of humour, because rather than opting for the usual Joker costume of a green and purple suit, he decided on the female nurse outfit from The Dark Knight . The other thing I could tell was just how sexy his body was – yes, even in a dress.

‘I’m Mark,’ he told me, offering me a hand to shake. ‘I’ve seen you around all night. Do you work for us? Are you in a girl band?’ he joked.

‘I’m Roxie,’ I replied, shaking his hand. ‘I’m a journalist.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he teased.

Typically, just as I’d finally got Mark’s full attention, my taxi pulled up.

‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ I told him as I opened the car door.

‘You’re going?’ he asked, a look of genuine disappointment on his face. ‘It’s only five to twelve.’

‘I know, but I have to go,’ I told him, images of Gil lying on the pavement outside our flat with a couple of compound fractures invading my thoughts.

‘Does your Uber turn back into a pumpkin at midnight?’ he asked with a cheeky laugh.

My God, I wanted to stay with him. Every second of my Uber home I wished I had, and then when I arrived home and found Gil fast asleep in bed, having found his keys in his pocket, I metaphorically kicked myself to sleep.

The next day at work I was just sitting at my desk, thinking about what I could’ve said or done differently, when one of the receptionists came running up.

‘There’s a man in reception saying he wants a word with you,’ she informed me.

‘Whatever I’m supposed to have done, it wasn’t me,’ I lied instinctively as she literally dragged me to the reception. Mark was waiting for me there.

‘Hello,’ I said cautiously.

‘Hi,’ he replied coolly. ‘So I was at a party last night, and some girl assaulted me with this.’ He pulled my baseball bat out from behind his back. ‘I’ve spent all morning visiting the offices of every media outlet we invited, to see if I could find a girl who could give me a bruise with this bat as impressive as this one.’

Mark rolled up the sleeve of his white polo shirt, flashing me his bruised bicep.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I told him again.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he replied. ‘Just have dinner with me tonight.’

Chapter One

Everyone seems perfect when you first start dating them, right? You love everything about them – even their bad habits are cute and amusing. But it’s fine, because they find you utterly charming, too, like when you only shave you legs as much as you need to in accordance with the length of what you are wearing, or how you can’t ever walk along cobbled roads because cobbles and heels just don’t work together.

When I met Mark it felt like a modern-day fairy tale, and things only got better from that moment on. Now that we’re a year into our relationship, I bet you’re wondering whether or not things are still as romantic as they were when we met…

‘I can’t believe you’re on Call of fucking Duty again,’ I say with a big sigh as I stare out of the window, shaking my head.

Mark laughs.

I glance over my shoulder and look at him sitting on the sofa, that cheeky smile still there but his eyes glued to the home cinema screen in front of him. He’s clutching a controller in his hands and he’s got his headset on his ear, his microphone hovering just in front of his mouth in case he needs to smack-talk any 14-year-olds playing in America. Trust me, if there’s one thing worse than watching your boyfriend play video games, it’s watching him play them in one-hundred-and-fifty inches with surround sound so immersive, it keeps occurring to me to call my mum and tell her I love her every time I hear an explosion. And if there’s one thing even worse than that, it’s when he watches football on it. But the absolute worst thing of all the things that the love of my life does is play FIFA , because that’s a video game and football combined – and beyond boring for me.

‘Is watching me play not piquing your interest in warfare?’ he asks cheekily.

‘The only thing that watching you play is doing is making me crave the sweet release of death via a headshot,’ I say wryly.

Mark throws his head back as he laughs.

‘You’re too funny,’ he tells me. ‘This match is nearly over, then we can do whatever you want.’

‘Thank God, because it’s Sunday, and you know I hate Sundays.’

‘I know you do, but I still don’t understand why, you weirdo.’

‘They’re just so boring,’ I explain – for the millionth time. Mark just doesn’t understand my hatred of the day. ‘Everywhere closes early, everyone is miserable about the impending Monday morning, nothing really happens – I’ve never had a good Sunday.’

I think I’m possibly the only person in the world who loves Mondays – but it’s exclusively because it means that Sunday is as far away as it can possibly be.

‘So, basically, because you can’t shop as much and you have to get up early tomorrow?’ he asks.

‘Nailed it,’ I reply.

Our corner apartment boasts the most incredible view of London. The first time Mark invited me over, I nearly gave myself an RSI Instagramming from the large, floor-to-ceiling, living-room window that looks out over the river. By day you can take in the beautiful buildings, people-watching the buzz of activity on the riverbanks and checking out who and what is travelling along the Thames. By night, the view transforms into this picture-perfect skyline; silhouetted buildings like something from a cityscape photography book, littered with a sea of twinkling lights. Simply breathtaking, no matter what time of day you’re looking out, and all the more enjoyable if you have the time to sit and watch as the afternoon slips into evening, the sky changing so gradually, and yet before you know it, it’s dark, and you’ve been aimlessly gazing out of the window for two hours.

‘So, who are you spying on today?’ Mark asks, attempting conversation despite being in the final stages of an especially tough mission.

‘There’s a little old lady, sitting by the river,’ I tell him.

‘Nice place for a Sunday stroll,’ Mark replies.

‘She looks lonely,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Even from up here, I can tell. The only thing that could make Sundays worse would be spending them alone.’

I don’t even realise Mark has moved from the sofa until I feel his hands creep around my waist from behind me.

‘You’re not going to end up alone,’ he assures me.

‘I’m already a video game widow,’ I tease him with a laugh, placing my hands on his, which are now resting lightly on my tummy.

Mark rests his chin on my shoulder and gives me a tight squeeze, because he knows that I love it when he squeezes me. He’s strong, with big muscular arms, and when he locks them around me I feel so safe and adored.