Admittedly, it had started from this same bar, but I was back here for redemption, to prove that I had grown up, moved on and — uh-oh, she was coming my way. Let me explain.
Eight years ago, I junked my career, lost most of my savings at the bookies and spent my last £312 on a desperate weekend away, where I got drunk, shagged and ran, felt terrible, had a moment of revelation, retrained as a lawyer, passed my exams and was now going to be called to the bar on Monday. Which is why I had recalled myself to this same Lithuanian bar. To prove that I was now responsible for my own actions. I was ready to be a barrister, to protect the innocent, to humble human failings in the name of honesty. I had come so far.
All of which I explained as the girl sat down next to me. She listened intently. And it occurred to me, as she started to speak, that she did have lovely lips. And nice eyes. And was called Morag. In fact, she had the best lips and eyes for someone called Morag that I had ever met. But I was strong. I would not succumb. Oh, she was moving those lips again.
Morag’s proposition was simple. Having considered my case for being left alone, she said that if she could persuade me that a beer together was, in fact, the correct course of action, I would have to buy the beers. Confidently, I agreed. She launched into her plea. It could be argued, she said, that the real test was not to avoid the same situations as last time, but to put myself in the same situations, only to ensure they had a different ending. A good point. Damn, a very good point. She was quite right. She could have made a good lawyer. So we had a quick drink together.
Her next line of argument was, what would be wrong with an innocent dinner? Nothing, I said, but innocence is a lot harder to establish than guilt. She agreed and, bearing in mind that she had a lovely bum for someone with lovely eyes and lovely lips called Morag, we went to dinner.
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After dinner and a couple more glasses of wine, she leant across and put her next argument to me: in the form of a very plaintive kiss. Stop! How did that happen? I would not fall into some sordid little episode. Not again. She seemed quite disappointed.
Since it was late, I walked her back to her hotel. Since she was quite drunk for someone with such a good way of kissing and such a lovely bum and lovely eyes, I helped her into bed and lay down on top of the covers. On top.
Which is when she said that having considered what I had so honestly told her, the real crime eight years ago didn’t seem to be my affair per se, more the shamed sneaking away afterwards, without leaving a trace. On reflection, she seemed right. She was very persuasive indeed for someone who had such a lovely bum and lovely eyes and a lovely laugh for someone called Morag.
Which is how, in all honesty, midnight gave way to 1am, good intentions gave way to moral laxity and I was lying awake, naked, post-coital next to someone who despite a lovely bum etc etc really did snore like someone called Morag. So here was my test. I would not just sneak away. But I certainly couldn’t get to sleep. Not with that racket going on.
So I thought I would take a shower. Bad idea. It was now 2am, Morag was still snoring, I was wet, sober, hungover and had to start the first day of a new career the following morning. With really grown-up, serious people. I looked around for a towel, unsuccessfully, and left.
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At least I left something behind this time: my wet boxers, which I had used as a towel, now hung from the hook on her door.
I guess I’m a repeat offender. All I can say is, Your Honour, she made me do it.