Page 3 of Something Borrowed

“How can I help it when you appear to have set up home on the set ofHollyoaks?”

“I hope not.” I shudder. “Someone was wearing a tracksuit to a wedding the last time I looked at that show.” I shake myself. "Can you pop into my flat and grab my grey morning suit?” I spy my trainers by the bedside table, and step into them. “I’ll need my top hat and my emergency bag, which is on the dresser in my bedroom.”

“Your emergency bag? That makes it sound like you’re about to give birth rather than just being a chronic ho.”

“Grab that bag, too,” I continue in a repressive tone. “Get a taxi and meet me at—” I look at the pretty man glaring at me. “Where are we—?” I try again to recall his name. “Nick?” I venture.

He glares at me and slams out of the room.

“Not Nick, then. Never mind,” I say wildly to Joe. “I know you can track me down.”

“It feels like we’re on the set ofLast of the Mohicans.”

“Use the app on your iPhone.”

“Isn’t that a bit stalkerish?”

“If you showed up now with a bunch of roses stuck up your bum, I would still kiss you.”

“That isn’t the reach you think it is. Didn’t one of your conquests du jour turn up wearing only daisies?”

“It wasn’t quite so erotic when it set off my hay fever.”

Joe laughs.

“Come and get me,” I hiss.

There’s a long pause. “What was the first thing you asked me to do? It’s such a long list I’ve forgotten already.”

“Joe.”

“Okay, but you owe me big time. By the look of my phone, you’re in Islington, so I won’t be long.”

“I am?” I dash to the window. “Oh, thank you, tiny Baby Jesus. I’m near St James church.”

“How apt. They can bury you there when Jed catches you. Isn’t he a friend of the bride’s father?”

“Stoptalking.”

He laughs again and rings off.

Twenty minutes later, a taxi pulls up to the curb where I’m pacing. “Thank god,” I mutter, opening the door and sliding in.

“Where’s your new husband?” Joe asks, a thread of amusement running through his voice. I glare at him, and his lip twitches.

“I do not have a husband,” I say with dignity, which I promptly lose when the door to the house opens. “Oh Christ, step on it,” I call to the driver.

He turns rather ponderously. “This is not an episode ofDempsey and Makepeace, sir.”

“Dempsey and who?”

He shakes his head. “Bloody kids.”

My bedmate starts towards the car, mouthing something.

“Is that him?” Joe asks.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, panicked.

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