The next time she sees Alec Hardy is several weeks later, on the television.
She's at the launderette with her flatmate, Jake, when she flops down onto one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and sighs with boredom. The old, decrepit dryers don't work especially well, and more than a half hour later her clothes are still damp. She takes out her phone and tries to browse Facebook, but the signal is so weak that nothing will load and she finally gives up.
"Why are we still coming here? Half the shit is broken or doesn't work right," she complains.
"Because this is the only twenty-four hour launderette within walking distance," Jake replies.
"There's got to be another one. We're in bloody London!" she insists.
"So Google it," he says mildly as he loads towels into a washer.
"I would, but the signal in here is for shit," she pouts, shoving her phone back into her pocket. She struggles to find a comfortable position on her chair, which she decides was designed by Satan himself. Arms crossed, she slumps back against the hard plastic in defeat. In the corner, a small television plays the news, but the volume is so low that the words are indecipherable. She watches, because there is nothing else to do but wait for the laundry to be done.
And then all of a sudden, there he is. She can't hear him, of course, but she recognizes those melancholy brown eyes, that thin, stubbled face. Getting up off her chair, she moves closer to the television, but the words are still indistinguishable. The expression on his face though is not. He looks angry. She can just barely read the blurb scrolling along the bottom of the screen: suspect in child murder turns himself in.
Jake looks up from folding his clothes to see her staring at the television, rapt. "What is it?"
Startled by the sound of his voice, she turns to look at him. "Hmm? Oh, nothing. I just thought I recognized that bloke on the news. He looks like someone who came into the pub a few weeks ago."
Jake glances up at the television. "That guy? Isn't he the one the Daily Herald named the Worst Cop in Britain?"
"Is he? Why?" Rose asks, raising her eyebrows. She hates to admit it, she doesn't really keep up with the news. Spending most of her evenings listening to other people's sob stories and confessions is depressing enough at times, she doesn't like to go home and to be bombarded by images of the starving, sick, and downtrodden, too.
"Something to do with a botched murder investigation, I think? I don't know, I just saw the headline in passing when I walked by the news agent's a couple of weeks ago," he answers. "To be honest, I only noticed it in the first place because the detective was cute."
Rose rolls her eyes at that. "Typical."
Jake shrugs. "You know how I am when it comes to guys with scruff. And he had nice hair. Looked very soft."
"It was," she says without thinking.
He gives her a funny look. "How would you know?"
"Because I shagged him," she replies nonchalantly, enjoying the look of shock on Jake's face. He'd been encouraging her for weeks to get over Jimmy by having it on with another bloke.
"You shagged the Worst Cop in Britain?!" he exclaims.
"Well, he might be the worst cop in Britain, but he certainly wasn't the worst lay," she answers. "Unlike many others, he didn't need a map and instructions to get to my clitoris."
"You naughty little thing! I can't believe you shagged a bloke and didn't tell me," Jake says, hands on his hips.
"I shagged him, Jake, it's not like we're dating. It was just a one night thing," she says, picking at her fingernails.
"Only the one night? If I managed to get that into bed, I'd never let him leave!" he declared.
"He was just passing through. I asked to see him again, he told me he wasn't from around here. It is what it is," she says with a regretful shrug.
"Oh, I know that look. You've got it bad for him," Jake singsongs.
"I do not. I don't even know him. There wasn't exactly a lot of discussion," she says, irritated.
"So how was the sex?" he asks relentlessly, leaning on his elbows.
"You're so nosy," she protests.
"That's because I haven't been laid in a while. I have to live vicariously through you," he says innocently.
"You brought a guy home from the club a week ago," she points out.
"For me, that is a while."
"You're such a slag."
"You say that like you haven't known me for years. Anyway, don't leave me hangin', how was it?"
"It was fine. I mean...it was good. He was definitely more experienced and attentive than Jimmy ever was," she says, trying to keep her tone casual. It would be so easy to gush about the morning she spent with the sexy Scottish detective, but she wants to pacify Jake's questioning, not elicit more.
"Well Jimmy was a needle dick wanker, so that's not really saying much," he presses, evidently unsatisfied by her vague description. He's not going to let her off easy this time.
She sighs, knowing she's probably going to give in. "It was bloody fantastic. Best I've had in a long time."
"So on a scale from cocktail sausage to Mrs. Wilson's prize-winning cucumber, how big?" he asks, grinning.
She makes a disgusted face, but still laughs. "What, you think I carry a tape measure around with me that I just bust out the second a guy gets hard? What difference does it make how big?"
"Go on, indulge your old pal Jake," he coaxes.
"Well, it was definitely bigger than a cocktail sausage, but I don't think it was quite as big as a cucumber," she says dryly.
"You're no fun," he pouts.
"You say that like you haven't known me for years," she fires back. "If you want someone who will kiss and tell, ask Shareen. She definitely gets more action than me anyway."
Jake sticks his lower lip out at her. "Shareen isn't here right now. Besides, you always had a flair for the dramatic. You tell better stories. Also, the clothes aren't even half dry, so you might as well tell me."
Rose sighs, knowing there's no use in trying to keep anything from her best mate. She's not sure why she's so reluctant to share the details of her little tryst with him, because she usually tells him everything. Why should this be any different? "Fine," she relents. "He came into the bar one night, and we chatted a bit. He drank scotch, and left me a good tip. But he left his number, too, and he was cute, and I was thinking about what you said, about trying to get over Jimmy, so I called him and we ended up sleeping together. We went out for breakfast afterwards, but he completely clammed up, barely said a word to me the entire time. I asked him if I could see him again, and he got all uncomfortable and told me he wasn't from around here."
"Do you still have his number?"
"Yeah, it's saved in my phone, but I haven't called or texted him."
"Well why the hell not?"
"I got the impression that he didn't want to be contacted," she answers, just a trace of bitterness in her voice.
"Well, maybe you should," Jake asserts. "What do you have to lose?"
"Suppose," she mutters in reply.
"Well go on then. Text him," he encourages.
"Yeah, but what would I even say?" she asks, not bothering to mask her frustration.
"You could start with hello," he suggests.
"The signal in here is for shit," she reiterates as she slips her phone out of her pocket. She doesn't have to scroll far to get to him in her contacts. Her finger hovers uncertainly over the screen, and she finally taps the little text icon. She types and erases several messages before she finally settles on four words: wish you were here.
She presses send, and waits.