Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

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СКАЧАТЬ see … ugh – seventeen missed calls. Ten are from Cass, the rest from Mum (obviously on Cass’s behalf) and as a coda to the whole thing there’s a CAPITAL LETTERS text message from Cass telling me, in misspelled text-speak, that Mum is going to have to go out and run all the errands instead and that I am no longer her sister.

      I feel guilty now, not because Mum is running the errands (because if there’s a role Mum loves even more than armchair psychologist, it’s put-upon martyr), but because I love Cass, in spite of everything, and I want her to have a nice evening with all the gawping lechers at her party. But I’ve run errands for Cass a million times before, and no doubt will do again. Whereas this lunch with Dillon is a total one-off. If I abandon it early, just to get back in her good books with my sister, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

      ‘Everything all right?’

      ‘Yes.’ I put the phone back in my bag. ‘She’ll live.’

      ‘She seems a bit … high-maintenance, your sister.’

      ‘Mm.’ It would be disloyal to Cass to say any more. But I can’t help adding, ‘Did you have a nice … chat with her? Yesterday, I mean?’

      ‘Nice enough.’ He shrugs, looking slightly confused by the question. ‘I meet quite a lot of girls like her when I’m out and about, that’s all.’

      ‘Maybe you should go out and about a bit less, then.’

      A cheeky grin breaks across his face, as if he hasn’t expected it. ‘Maybe I should, Fire Girl.’ He tops both our glasses up with wine, again. ‘You do seem like chalk and cheese, though. You and your sister. Mind you, I’m nothing like a single one of my eleven brothers, so I can understand—’

      ‘You have eleven brothers?’

      ‘To be sure. There’s Paddy, and Seamus, and Brian, and Diarmuid, and Paddy … wait, have I already said Paddy?’

      ‘You don’t have eleven brothers,’ I say, ‘do you?’

      ‘Well, of course I don’t.’ He looks straight at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Does it work, though?’

      ‘Does what work?’

      ‘The whole Angela’s Ashes schtick. I’m up for a few acting jobs in the States, and my agent is desperate for me to get them. Wants me to big up my Irish background.’

      ‘There’s a bit of a difference,’ I feel compelled to point out, ‘between Bigging Up and Outright Lies.’

      ‘D’you know, that’s exactly what Our Paddy said when I mentioned it to him.’

      ‘Paddy the First or Paddy The Second?’

      He laughs. ‘I do have a brother called Patrick, as it happens. But just the one. And I don’t think he’ll really help the Angela’s Ashes image. He’s a chartered accountant. In Clondalkin.’

      ‘That sounds nice,’ I say, even though I’ve never heard of Clondalkin.

      ‘Yeah, it’s all right. A bit light on the old amenities. Not like the urban thrills of Angel, where I live now. You can get a bit bored in Clondalkin, if you’re a jet-setting model type. You know, the kind of person with no appreciation for a quiet country pub, or a good old family Sunday roast. The kind of person,’ he adds, with sudden savagery, ‘who because they spend their entire life down the gym and the spa, primping and preening for their next photo-shoot or ridiculous showbiz party, has forgotten that it’s never going to be real life.’

      There’s a rather long silence, during which Dillon empties a good third of the new bottle of wine into his glass and drinks it, and I try to work out how to steer the conversation away from Angry Thoughts About – I can only assume – Rhea and back to Flirty Banter With Libby.

      ‘On second thoughts,’ I say, ‘maybe you should spin the American casting agents the whole Angela’s Ashes thing after all. It’s a little bit more juicy than accountants in Clonmel.’

      ‘Clondalkin.’

      ‘There too.’

      Dillon smiles. This time, it’s a big, genuine, warm smile, not his usual naughty grin or sexy smirk, and it makes him look, all of a sudden, very young and sweet and … actually, a little bit vulnerable.

      ‘What are you up to tonight?’ he suddenly asks.

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Tonight. What are you up to?’

      ‘Um, nothing much. Just hanging out with my friend Olly. Cooking stew.’

      ‘Call him.’ Dillon – cheeky so-and-so, actually reaches over the table and into my bag, to grab my phone. ‘And tell him you can’t, tonight.’

      I fix him with a Look, as much for the instruction as for the handbag invasion. ‘Why would I tell him that?’

      ‘Because you’re going to a party with me instead.’

      I blink at him.

      ‘Party?’

      ‘Yes. You see, what sometimes happens is that people gather together in a pre-arranged location, usually between roughly the hours of eight p.m. and midnight. Then food and beverages are served, often – but not necessarily – alcoholic ones, and quite often there’s also some music …’

      ‘I do know what a party is, thanks.’

      My heart is hammering nineteen to the dozen in my chest, but I’m trying very, very hard to hang onto my Inner Audrey. And in this situation, I think we all know that Audrey wouldn’t be falling over herself to agree (yes, yes, Dillon, I’ll ditch my oldest friend to go to a party with you! Anything you ask for! And I do mean anything!). She’d remain soignée and refined, and let the man feel he was lucky even to be asking her.

      Of course, if I were Audrey Hepburn, Dillon would be lucky just to be asking me, but I can’t get hung up on those kinds of details just now.

      ‘I might be able to rearrange my friend, I guess.’ I feel bad, even as I’m saying this, about letting down Olly, which is what makes me add, just so Dillon knows I’m not always such a rotten friend, ‘I mean, he has these really early-morning starts for work, so it’s a massive faff for him to come all the way to my flat on a weekday evening anyway, and I’m a rubbish cook …’

      Dillon suddenly reaches over the table a second time, but this time he grabs my hand.

      I let out a brief – but audible, and ever-so-slightly orgasmic – gasp.

      ‘The address,’ he says, producing a biro from his pocket with his other hand and scribbling on my palm.

      ‘Of course,’ I say, feeling like an idiot and hoping against hope that he’ll forget the gasp. (It’s exactly, come to think of it, what I did during the first conversation I ever had with Olly at the Wimbledon Theatre, when he grabbed my hand, I thought he was about to kiss me, and all he did was shove a cheese sandwich into it. Though it feels bizarre, now, thinking that I ever could have thought Olly, of СКАЧАТЬ