Page 5 of Something Borrowed

I brush my hair, which is hitting my shoulders and will undoubtedly be the subject of another lecture from my boss at the next staff meeting. I turn to Joe. “Well?”

He grimaces. “I suppose you’ll do. Could you get away with wearing sunglasses in the church?”

“Hardly. The vicar’s a bit of a stickler for tradition. I don’t know why. Last week, he married Sally Parsons in what looked like a sheet.”

He snorts, and I reach into the suit bag to get my shirt. I fumble around, and panic starts to stir. “Where’s my shirt?”

Joe blinks. “In there?”

I shake my head, pulling out the dark grey morning suit and then searching frantically to the bottom of the bag. “It’s not there.”

“Oh dear. Your emergency measures could do with some refining.”

“Oh my god. I’ll have to go bare-chested to church. What am I going todo?”

“Have we got time to stop at a shop?”

“No.” Panic combines uneasily with my headache, making me feel like I might throw up. I stare out the window to steady myself, and then do a double take. We’re next to a bus stop, where a line of bored-looking people are waiting.

“Pull over, please,” I call to Nigel.

“What?”

“Can you please pull over by the bus stop? Right here.”

Grumbling, he stops the car. I open the window. “Hey, Bobby,” I call out to the last man in line.

“Raff?” he says, squinting at the taxi.

“Yes, babe. Can I have a quick word?”

He strides over. “For you anything.”

I grin at him. “I need your shirt.”

“What?”

“I need to borrow your shirt.”

“Not your usual tactics, Raff. You usually just go straight for the trousers.”

Joe snorts. Desperation tugs at me, and I say to Bobby, “I’ll give you a hundred quid for it.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Bobby narrows his eyes. “Oh, are you drunk again?”

“Oh god,” Joe sighs behind me.

I smile at Bobby. “Not this time.”

I can’t believe we’ve run into him. We’ve shagged a few times, yet we’re still civil. It’s like meeting an actual miracle.

Bobby continues to stare at me quizzically.

I look at my watch, groan at the time ticking away, and talk frantically. “A hundred quid and front-row tickets to whatever show you want to see.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Hurry up,” I urge.

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