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‘I am, a bit. But it’s not a suit of armour. The opposite, actually.’ I prop the phone between my ear and shoulder, and start again on my attempt to e-a-s-e the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my tummy. ‘I’m at Adam’s. Just getting ready for … well, a nice romantic night in.’
‘Oh. Right.’
It’s ironic – and a bit incomprehensible, really – that Nora, who’s spent much of the past few months urging to me to get out there and meet someone so that I can lay the ghost of my failed fling with Dillon O’Hara to rest, is a bit down on the whole idea of Adam. She was excited when I first told her – waiting for our flight last night – that I’d started seeing someone new, but then she seemed to cool off on the news when I explained how I’d met him.
‘I forgot to ask yesterday,’ she says, now, ‘but have you … er … mentioned anything about this Adam guy to Olly yet? Because if you haven’t, don’t you think that maybe you should? Given that they work together, and everything.’
‘I haven’t, yet. But you don’t really think he’s going to mind, do you, Nor? I mean, I know it could be awkward if they worked together properly – like, in the same office, or something – just in case things didn’t work out between me and Adam, and Olly ended up having to take a side. But they only meet up every so often, and it’ll be even less once the restaurant is actually up and running.’
‘True.’ Nora clears her throat. ‘I wish you’d tell him soon, though, Libby. I’ll feel awkward, if I don’t mention anything about it the entire time I’m staying here.’
‘It’s perfectly OK to mention it! It’s not a big secret or anything. Besides, I’m sure he’ll be pleased. He likes Adam. And it’s not like I’m going out with, well, You Know Who, or anything.’
I’m talking about Dillon, not Voldemort, by the way. I just tend to avoid mentioning his actual name to either Nora or Olly, because they still get a bit worked up about him, even all these months on. I mean, I think I got over Dillon’s shoddy behaviour faster than either Nora or Olly did, and that’s saying something. The trouble is that Olly loathed Dillon right from the start – so much so that he resorted to threats of physical violence with kitchen equipment even before the Miami hurricane fiasco. There isn’t enough kitchen equipment in the world to carry out all the things Olly wanted to do to Dillon afterwards.
‘Hmm,’ Nora replies. ‘So. A nice romantic evening, you said.’
‘Yes.’ I carry on inching the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my none-too-perfect stomach. God, I wish I hadn’t put this half-stone back on. ‘At least, I hope so. I mean, I’m here at his house, and I’m going to surprise him when he gets in.’
‘Surprise him?’ She sounds confused. ‘Like a sort of … sex ambush?’
‘No! It’s not a sex ambush! God, Nora, you make it sound like I’m planning to jump out of the wardrobe, knock him out with a tranquillizer dart, manacle him to the radiator and have my wicked way with him for the next three nights.’
There’s a short silence.
‘That does sound,’ Nora says, after a moment, ‘worryingly detailed …’
‘OK, but it wouldn’t be totally incomprehensible if I were to do something of the sort,’ I say, finally – finally! – managing to edge the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my tummy before jiggling the shoulder straps into position. ‘I told you on the plane last night. Things are really perfect between us. We just need to work on … the sex part.’
‘Lib, I do worry a bit when you start using words like perfect. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Adam does sound lovely. But you know you have a tendency to … well, romanticize things.’
‘I admit, I might have had that tendency in the past, but not this time. When you meet him, you’ll see.’ Now that the Ribbony Elasticky Thing is safely (well, safely-ish) on, I can start the complicated process of arranging the lengths of ribbon and elastic so that they cover the parts they’re meant to cover. ‘He’s steady. Dependable. Reliable …’
‘Well, all right, there’s no need to make him sound like the sort of thing my dad might use for weatherproofing his patio furniture.’
‘… Mature,’ I continue. ‘Well-rounded.’
‘OK, now you’re making him sound like one of those mystery cheeses you and Olly are always bleating on about.’
‘My point is that I really, truly think this could be it. Adam could be it. I mean, he brought me espresso and yogurt-covered raisins before my big meeting this morning! All the way from his Mayfair office to Clapham!’
‘Er, wouldn’t you just have preferred a cappuccino and a bag of those honeycomb bite thingies you ploughed your way through at the airport yesterday?’
‘Not the point. He really cares, Nora. I really, properly matter to him.’
‘Which is great, Lib. And I’m so, so happy for you. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.’ There’s the briefest of pauses before she adds a light but meaningful, ‘again’.
‘There’s no way, Nora, that I could possibly get hurt.’
Though even as I say this, the Ribbony Elasticky thing starts riding, well, upwards in a manner that’s only going to get more painful if it goes any further. So it’s just possible that Nora might have a point, even if it’s not quite in the way she was meaning it.
‘OK, but after what happened with You Know Who, and all the bloody chaos he caused—’
‘Talking of chaos,’ I say, smoothly interrupting before we get diverted down the Dillon alleyway, from where it’s always difficult to escape, ‘you spent so long asking me about Dad’s wedding yesterday that you didn’t actually tell me anything about your wedding.’ Nora is getting married in five weeks’ time, to her lovely fiancé Mark. ‘Any news? Any updates? Anything your devoted and dedicated chief bridesmaid can do to help?’
‘Actually, that’s partly why I’m calling,’ Nora says. ‘I forgot to ask yesterday, and I know you’re really busy these days, Lib … but do you think you might be able to spare a couple of hours to go bridesmaid’s dress shopping with Tash one day this week?’
Tash, apart from being Olly’s motorbike-ride buddy, is going to be Nora’s only other non-family bridesmaid.
‘I thought maybe you could take along the dress you’ve already chosen for yourself, and try to help her find something that would co-ordinate … I’ll try and come along with you guys too,’ she adds, perhaps proving that she’s noticed that Tash and I, though perfectly amiable together, haven’t quite gelled enough for a girlie shopping trip àdeux. ‘If Olly doesn’t need me to run any errands for him at the same time.’
‘Happy to, Nora. I’ll make a bit of time whenever Tash can do it.’
‘Thanks, Lib. And talking of Tash, I’d better get going … we’re heading into the West End for a bite to eat tonight. Probably the only chance I’ll get to show her the bright lights before we become Olly’s menials for the next few evenings.’
‘Sure, of course. You go.’
‘And good luck with Adam tonight!’ she adds. ‘But you won’t need it. I’m sure he won’t be able to keep his steady, dependable, teak-garden-furniture-protecting hands off you.’
We can but hope.
And we’ll find out sooner than I’d thought, because I’ve only just slipped my phone back into my bag when I hear a key in the front door.
This isn’t a late night! It’s barely gone eight! What did they do at this work dinner: sip sparkling water, nibble a small selection of sushi, turn down coffee and then pay the bill?
Well, there’s no time to find all this American professionalism and healthy living irritating: thank God, I’m all ready and (barely) dressed, so all I need to do is arrange myself as seductively as possible on one of the uncomfortable chairs, attach what I hope is a come-hither smile, and—
‘I don’t see why I had to come over and help you find the bloody thing,’ comes a voice from the hallway. ‘Couldn’t you do it on your own?’
It’s not Adam.
It’s Posh James Cadwalladr.
‘OK, OK, but I feel weird about coming into Adam’s house all by myself. We don’t know him that well.’
And this, I recognize straight away, is Lottie Cadwalladr, my brand-new stockist.
Shit.
I can’t make a dash for the stairs, because they’re out in the hallway, where the Cadwalladrs have just let themselves in. I can’t make a dash for the bifold doors that lead into the garden, because they’re locked and I don’t have time to look for the key. It would be absolutely useless to get on my hands and knees under the table because it’s made of bloody Perspex …
What the hell am I going to do?
As the kitchen door starts to open, I make the only choice I have available to me: a dash to Fritz’s den, where I should be able to hide myself away until the Cadwalladrs have found whatever it is they’re looking for, and buggered off back to their own property again.
I jump up from the table, sprinting to the nook by the cooker, and, despite my heels, leap the safety gate in a rather impressive single bound.
‘… quite sure Adam didn’t bring that one over in Fritz’s bag of stuff, when he dropped him off?’ Posh James is asking, as two pairs of footsteps – one heavy and male, one lighter and ballet-pump-wearing, make their way on to the marble floor. ‘Weren’t there about half a million squeaky toys in there?’
‘Not the green and white one,’ says Lottie, before adding, ‘Go on, Fritzy! Go find your toy! Go find!’
Hang on: they’ve brought Fritz with them, too?
I don’t even need to ask myself the question, because there’s a pitter-pattering of doggy feet across the marble floor, and a moment later I’m gazing, from my crouched position behind the safety gate, deep into Fritz’s chocolate-brown, adoring, eyes.
He starts – surprise, surprise – barking.
‘Fritz, no!’ I whisper, flapping my hands at him. ‘Go away! I don’t have any pâté! Ich habe,’ I hazard, in desperation, dredging up the German I studied, half-heartedly, when I was fourteen years old, ‘kein pâté!’
Mentioning pâté was, with hindsight, a mistake, in either language.
Fritz goes berserk.
‘What the fuck’s he barking about now?’ I can just about hear Posh James saying over the torrent of noise Fritz is making.
‘The toy must be in his den,’ I hear Lottie say. ‘Clever boy!’
His toy! His green and white squeaky toy! That’ll get rid of him. I see it in here, nestling to the side of his (Alessi) bowl, grab it and then, making sure I lean right through the bars of the safety gate for maximum distance, skim the bloody thing as far away across the kitchen floor from the den, and me, as it’ll go.
Which makes not the slightest difference. Fritz could no longer care less about his squeaky toy, not when his beloved Bringer Of Pâté is right here before him, cornered behind his safety gate. Besides, now that I’ve made the mistake of putting my head through the bars to chuck his toy, he’s licking my face, practically water-boarding me with meaty-smelling saliva.
It’s a bit gross, and I can’t pull my head back through the bars fast enough.
Except I can’t pull my head back through the bars at all.
I’m serious. I can’t get my head out.
It makes no sense … I mean, I got my head through them one way, didn’t I?
Unless it’s the Marilyn Monroe earrings. These great, big, chandelier-style Marilyn Monroe earrings. Jamming up against the outside of the bars, making it impossible for me to squeeze my head back through.
Just as this horrible fact dawns on me, a pair of leopard-print French Sole ballet pumps comes past the range cooker and stops, abruptly, right in front of me.
‘Oh, dear God,’ says Lottie Cadwalladr, about four feet above my head.
Which sums it up pretty neatly, really.
‘James!’ she goes on, in a horrified voice. ‘Come quick! Adam’s got some woman … imprisoned back here!’
‘Some woman?’ echoes Posh James.
‘No, no, no!’ I sound a bit panicked, which is understandable, under the circumstances, but is only going to make me feel more mortified in the long run. I’d prefer to sound more nonchalant, debonair, even, because I’ve learned from past experience that if you take this sort of appalling humiliation in your stride yourself, other people have no choice but to take it in their stride along with you. ‘I’m not a woman,’ I go on, in as laid-back a way as I can possibly manage. ‘I mean, I’m not just any old woman! It’s me, Libby Lomax. Um, Adam’s girlfriend? The jewellery designer?’
‘Libby?’ Lottie gasps.
‘That’s right. Hello!’ I add. ‘Nice to see you again!’
Posh James’s shoes arrive, now, and I hear an appalled, ‘For fuck’s sake,’ before he grabs Fritz’s collar and – helpfully – puts an end to the water torture by manhandling him back towards the kitchen door and putting him out in the hallway.
‘Thanks!’ I say, still trying to sound relaxed about all this, in the hope that it convinces them there’s really nothing so very extraordinary about finding a virtual stranger with their head wedged between a set of iron bars at the neighbour’s house, with only some strands of ribbon and elastic to protect her modesty. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘But, Libby …’ Lottie isn’t sounding remotely relaxed. ‘You have to tell me. Are you … in this position … voluntarily?’
‘Adam hasn’t fucking imprisoned her in a sex dungeon, or anything,’ Posh James says, cuttingly. ‘He’s not even home. I saw her letting herself in about an hour ago. At least, I think it’s her …’ There’s a pause. I don’t know why, but I get the impression of a neck being craned. ‘She looks a bit different from this angle.’
‘Then stop looking from that angle!’ Lottie snaps. ‘Let the poor girl have a shred of dignity, will you?’
What I’d quite like, right now, is for the floor beneath Fritz’s den to open up like a large sinkhole, drag me down deep into the earth’s crust, and finish me off in a pit of molten lava.
‘Anyway, if he’s not imprisoned her, what the hell is she doing in here?’ Lottie demands, before crouching down to meet me at eye level. Her pretty face is creased with genuine concern. ‘What are you doing in here?’ she repeats the question to me. ‘If you’re too scared to say anything aloud, just … I don’t know … blink three times … or do you have a safe word, or something …?’
‘No, there’s no safe word!’ I really, really want my very nice new client to stop thinking I’m heavily into sadomasochism. ‘This is all just a silly accident. I put my head through the bars, you see,’ I go on, cleverly avoiding any mention of why I put on slutty lingerie to do this in the first place. ‘I think the problem is my earrings, actually, so perhaps …’ I reach one hand up to start undoing one of the chandelier earrings on one side and then, the moment it’s fallen free, do the same to the other. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to get my head out, now.’
Wrong again.
My head, even without the earrings, still won’t slide back out through the bars of the safety gate.
‘My head hasn’t grown, has it?’ I’m sounding panicked again. ‘Could that have happened? Do heads just spontaneously grow?’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Lottie puts her own head on one side. ‘I suppose it could have expanded a teeny bit, or something … From the friction of you trying to pull it out, maybe?’
‘For fuck’s sake, the two of you. It isn’t amateur physicist week.’ Posh James doesn’t sound the least bit impressed. ‘Obviously what we need is some sort of lubricant.’
‘James!’ Lottie gasps.
‘To rub on the bars,’ he explains. ‘To help her slide out. Olive oil, butter …’
‘Oh. Well, yes, that might be a good idea, actually. I’ll go and look in the fridge,’ Lottie says, getting to her feet and heading across to the other end of the kitchen. ‘Keep talking to her, James!’ she calls over one shoulder. ‘In case she goes into shock, or something.’
‘She’s not going to go into bloody shock,’ Posh James replies, irritably, before thinking slightly better of this and turning back to ask me, ‘are you?’
‘No,’ I mumble.
‘Good. I might, though.’
Which I think is just him being rude – extremely rude – about the nightmare-inducing sight of my bum, on the other side of the bars from him, until he goes on: ‘I mean, I honestly didn’t know Adam had it in him. I was pretty sure – a hundred per cent sure, in fact – that Adam batted for the other team.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Drove on the right-hand side of the road.’
‘Um, are you pointing out that he’s American, because I did already realize—’
‘I thought he was gay.’
I blink at Posh James. To be more precise, I blink at his battered Converse.
‘Adam’s not gay.’
