‘Um . . . go on.’
‘Gillian Anderson.’
I feel a tug of relief that he didn’t say someone who works in Hooters.
He leans in, so close now I can smell the whisky on his breath. ‘And by the way . . . I’ve always had a huuuuuge crush on Gillian Anderson.’
At that point, I jerk backwards in a gesture that sets off an unfortunate chain of events, which happens so fast I can barely take it in.
It begins with a ping in the region of my right bra cup, as one end of the strap catapults out of my décolletage. This is followed by a shriek from my young suitor as he crashes away, clasping his eye, like the stuntman in some terrible, tragic scene in a Western movie.
‘ARGH! WHAT THE FUCK?’
He staggers across the balcony, emitting a sound of pure agony, as he clutches his face and I scurry after him, muttering apologies and attempting to get a proper look. But he’s too busy shrieking and by now a small crowd has begun to gather.
‘This is an emergency!’ a guest declares heroically as he reaches for his phone.
‘Are you calling an ambulance?’ someone asks.
‘No, his agent.’
Next, a woman pushes through the door announcing that she’s a doctor, though it’s not entirely clear whether that means she’s a cast member fromCasualty. It takes several minutes before calm is restored and the victim of my wayward lingerie finally removes his hand to allow her to see the damage. She peers in, using the light from her iPhone to give him a thorough examination. Then she stands up and purses her lips.
‘Not even a scratch,’ she says, with an air of disappointment that very much does suggest the only medical qualifications she has were picked up at the Central School of Speech and Drama.
He pushes out his bottom lip as if he’s just lost his teddy bear. ‘Well, it’sreally sore,’ he says, but by now it seems the drama’s over and I take the opportunity to dart back inside.
Chapter 32
I have never been convinced by the idea that it’s best to leave a party early, at least . . . I never am at the time. The morning after is a different matter, when on more than one occasion over the years I’ve cursed not having been tucked up with my Horlicks at 9pm the previous night. But, while life is generally too short not to suck every minute out of an evening like this, those rules don’t apply when you’ve just assaulted a man who, according to Krishna, has been hailed as ‘this generation’s Hugh Grant’ and is currently tipped for the lead role in the latest Sally Rooney adaptation.
Still, judging by how my victim has subsequently swanned about the room, neither his career nor his retina has suffered much harm. In fact, the only thing close to the definition of a catastrophe is my own dilemma following the incident – to have wonky boobs or go braless.
I closed my eyes and thought of Germaine Greer, before binning the multiway monstrosity in the ladies’. I’d now kill for a bit of support, but there isn’t so much as a stick-on nipple cover available. After briefly considering whether I should just sit at the bar with my coat on, I remind myself that it’s late anyway, I’ve done my duty and Jamila et al seem to be ‘commiserating’ well enough without me. It’s time to go. I briefly see Krishna on my way to the cloakroom and, while strategically crossing my arms, I tell him I’ll see him at breakfast.
‘Did . . . Zach already leave?’ I ask, idly. ‘I just wanted to check in with him about the new compliance guidelines.’
‘Ah,’ he says with a knowing look that makes my temples redden. ‘Those pesky compliance guidelines, eh? I last saw him by the bar in the next room.’
I wave a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, doesn’t matter. I’ll catch him tomorrow.’
‘See you in the morning, Lisa.’
I take a circuitous route to the cloakroom, weaving through the tables and past dwindling partygoers into an adjacent function room, where I spot Zach. He’s not alone. The woman leaning flirtatiously into him has the look of a young starlet, with long glossy hair and legs that start at the sky-high hem of her sequinned dress and seem to never end. I divert quickly into a side door, but the sight of her seductive whispering makes something bilious rise in my chest.
Am I . . .jealous?
I hurry to the cloakroom, give my ticket to the attendant and pull on my coat, snuggling into its collar as I exit the hotel.
It’s one of those cool, early-summer evenings when a pleasant chill bites your skin and you could take or leave a coat. I walk along the pavement, past one grand entrance and then the next, all of them gleaming with polished luggage racks and doormen dressed in tails and top hats. It occurs to me after a couple of minutes that perhaps traipsing the streets of London at this time of night – even in these leafy and luxurious parts – might not be a great idea. Yes, it’s well lit, my bed is less than ten minutes away and there are still a few people around . . . but even so.
‘Hey, Darling! Wait up.’
I turn around to find Zach running towards me, his tux jacket flapping at his hips. He looks so like some charismatic action hero – Cary Grant inTo Catch a Thiefor Daniel Craig as 007 – that I half expect him to pull out a Glock and perform a stunt roll across the pavement. I try to fight the smile that spreads idiotically across my face, but apparently fail.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asks as his feet slow.
‘Oh, nothing.’ I shake my head as I turn to start walking again and he falls into step. ‘How is it that you’re hardly out of breath? How much time do you spend in the gym exactly?’
