‘I don’t look too bad in this one.’ I make no mention of the image of said stud muffin standing just behind me, his fingers wrapped possessively around my hip.Possessive, grasping, and greedy, his hands holding me down as his mouth feasts on my skin.
I push away the pulsing, sensory memory, trying to concentrate on Miranda’s voice.
‘Never mind about what you look like, who’s the dark-haired hottie with his arm around you?’
‘Just someone from the office.’ I try to keep all intonation and inflection from my tone.
‘Just someone from the office,’ she repeats withallthe inflection, intonation, and suggestion in her tone. ‘He seems to be very familiar with your body, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Of course, at this I go scarlet.
‘Aha! I knew it—you did the dirty deed with the David Gandy lookalike! Spill all the sexy beans!’
‘There’s nothing to spill, except he’s better looking than David Gandy in the flesh.’
‘Oh, the flesh, is it? Did you spend some time with him in your birthday suit?’
I slide her a withering look.
‘Come on, Heather-feather, don’t be a bore. You’re always so guarded about your love life.’
‘Because I mostly don’t have a love life.’ I turn my attention back to my laptop, studying the metrics of Miranda’s accounts because, as well as being a fairy, mermaid, pirate, and princess, I also manage these for her events company.
Mir leans across the bench, taking back her phone. ‘Hedoesn’t look like someone who lacks a love life. He looks like he’s thinking about wolfing you down, and I’d say that by the cut of his jib, he’s not the type to do so in one sitting, so to speak.’
‘By the cut of his jib?’ I repeat, cackling. But holy hell, how can she tell that just from a picture?
‘Archer Powell,’ she recites, completely ignoring my goading as she presumably follows a tag tohisFacebook account. ‘I’d be flat on my back faster than a pensioner on a patch of ice for him.’
‘That’s pretty whorey, Mir.’ But it doesn’t stop me from laughing. ‘And I’m not sure Harry would like to hear you say that.’
‘You’d be surprised to hear what Harry likes.’
‘Ew, no! I’d more likely be traumatised.’
‘Probably,’ she says with a dirty giggle before levelling her expression. ‘Anyway, I mean Miranda, the girl who lives in an alternate universe, not Miranda, the very happy and very satisfied wife of James Harrison.’
‘Very happy? I think you mean disgustingly happy.’
‘I am very disgustingly happy with my lot.’
‘That’s because your lot isa lot.’ Fingers outstretched, I indicate the splendour that is her kitchen and the family portrait shot of her little family unit hanging just off the kitchen. But then I notice the furrow in her brow, and I swear I can almost hear the cogs of her brain beginning to whir.
‘You know how you managed to attend awholewedding with mingling and talking and socialising stuff? Do you think you might work the Singh-Smythe function for me next month?’ She fakes an angelic expression, her hands pressed together.
‘Don’t even try it. You’re too devious to be an angel.’
‘Was that a yes?’
‘That was a non-answer. My actual answer isno.’
‘Please, Heth. I’ve had a shit time getting the right staff for this gig.’
‘It looks like last week’s birthday parties were a hit.’ It’s not exactly a deft change of subject as I flick through a couple of images of Daisy dressed in my mermaid outfit, entertaining a semi-circle of eight-year-old girls.
‘Daisy was great. I mean, she’s no Heather-feather, but she coped very well.’
‘Stop trying to butter me up,’ I grumble, switching screens to Miranda’s Instagram ad account.
