‘I was wondering where you’d got to, or maybe what had got into you,’ she adds in an undertone. ‘But now I see. Natasha,’ she says, holding out her hand, which is an oddly formal kind of introduction given her teasing.
‘Rory,’ he says, sliding his hand against hers. ‘But, a snow storm... ?’
Nat’s brow furrows for a brief second before she shrugs. ‘Truth is, my friend here needs a good lay.’ I just about swallow my tongue and actually begin spluttering. ‘A good, solid eight inches or so. The kind of lay that’ll make it a bit difficult for her to get around the next day, if you get my drift? Ha! Drift!’
Out of our trio, one of us is laughing, and one of us is mildly amused, and one of us is trying to disappear into the collar of her blouse. Even more so as our trio turns into a quartet.
Ivy.
She harrumphs loudly, folding her arms. ‘Knew it,’ she says, swaying lightly. ‘You’ll never learn.’
‘Aye, something you’d know all about,’ snorts Nat. ‘You shouldn’t have had that last glass. Wine after liquor makes you sicker.’
‘Whacho talkin’ about?’
‘You’ll see. And I’ll be laughing, but for now, we’ll away home, yeah?’ Nat addresses Ivy like she’s an elderly charge in a care home.
‘I know you,’ Ivy spits, pulling her elbow from Natasha’s grip to poke a finger in Rory’s bicep. ‘You’re all the same, with your empty promises an—and your thick lips and soft hair.’
‘Ah, man. I wished I’d recorded that,’ sniggers Nat, clutching Ivy by the waist.
‘Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em clean,’ slurs Ivy. ‘That’s what you lot believe in, isn’t it?’
‘My lot?’ Rory asks, his luscious lips quivering against the strain of a smile.
‘It’skeen, eejit,’ interjects Nat. ‘Treat them mean, keep them keen.’
‘Oh.’ Ivy’s expression is almost comical, her drunk synapses no doubt working at a snail’s pace. ‘I always wondered. Makes mush more sense,’ she says with an exaggerated nod.
‘Let’s get you home before you dish out any more nonsense.’
‘Home.’ This comes out as a sob. ‘I do want to go home!’
‘Aye, we’ll sort that for you,’ Nat placates, turning Ivy bodily, but before the pair have moved, she seems to remember something. She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, one arm still tight around Ivy’s waist.
‘Are you going be all right with her?’ I ask, beginning to slide my butt from the stool, almost face-planting into Rory’s warm, broad chest.Not that I’m complaining.
‘Stay where you are,’ protests Nat, pointing her phone at Rory. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she says as the flash stuns us both.
‘Why?’ asks a bemused Rory, still holding my arm.
As we answer simultaneously and it’s clear mediocre minds do not think alike:
‘You might be a mass murderer.’
‘Wank bank,’ says Nat, her gaze moving between our stunned expressions. ‘What? You’re not going home alone.’
