‘What about Cherry?’ I ask Liberty. For reasons unknown, we are walking in a straight line behind Dripping-Wet Guy.
‘What about Cherry?’ booms Big Mand from behind me. ‘Has she been compromised?’
‘Yes. In a way,’ I explain as we walk. ‘She’s taken Liberty’s credit card and is loose in the casino with it. Again.’
Big Mand’s eyes grow wide with concern. ‘We have to find her. Now!’ She stops in her tracks to dart her gaze around the room. We also stop, and Dripping-Wet Guy continues for a few steps before doubling back to us.
He’s so cool, he simply raises his brow casually. Even as Liberty explains, he is emitting ‘I’ll take care of it’ vibes. They are gazing deeply at one another, clearly smitten. ‘Where does this Cherry-pie like to go?’ he asks her.
‘She’ll stick to the casino,’ Liberty says quietly. I’ve never seen her behave like this with a man before.
Dripping-Wet Guy takes the opportunity to rake his eyes slowly down her body and even more slowly back up to meet her questioning gaze. He nods in approval. It’s all very seventies, but Liberty is blooming under his appreciation of her sexy curves. ‘Leave it to me,’ he says when he finally finds his voice. He beckons over a waiter and explains the situation. ‘They’ll find her and bring her to us.’
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, toying with the idea of how to explain that we have abandoned our friends at the drop point and are on a very tight pre-moon spree schedule. Dripping-Wet Guy has such an aura of calm approachability about him that I almost want to blurt out all my troubles. I wonder what he’d make of my boyfriend currently being seduced by a hot Frenchwoman or that my unwanted admirer is loose about the hotel.
He simply answers, ‘Follow me. I’ll show you.’
8
We are helpless in the face of that American drawl and fall in behind him once more. I quickly text the group chat to say that we are on our way and that we just need to find Cherry first. I will skip over the part where we are following a stranger to God knows where, to do God knows what, all because Liberty has fallen for his dreamy accent, stubble and supremely confident manner.
Ged replies instantly with a photo of the rest of them all fast asleep in the booth. He says he will stand guard.
Dripping-Wet Guy leads us towards the canal shopping area, over the bridge where the gondolas float underneath, through the mall to a very elegant boutique. He stops outside. ‘After you,’ he says to Liberty.
My heart sinks as I peer inside. He couldn’t have brought us anywhere more expensive. I fear for my credit card once more.
We go in, and immediately the shop assistants float over. They are extremely professional and have either seen it all before, the bargain-basement Barbie outfits, my green face and wigs, or they suspect we are sex workers on a shopping spree with our newest client.
They are quick to point us towards a range of elaborate gowns. ‘How can we help?’ a glamorous woman asks softly, smiling only at Dripping-Wet Guy. ‘We have a great line in menswear.’
I take the opportunity to squint at one of the price tags on a slip of satin hanging nearby. I inhale a sharp breath and stealthily show Big Mand the tag. She lets out an anxious whine.
After a beat, I step towards Dripping-Wet Guy. ‘I was imagining a dry-cleaner’s,’ I squeak, mortified. ‘For your clothes. Not, erm, paying to replace them. I’m so sorry. I mustn’t have made myself clear. Sorry. But we’re British. Sorry. And we simply couldn’t afford to…’
It’s Dripping-Wet Guy’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Ma’am. No. I’m the one who should apologise.’ He puts his hand to his chest. ‘I meant for her to choose an outfit. On me. For me to pay for it. Not you.’ He is genuinely rattled. ‘If that is agreeable with you.’
Liberty bites her lower lip provocatively and shifts her weight, placing her hand on her hip. ‘I find that… very agreeable.’
‘Christ,’ murmurs Big Mand. ‘Poor guy. He won’t stand a chance. I hope he has deep pockets.’
For the next few minutes, we sit through what can only be described as a one-woman catwalk show. Firstly, Liberty, who has regained full use of her senses, insists on replacement underwear.
‘For the love of God,’ complains Big Mand. ‘Put your flaps away. We’ve seen it all before.’ But Liberty is taking no notice. It’s as though there are only two people in the room. And it isn’t me or Big Mand. By the time Liberty is nowhere near trying on actual clothes, and Dripping-Wet Guy is salivating, and completely dry by the looks of him, Big Mand puts her hands on her knees and heaves herself up.
‘I’m going to find the others.’
‘I’ll come,’ I say, jumping up. ‘Unless you need me to stay with Libs.’ I lower my voice. ‘After all, Dripping-Wet Guy could be any old serial killer, couldn’t he? We don’t even know his name.’
Liberty is flirting up a storm as she emerges from the changing room curtain like she’s on stage at Glastonbury. She runs her hands slowly down her body as though to smooth the barely-there material, outlining her curves in the skintight, violent-red thong basque she is trying on. The shop assistants are being kept very busy running back and forth, as Liberty simply can’t seem to make a decision. She’s leaning over Dripping-Wet Guy to pull at the bra cups as she jiggles her boobs into place. Now she is showing him the back, which consists of a silver string and nothing else. His eyes are popping out of his head. She has him eating out of her hand.
Poor man.
Liberty nods subtly towards the door to indicate we should leave her to get on with it. We silently slope away, and Dripping-Wet Guy does not even notice. As we emerge from the boutique, Cherry is being escorted towards us like a criminal, by the two burly security guards from earlier.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘You’ve found her.’ One of the security guards hands me the credit card. ‘Thank you.’
‘There’s no need for this level of micromanagement,’ she complains. ‘I was just about to win big. Really big. Just one more throw of the dice and I’d have cleaned up.’
