Page 40 of Hit For Six
Lola
‘Shit, shit, shit!This was categorically not part of the plan,’ seethed Monty as they made their way to his place.
Lola could hard relate to those words. What had she said after her dalliance with Orlando? And yet here she was accompanying Monty to his pad. But he truly did seem like a breath of fresh air for a posh guy. He still hadn’t told Lola where he lived. That was one of the first things Orlando had bragged about (an annexe in his parents’ country pile in a top Cotswold village full of models and actors). Now that they’d left the river far behind them, Lola realised she’d been a little judgy by assuming Monty owned one of those plush modern apartments that flanked it. He might live somewhere down to earth and modest. He might just have cash in the bank.
‘What’s up?’
‘Don’t look now, but my parents are walking perpendicular to us!’ Blimey, the last time Lola had heard the P word was during a maths class and now she finally thought that she might understand its meaning– at least Mr and Mrs B-C appeared to be at a right angle to their son and his date’s current dot on the map of Bath. ‘They must have been to the sodding Theatre Royal. Tell me this isn’t happening.’ Monty quickened his pace. ‘I really can’t deal with them tonight and I really don’t want them interrupting us.’
‘My bad. I shouldn’t have told you that my offices were on Old King Street.’ Lola bit her lip. ‘There’s nothing remotely impressive about them, other than the fact that Mr B’sEmporium is right around the corner. Aka the best bookshop on the planet.’
‘Lola, you’re a genius! We’ll march to Mr B’s before they clock us and gaze trance-like at its window display– side note, why have I never been there before, you’re a constant revelation. They’ll never think to join us and they might just turn left onto Trim Street, bypassing us completely for Queen Street car park.’
Lola didn’t fancy Monty’s chances in his eye-catching cricket kit, but she concurred that they had to give this plan a go, especially as she’d not checked herself out in the mirror since a) the choking catastrophe and b) that monumental snog– which was silly given she’d been back to her apartment, but there just hadn’t been time for vanity, what with a cat to feed and a bag to pack with her least threadbare underwear. Besides, even if she redid her makeup, it would soon come off on Monty’s bedsheets. Then there was the alarming realisation that if his parents stood next to her for too long so soon after the stadium incident, they might recognise her. So yeah. Shit really was the word.
But it was too late. Mr and Mrs Beaumont-Carmichael had spotted their son and were making a beeline for the pair of them. Heck. They really did exude posh, even from this many metres away. Monty’s mother looked like she’d been cut out of the glossy pages of Vanity Fair magazine. One of those features where they added price tags and stockists to an outfit, and it swiftly became apparent that there were women out there who spent Lola’s monthly salary on a solitary item of clothing. She was draped in a silk shawl of Hermes ilk and beneath this she wore a short-sleeved duck egg-blue dress that appeared to be made of cashmere. A matching handbag swung on her pearl-braceleted forearm.
‘They can’t be so terrible if they’re theatre-goers, Monty!’ Lola whispered through her increasingly nervous smile, wishingshe could turn back the clock and inspect what was left of her makeup but not daring to do so in any of the street’s windows.
‘Oh, they only watch the high-brow stuff.’
He pointed to a poster in a boutique window advertising The Merchant of Venice. Why hadn’t she seen this notice on her many forays in and out of the office? But it was true. The Theatre Royal mainly showcased anything but musical theatre. Its stage was too dinky for all singing and dancing performances.
‘Monty?’ his mother purred from the opposite pavement in a voice like thick honey.
And the question in said voice spoke a thousand words, none of them remotely complimentary towards Lola, who suddenly felt like a gold digger. She smiled good naturedly at his folks, relishing the reassuring squeeze of their son’s hand. Monty’s parents strutted across the road, making cars stop as if their very own zebra crossing had rolled itself out like a red carpet. Lola couldn’t believe that nobody was beeping.
‘Hi both! What a lovely surprise!’
Monty did an almost flawless job of hiding his nerves as he greeted them but Lola knew him well enough already, and suddenly she couldn’t help but wonder who that squeeze of the hand was meant to buoy up the most. Now he was forced to let go of her as his mother foisted herself upon him, gathering Monty into her bosom for a hug.
‘Hello, hello,’ she finally replied when she’d inhaled enough of her boy. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,’ she eyed Lola with curiosity and a barely there smile.
‘If you’ll give me a second, I was just about to get to that delightful part. Lola, meet my parents, Helena and Frederick.’ Now he belatedly patted his father on the back in an awkward ‘embrace’ that did not seem to be reciprocated. Ooh, that intro had rubbed them up the wrong way and Lola had to admit that she wasn’t entirely sure if the eldest should be presented to theyoungest first. It didn’t seem entirely respectful, even if it made her feel special. ‘And Mum and Dad, meet Lola.’
She soon got her definitive answer regarding the hand squeeze. Immediately Lola felt as if she was being sized-up like cattle.
‘Wonderful to meet you. Tell me, how do you know our son?’ asked Helena, her eyelashes fluttering lightly, as if to warn that this had better be good.
‘Ah, well. We met at…’Tell the truth, but not all of the truth.Lola wrung her hands together. ‘The Bubble Bath.’
Monty’s mother looked like she was about to pass out, whilst his father’s eyebrows shot into the stratosphere.
‘As in the new cocktail bar on North Parade. A seriously sophisticated venue.’
Lola looked at Monty in relief. His eyes twinkled with merriment.
‘Yes, that.’
She laughed nervously. She was such a numpty.
‘We tend to frequent the wine bars of Lansdown when we’re not out for a cultural evening in Bath, don’t we dearest?’
Helena met her husband’s eyes and he proffered a barely there smile.
‘They sound nice,’ Lola replied, immediately wishing she could expand her vocabulary beyond such basic descriptions, but the woman made her anxious.
Lola swore she’d detected a flare of Helena’s nostrils, which completely threw her as she’d only been trying to be polite.
