A Night In With Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      There’s a short silence.

      ‘That does sound,’ Nora says, after a moment, ‘worryingly detailed …’

      ‘OK, but it wouldn’t be totally incomprehensible if I were to do something of the sort,’ I say, finally – finally! – managing to edge the Ribbony Elasticky Thing up over my tummy before jiggling the shoulder straps into position. ‘I told you on the plane last night. Things are really perfect between us. We just need to work on … the sex part.’

      ‘Lib, I do worry a bit when you start using words like perfect. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Adam does sound lovely. But you know you have a tendency to … well, romanticize things.’

      ‘I admit, I might have had that tendency in the past, but not this time. When you meet him, you’ll see.’ Now that the Ribbony Elasticky Thing is safely (well, safely-ish) on, I can start the complicated process of arranging the lengths of ribbon and elastic so that they cover the parts they’re meant to cover. ‘He’s steady. Dependable. Reliable …’

      ‘Well, all right, there’s no need to make him sound like the sort of thing my dad might use for weatherproofing his patio furniture.’

      ‘… Mature,’ I continue. ‘Well-rounded.’

      ‘OK, now you’re making him sound like one of those mystery cheeses you and Olly are always bleating on about.’

      ‘My point is that I really, truly think this could be it. Adam could be it. I mean, he brought me espresso and yogurt-covered raisins before my big meeting this morning! All the way from his Mayfair office to Clapham!’

      ‘Er, wouldn’t you just have preferred a cappuccino and a bag of those honeycomb bite thingies you ploughed your way through at the airport yesterday?’

      ‘Not the point. He really cares, Nora. I really, properly matter to him.’

      ‘Which is great, Lib. And I’m so, so happy for you. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.’ There’s the briefest of pauses before she adds a light but meaningful, ‘again’.

      ‘There’s no way, Nora, that I could possibly get hurt.’

      Though even as I say this, the Ribbony Elasticky thing starts riding, well, upwards in a manner that’s only going to get more painful if it goes any further. So it’s just possible that Nora might have a point, even if it’s not quite in the way she was meaning it.

      ‘OK, but after what happened with You Know Who, and all the bloody chaos he caused—’

      ‘Talking of chaos,’ I say, smoothly interrupting before we get diverted down the Dillon alleyway, from where it’s always difficult to escape, ‘you spent so long asking me about Dad’s wedding yesterday that you didn’t actually tell me anything about your wedding.’ Nora is getting married in five weeks’ time, to her lovely fiancé Mark. ‘Any news? Any updates? Anything your devoted and dedicated chief bridesmaid can do to help?’

      ‘Actually, that’s partly why I’m calling,’ Nora says. ‘I forgot to ask yesterday, and I know you’re really busy these days, Lib … but do you think you might be able to spare a couple of hours to go bridesmaid’s dress shopping with Tash one day this week?’

      Tash, apart from being Olly’s motorbike-ride buddy, is going to be Nora’s only other non-family bridesmaid.

      ‘I thought maybe you could take along the dress you’ve already chosen for yourself, and try to help her find something that would co-ordinate … I’ll try and come along with you guys too,’ she adds, perhaps proving that she’s noticed that Tash and I, though perfectly amiable together, haven’t quite gelled enough for a girlie shopping trip à deux. ‘If Olly doesn’t need me to run any errands for him at the same time.’

      ‘Happy to, Nora. I’ll make a bit of time whenever Tash can do it.’

      ‘Thanks, Lib. And talking of Tash, I’d better get going … we’re heading into the West End for a bite to eat tonight. Probably the only chance I’ll get to show her the bright lights before we become Olly’s menials for the next few evenings.’

      ‘Sure, of course. You go.’

      ‘And good luck with Adam tonight!’ she adds. ‘But you won’t need it. I’m sure he won’t be able to keep his steady, dependable, teak-garden-furniture-protecting hands off you.’

      We can but hope.

      And we’ll find out sooner than I’d thought, because I’ve only just slipped my phone back into my bag when I hear a key in the front door.

      This isn’t a late night! It’s barely gone eight! What did they do at this work dinner: sip sparkling water, nibble a small selection of sushi, turn down coffee and then pay the bill?

      Well, there’s no time to find all this American professionalism and healthy living irritating: thank God, I’m all ready and (barely) dressed, so all I need to do is arrange myself as seductively as possible on one of the uncomfortable chairs, attach what I hope is a come-hither smile, and—

      ‘I don’t see why I had to come over and help you find the bloody thing,’ comes a voice from the hallway. ‘Couldn’t you do it on your own?’

      It’s not Adam.

      It’s Posh James Cadwalladr.

      ‘OK, OK, but I feel weird about coming into Adam’s house all by myself. We don’t know him that well.’

      And this, I recognize straight away, is Lottie Cadwalladr, my brand-new stockist.

       Shit.

      I can’t make a dash for the stairs, because they’re out in the hallway, where the Cadwalladrs have just let themselves in. I can’t make a dash for the bifold doors that lead into the garden, because they’re locked and I don’t have time to look for the key. It would be absolutely useless to get on my hands and knees under the table because it’s made of bloody Perspex …

       What the hell am I going to do?

      As the kitchen door starts to open, I make the only choice I have available to me: a dash to Fritz’s den, where I should be able to hide myself away until the Cadwalladrs have found whatever it is they’re looking for, and buggered off back to their own property again.

      I jump up from the table, sprinting to the nook by the cooker, and, despite my heels, leap the safety gate in a rather impressive single bound.

      ‘… quite sure Adam didn’t bring that one over in Fritz’s bag of stuff, when he dropped him off?’ Posh James is asking, as two pairs of footsteps – one heavy and male, one lighter and ballet-pump-wearing, make their way on to the marble floor. ‘Weren’t there about half a million squeaky toys in there?’

      ‘Not the green and white one,’ says Lottie, before adding, ‘Go on, Fritzy! Go find your toy! Go find!’

      Hang on: they’ve brought Fritz with them, too?

      I don’t even need to ask myself the question, because there’s a pitter-pattering of СКАЧАТЬ