Page 40 of The App Trap
“Oh,Lovaboyzare doing a singles party in Brighton on Saturday…”
“Lovaboyz? Brighton?” I said, clearly disapproving the first noun in that sentence.
“Well, it’s my friend Joe’s birthday and he fancied it. His bunch are always a good laugh. We’ve hired a minibus with a load of mates. There’s space if you fancy it? I’ve got some hot friends coming. I could introduce you?”
“Luke’s not going, is he?”
“Nope. You’re safe. Or should I say, he’s safe?”
I scoffed.
Then I remembered that the Lovestuck party that Harry was going to was in fact this Saturday as well.
The temptation of meeting a bus-load of Ben’s deviant friends somehow sounded more appealing, though. It was like I was finally being thrust at full pelt towards the dark-side. Sure, I would have loved to end up with Harry and live happily ever London with him, but was I really ready to give up this wonderful world of free-lust just yet? Besides, Harry was more than happy to set me up with his friends as I recall, which means that ship has definitely sailed.
Ben seemed so happy doing what he was doing, and he never had to answer to anyone. It made me think… do Ireallywant to lose my freedom and be tied to one person when I clearly love dating so much? I’m not even 30 yet. I’ve got loads of time for all that nonsense. Why not have some fun?
“What time are you leaving?” I asked.
“About 12ish.”
“All right. I’m in.”
Chapter
Thirteen
It was Saturday. Tonight was ‘singles party night’, but I had to pop into Mum’s flower shop to help her with a delivery, as her Saturday person needed the afternoon off.
I arrived to see Mum leaning against the outside wall of her shop in the style of a Pink Lady from Grease, smiling at a tall man dressed in double-denim and a bloody Stetson, would you believe? There were distinct Marlboro man vibes about him.
As there was a huge lorry with a Dutch number plate parked alongside them, Colombo over here had deduced that this had to be the one and only Dutchman. He wasn’t what I expected. He had chiselled cheeks that looked worked out from puffing away on too many Gitanes over the years. That was actually the only European cigarette brand I’d heard of, so I was just guessing, of course. He looked like a more muscular version of Bill Nighy.
“Here he is. This is my youngest, Danny. Danny, this is Wesley,” said Mum, proudly.
Wesley? Another surprise.
“Hi, Wes,” I said, with a bit of familiarity that had a sprinkling of protectiveness to it.
“Morning. It’s good to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you. Here, I heard you’re partial to a bit of Dutch horticulture, so I thought I’d bring you something…”
He reached into his lorry and grabbed a potted fern. Then he delved into the soil to produce a bag of what looked like at least a quarter ounce of the most gloriously smelling weed I’d ever smelt. This guy was all right.
“Wesley!” exclaimed Mum.
Wesley smiled a thin-lipped smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on a 14-year-old lad that’d just been caught smoking by the cool teacher at school.
“It’s okay, there’s enough for you to share,” said Wes.
“I was gonna say,” said Mum.
“Mum? Weed? Really?”
“It helps with all this nonsense I’ve got going on inside me. Live a little!”
How could I argue with that?
“Can you start moving the boxes out of the lorry? Bertie’s just in the back. Just tell him you’re taking over. He’s got to shoot off in a minute,” said Mum, without taking her eyes off the Dutch cowboy for a split-second.
