‘You mean Dave?’
‘Yes, I mean Dave!’
‘Hi, babe,’ Dave says to her, looking, it has to be said, more than just a little sheepish. ‘I thought you were having that networking talk with the features editors …’
‘Yes, and I’d have been straight over here stopping my traitor of a sister from chatting you up when I first saw her five minutes ago if they hadn’t started talking about a possible bikini spread.’
‘Cass, I wasn’t chatting him up, for crying out loud …’
But my explanation is brought to a swift end by Cass, who reaches over the bar, grabs the glow-in-the-dark cocktail shaker that the barman is still mucking about with, yanks the top off and chucks the entire contents smack into my face.
Yes, that’s right: my face.
It’s icy-cold, and there are still several large lumps of actual ice inside, and it bloody hurts.
Worse than the pain, though, is the fact that everyone within a ten-metre radius – including Rhea, still strutting her bizarre ‘stuff’ on the dance floor – is staring at me, while vodka, santol-fruit juice and, I can only assume, the majority of my thickly applied mascara and eyebrow pencil, slide slowly down my face, from my soaking-wet hair to my chin.
But then Dillon is taking my hand.
And he’s leading me around the side of the bar, past the still-startled-looking barman, towards a narrow exit door, presumably used by the staff, partially hidden amongst all the lined-up drinks bottles.
Except it can’t only be used by the staff, because there are a couple of black taxis lurking right outside. It must be a secret way out that only the celebrities know about, for when they’re trying to make a discreet exit.
Dillon walks me to the first of them, opens the door, and hands me through it before getting in himself.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says, either to me or to the driver, before the taxi pulls smoothly away.
The first thing Dillon does, as the taxi turns out of the side street and onto the main road, is lean forward to speak through the glass partition.
‘Can you head towards Angel, please, mate?’
Angel?
Hang on: he lives in Angel.
Does this mean he’s taking me to his flat?
‘There’s a nice little pub near my building,’ he adds, sitting back in the seat beside me. ‘We can get a proper drink there. One without massive great chunks of ice in it. And safely contained in a glass, not chucked all over your face.’
Oh. The pub.
Well, that’s still really nice, obviously … And it’s absurd of me to feel even the smallest bit disappointed.
Not to mention the fact that it would be way, way too perfect an outcome. I mean, isn’t it enough that he’s just rescued me, like a knight on a white charger, from certain death at the hands of Rhea Haverstock-Harley? Or from more icy missiles being hurled at me by Cass? Or from the appalling – and married, and going out with my sister – Dave?
And isn’t it also enough that – all of a sudden – one of his hands is coming up to cup the side of my face, and turning it to face him …?
‘That’s got to hurt,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘All that ice, right in your eye.’ He’s studying my left eye (and not, of course, about to kiss me or anything), before running the tip of one index finger around it. ‘Sore?’
‘Yes. A bit.’
Which it is. I’m categorically not just saying this so that he’ll carry on gently tracing his smooth fingertip over my skin.
Though I think I could be forgiven if I was.
Up this close he smells, by the way, of some sort of citrusy shower gel (with more than merely a hint of peaty whisky in the background) and his own eyes are looking darker and more intense than ever.
‘She’s a fucking cow,’ he says, after a moment, ‘your sister.’
‘Don’t call her that. She’s my sister.’
‘Yes, and she just threw a drink in your face. After her boyfriend assaulted you.’
‘He didn’t assault me.’
‘Only because I was there to leap in and protect you.’
‘Yes, and a fine job you did of that,’ I tell him. ‘You nearly got beaten up, I got a drink thrown in my face, and your agent’s getting a call from someone at Donaldson and Peake tomorrow morning telling him that nobody in LA is going to give you a job from now until Doomsday.’
Dillon snorts. ‘Never gonna happen. That guy is small-time. And FYI, I didn’t nearly get beaten up. I could have taken him. Now, take that damp coat off and put this on.’
He’s slipping my cocktail-soaked trench-coat off my shoulders, then taking off his own dry jacket and sliding it over me to replace the damp one.
‘For the shock,’ he says.
‘I’m not shocked.’
‘For the cold, then.’
‘I’m not cold.’
‘For the love of Christ, Fire Girl, would you just let me be a gentleman for once in my life? Lord knows it’s a rare enough occurrence.’
And, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing, trying to stop him from putting his jacket around me. Not when it’s still warm from his body, and even more headily scented with citrus (and whisky) from all those hours against his skin.
‘After all,’ he’s going on, ‘you’ve come out looking like such a lady tonight, so I think I can at least try to be a gentleman.’
I make a mental note, if I ever hallucinate her again, to thank Audrey for the makeover. For the advice on the dress and the jewellery. Even if she did go a bit overboard on the eye make-up.
(But I would also point out to her that Dillon has told me I look ladylike despite me wearing the Rather Unsuitable shoes. Which is one in the eye for her kitten heels and her elegant pumps. Even if I can’t feel any sensation, right now, anywhere below my ankles.)
‘In fact, d’you know what? I don’t want to take you to the pub.’
I’m not quite sure how this has happened … but is he ditching me already?
‘Look at you, in your lovely dress and those beautiful pearls. No, you’re way too nicely dressed and elegant for my crummy local.’ He leans forward again and says to the driver, ‘Slight change of plan, mate, can you drop us on Owen Street? Just round the corner from Angel tube station? Will you come back to my flat?’ he asks me. ‘And we can have a drink there?’
I blink at him.
‘I promise,’ Dillon adds, ‘no funny business!’
How can I indicate (without sounding an awful lot less ladylike than he’s mistakenly taken me for) that I’d be extremely happy if there were funny business? The funnier the better, in fact.
‘That would be … lovely,’ I say, in the sort of prim tone you might use to accept an invitation to the vicar’s garden party.
‘Good. That’s settled, then.’
We both fall silent for another moment or two, while the taxi continues its way through the still-busy streets.
Dillon is staring out of the window. I don’t know what he’s thinking.
I’m staring out of the other window. And this is what I’m thinking:
Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.
I mean, this is all a very, very bad idea indeed, isn’t it?
I could really do with a quiet moment to hallucinate Audrey Hepburn right now, to be perfectly honest, because it wouldn’t hurt to have someone – even an unreal someone – to talk a bit of sense into me. Because Dillon is quite obviously on the rebound; he’s just had a very public bust-up with his extremely recent ex; and he’s fairly obviously more than just a bit drunk.
And as for me, I haven’t had sex for so long that I may, actually, have completely forgotten how to do it.
But maybe I’m being ridiculous. Because Dillon has, let’s face it, quite clearly stated that no funny business is to be had. And I’m absolutely not under the illusion that – despite his very lovely compliments this evening – he’s going to find himself unable to keep his hand
s off me the moment we step through his front door.
Though it would be nice, obviously.
And I think I’d probably remember how to do it, as soon as Dillon, you know … reminded me.
‘You can pull over right here, mate,’ Dillon is telling the driver just before the taxi stops at the side of the road. ‘And keep the change,’ he says, shoving a twenty-pound note through the little opening in the partition, even though the fare is only £8.50.
I think I’m starting to realize why his agent is so desperate for some Los Angeles TV work to come his way; what with this and the generous tip he left for the Brazilian waitress earlier, he’s almost spent more in gratuities today than my entire week’s rent for Bogdan Senior.
‘Come on,’ he tells me, holding the taxi door open for me to climb out.
Spine-tinglingly, he puts a guiding hand in the small of my back as we cross over the road towards a huge converted warehouse on the opposite side.
This one is less Nazi bunker, though, and more … Dickensian poorhouse.
‘They used to make jam here. Way back in …’ – he waves a hand, vaguely – ‘olden times. Victorian, perhaps. I think it was jam, anyway. It might have been breakfast cereal.’
‘I don’t think the Victorians ate breakfast cereal.’
‘Then you already know far more about them than I do, and henceforth I shall consider you my go-to expert on all matters pertaining to Victorian groceries. Expect a call, my dearest Fire Girl, if I ever end up on Celebrity Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, with only a question about Victorian jam standing between me and a million quid for a charity of my choice.’
I laugh, which makes him smile, and then all of a sudden his hand is sliding around my waist, and down towards the outer regions of my left thigh … oh, God, this is it … it’s happening … I’d have thought he’d be a touch less, well, ham-fisted is the word that springs to mind, but it’s still marvellous, obviously …
‘Just finding my keys,’ he says. ‘Left them in my inside jacket pocket.’
His keys. Of course. Don’t know why I thought otherwise.
‘Got them.’ Dillon removes his hand from his inside pocket and waggles a set of keys at me. ‘Come on up,’ he adds, using one of the keys to open the big double doors at the front of the old jam factory, and ushering me through, ‘and we can see about that drink I promised you.’
First we’re in a huge, airy lobby area, full of exposed brick and cast-iron beams; next we’re in a see-through elevator, riding smoothly past several more floors’ worth of exposed brick and cast-iron beams, and now we’ve reached the very top of the building and the elevator doors are opening straight into the penthouse apartment that I assume Dillon calls home.
‘Well?’ he says, before I’ve actually stepped out of the elevator. ‘What do you think?’
It’s pretty spectacular, is what I think.
It’s absolutely huge, for one thing: one ginormous room that must have the dimensions of the entire jam-making factory floor, and with at least twenty feet of airy height between the stripped-wood floor and the sloping rafters. There’s a living-room area, complete with leather sofas and what must be a contender for the World’s Largest TV mounted against the wall; there’s a boys’ toys zone in the middle of the room (pool table, Xbox, ping pong); there’s a glossy open-plan kitchen running almost the length of one wall, complete with high-shine granite worktops and – oooh, lovely – one of those gorgeous 1950s-style fridges, in eye-catching pillar-box red; and then aaaalllll the way down at the far end there are cast-iron spiral stairs leading up to a big mezzanine level, upon which – and I get a tingle up my spine as I see this – is absolutely nothing at all except a colossal, unmade bed.
‘You think it’s too much of a bachelor pad,’ Dillon says, ‘don’t you?’
‘No, no, not at all … though obviously if that was the look you were trying to avoid, it might have been sensible to go with a pool table or a ping-pong table, rather than both.’
‘That’s only because ever since I was seven years old, all I ever wanted was a pool table and a table-tennis table.’
‘Well, then I stand corrected. You’re living the dream.’
He grins at me. ‘I knew you’d get it. I mean, you may be looking all beautiful and ladylike tonight, but underneath it all, I think you’re just a seven-year-old kid at heart, too. It’s one of the things I like about you.’
It’s possible that I misheard. But did he just say I looked beautiful?
If you ignore the second part, the slightly concerning bit about him liking seven-year-old kids, it’s the most amazing thing anyone’s ever said to me.
‘OK, sorry, that sounded weird,’ he’s going on, hastily. ‘I didn’t mean that I like little kids. All I mean is that you’re kind of … innocent. Uncluttered by bullshit. That kind of childlike. I don’t mean that you sit around all day playing with Lego and chatting to your imaginary friend.’
I let out a sudden bark of nervous laughter.
‘Imaginary friend? Of course not! What makes you think I have one?’
‘Libby, I don’t think you have one. That was my point.’
‘Well, exactly! Because they don’t exist. Anybody who thought they had an imaginary friend … even if they knew that it was actually imaginary … well, they’d be completely crackers, wouldn’t they? Or suffering from post-traumatic stress. Or perhaps in the early stages of … of some sort of unpleasant neurological illness …’
‘OK, we really need to get you that drink,’ says Dillon, taking one of my hands and leading me in the direction of the kitchen. ‘And I’m starting to think we should put something on that eye of yours.’
‘You mean like a patch?’
‘Yes, Libby, an eye-patch. And a skull-and-crossbones hat and a parrot on your shoulder, while we’re at it. Of course I wasn’t talking about a patch. I was meaning … I don’t know … some ice, or something.’
‘But I was just injured by ice.’
‘I know, but … hang on.’ He’s reaching into the bright red fridge-freezer with one hand, and using the other hand to reach for a Bang & Olufsen phone, sitting on the black granite counter-top. He removes an ice-cold bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer – selecting merely one, I can’t help noticing, from the four or five that are in there – and gestures at me to take it from him as he uses one thumb to dial a number. ‘If you don’t mind pouring the drinks while I just … Mum!’ he suddenly says, into the phone.
He’s calling his mother?
Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that he’s close to his mum. But I think it’s safe to say that he was being honest when he said there wasn’t going to be any funny business.
Unless a phone call to his mother happens to be his customary mode of foreplay.
And I’m not sure that even Dillon is gorgeous enough to get away with that.
‘I know it’s late, Mum … yeah, I’m sorry … yeah, I know it’s the only time in the week you can watch your Sky-Plussed Great British Bake-Off … shot glasses in the cupboard to the left of the fridge,’ he mouths over at me, not remotely with the sheepish air of a man who’s brought a girl back to his über-bachelor pad and suddenly felt the need for a call home to Mummy. In fact, if anything, he’s looking more than usually pleased with himself. ‘… Well, what kind of topping did she put on her carrot cake? … Yes, I think that sounds a bit too clever by half too, Mum …’
Charming though this all is, I’m not quite sure what I’m meant to be doing while he has a good old chin-wag with his mother about The Great British Bake-Off. Because even though he’s told me to pour us both a shot, this doesn’t feel much like the sort of atmosphere, any more, in which you can sit around drinking vodka. It feels more like I ought to be putting on the kettle and suggesting a couple of rounds of warm buttered toast.
Though maybe there’s one advantage of Dillon nattering away about carrot cake (believe me, there’s only one): I guess it gives me a moment to pop off to the loo, or somet
hing, and see if I can rustle up a quick Audrey moment just as well here as I can at my flat.
I mean, obviously a normal person, one without Hollywood legends hanging around in their subconscious, would be texting their closest friends for advice right now. But Nora is far too busy treating the sick and injured of central Glasgow, and Olly is in a perfectly justifiable sulk with me, and obviously I do happen to have a Hollywood legend hanging around in my subconscious …
‘Bathroom?’ I mouth at Dillon, doing a sort of pointy-finger mime to indicate that I need directions, and he responds with a pointy finger towards the very back of the flat, behind the spiral stairs.
‘Oh, she’s got a nose piercing, has she? … Well, no, Mum, I don’t think it is a hygiene issue, probably. Unless she’s stirring the cake batter with her nose, that is …’
I reach the bathroom – which is, although obviously just a little guest bathroom, with a loo and a basin, not that much smaller than my flat – and close the door. Then, because I don’t want to be too long in here for obvious reasons (if you want to conjure up even more of a passion-killer than a chat with your mum about The Great British Bake-Off, I think heading for the loo and not emerging for ten minutes would be a pretty good bet), I sit down on the closed toilet seat, shut my eyes, and … well, what?
I’ve no idea what it is I’ve done to make the Audrey hallucinations materialize before now. She’s just sort of popped up, right when I wasn’t expecting it.
I keep my eyes tight shut and whisper, ‘Audrey?’
But nothing happens. Apart from me feeling a lot more like the village idiot than I did a moment ago, that is.
Still, this doesn’t stop me from trying again.
‘Audrey,’ I hiss, just in case I need to be more intense to make it work. ‘Look, I really need to talk. I’m here at Dillon’s flat, and I’m getting all these mixed signals, and I really don’t know if he’s about to kiss me or suggest we bake a nice Genoise sponge cake.’
Tentatively, I open one eye. But all I can see is the basin, nicely stocked with posh Molton Brown handwash and lotion, and my own reflection in the mirror above it.
‘I’m really serious,’ I go on, heading closer to the mirror to sort out my eye make-up whilst simultaneously trying to persuade my brain to produce one nice clear mirage of Audrey Hepburn to order, please. (Though actually the thick layers of shadow, liner and eyebrow pencil have stayed remarkably intact, given Cass’s liquid assault on them back at Depot, so obviously going out looking like I’d raided a kohl factory was a good idea after all.) ‘I never expected to be asked back to his flat, and now it’s all getting weird and I can’t tell what I’m doing here.’
A Night In With Audrey Hepburn Page 15