Page 22 of Love ad Lib
‘And now,’ Libby began. ‘Welcome to “Om Island”, where we’re going to follow a group of sexy young monks as they meditate, fully clothed, in silence for ten days.’
‘Household product!’
Claire wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Mopeoke. Fifty per cent mop, fifty per cent karaoke machine, and one hundred per cent destined for landfill.’
‘World’s worst best man!’
Libby continued her drunk act, but this time she seemed to embody Henry’s work colleagues at the end of a big night out.
‘Hi, er, yes, sorry about, er, being a bit late for the wedding, and losing the ring.’ She burped loudly. ‘Oh, and the accident in the font. Oopsies. But, um… yeah… congrats, mate, for marrying Lara. Me and the other groomsmen all agree she’s a top shag.’
As everyone laughed, Claire turned her back to the stage.
‘Plastic surgeon!’
‘So, sir,’ Libby began. ‘Do you want to use polycarbonate, polystyrene or polyethylene for your procedure today? They’re all BPA free!’
Claire was now leaning her hands on the back of a chair.
‘Midwife!’ yelled Bruce Bruce.
Libby scrunched up her eyes as if she were having trouble seeing and went to Claire’s side. ‘Hello deary… remind me which hole baby’s coming out of today?’
Claire screamed.
Libby put her hand to her ear and frowned. ‘What did you say? I didn’t quite catch it.’
Claire cried out again, and water ran down her legs onto the stage.
‘Oh my god!’ Libby yelled.
Henry pushed his way to the front and helped Claire to a seat, kneeling by her side.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she panted. ‘Just get everyone out.’
He leapt up. ‘Okay everyone, slight change of plan. If you all could please go back downstairs.’ He took as much cash as he had in his wallet and handed it to the Australian. ‘Mr Bruce Bruce is going to buy most of you a drink and explain why he thinks Australian lager is superior to British.’
The Aussie nodded and led everyone away.
Henry returned to Claire’s side. ‘What can I do?’
She was leaning on Libby’s shoulders, breathing heavily.
‘Call an ambulance,’ Libby said.
‘Ritchie,’ Claire moaned, ‘I need Ritchie.’
‘I’ll call him,’ said Libby. ‘But with the strike on today, the buses are going to take forever and it’ll take him too long to walk.’
‘Claire,’ Henry said. ‘Let me take your car, and I’ll go and get him. Okay?’
She nodded. ‘Keys. In my bag.’
He grabbed it and took them out. ‘Libby, I’m going to give you my number. Text me the address and Ritchie’s number. When I’ve left, ring him and tell him I’m on my way.’ He put his hand on Claire’s shoulder. ‘What car do you drive and where did you park it?’
Claire muttered the details.
He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll bring him back as soon as possible.’
