Page 35 of One Hot Summer

“I don’t think any more needs to be said, do you, Nigel?” Sarah threw him a look that could kill. “Maybe we end things here, and never speak of them, or to each other, ever again.”

“You’re upset, I understand,” he said. “It’s never nice to hear when you’re not compatible with someone. I will leave you ladies to your talk.”

Sarah’s shoulders relaxed as Nigel finally moved away from her.

“Oh, Nigel, before you go, can I ask you something?” I beckoned him back over.

“Of course.” He faced me.

“Sarah told me you write a very, very successful sex blog. Famous, in fact. I’d love to give it a read.”

“Oh my God,” Sarah whispered under her breath.

“Yes!” He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a business card, which he handed to me. “Please, leave a review. Especially if you try the Flying Eagle. I need feedback. Actually, ladies, I have a project in mind if I may discuss it with you both. You may be up for taking part. I’m looking for two older women who wouldn’t mind…”

“Goodbye, Nigel!” Sarah’s voice was loud enough to get the attention of the bouncer near the door.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Sarah said as Nigel finally walked away. “I cannot believe you took his card. We are not reading that blog.”

“We absolutely are.” I laughed. “What the hell is a Flying Eagle?”

That weekend, Zack was doing a grand job at reading the instructions and constructing Sarah’s new furniture, and I was doing a grand job of making Sarah jealous about my upcoming two-week getaway to an all-expenses paid villa in Crete. Plus, in amongst all the commotion of our midweek post-work get-together, we had completely forgotten to discuss her dating profile.

“Two whole weeks?” she said as we were sitting on her new sofa drinking wine. We were flicking through profiles on Find Me A Date, but not having any luck. “Don’t say more, I might actually turn green.”

“Did I mention it has a tennis court?”

“Since when do you play tennis?” She laughed.

“Never.” I sipped my wine. “But when in Rome. Speaking of Rome, have you heard any more from Alessandro? Does he keep in touch?”

“Occasionally,” she said, as she swiped through the app. “We have the odd ‘How are you?’ chat and briefly tell each other what we’ve been up to, but no more than that really. He did hint about chatting on FaceTime though. Oh, what about this one?” She handed me the phone. “Twenty-eight years old, a postman–”

“Swipe left,” I interrupted. “Postmen get up early on a morning. You don’t need that on a Monday. Next.”

“But he was so hot! Imagine him slipping a parcel into your letterbox.” She pouted. “You’re so picky.”

“No, I’m experienced in this business. And if anyone messages you wanting to video-call, tell them no.”

“Are you girls okay, or do you need a rest?” Zack popped his head into the room. “Wouldn’t want you to tire yourselves out.”

He walked into the room and leaned down, kissing me on my head. “Sarah, I don’t suppose you have any scissors? I can’t find mine in my toolbox.”

“Oh yes,” she got up, passing me the phone, “I’ll get you some.” She ran down the hall and up the stairs to the loft room, which was home to many unpacked boxes. I asked if it could still be classed as a bungalow if it had steps to an upstairs room. Apparently, it can.

“How are you getting on?” I asked Zack.

“Almost there, just the wardrobe is a bit awkward.” He wiped some sweat from his upper lip.

“Do you need any help?” I felt guilty. Sarah and I had spent the whole evening gossiping whilst he got on with putting all her stuff together.

“No, it’s fine. Enjoying myself, actually. Won’t be long now.”

“Got them!” Sarah called from ‘upstairs’.

“Coming.” Zack left and made his way to meet her.

I carried on swiping through the profiles. Most of them were the same delightful guys from when I’d had the app. Left. Left. Left. Woah, what? Is that who I think it is? It can’t be. It is.

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