Instead, I take myself backwards, shuffling to the far edge of the sofa so his hands can’t continue to torture me. But he has long arms. And those legs spring to life, giving me what I was dreaming about only seconds ago. Rearing up, he places his knees either side of me and pins my hands to my sides. He creases up when I hiccup and dissolve into giggles again.
When I’ve got my breath back, he lifts my arm. ‘Still holding out?’
I pick up the cushion next to me and swing it. The skin on my stomach becomes exposed, the cushion misses the mark, and the grip of his hand on my hip bone makes me giddy in a different way. In a flash, the pressure changes, and he’s gently stroking my skin.
His eyes seem lit from a deeper place as he looms above me. ‘Surrender?’
My reply comes out as a whisper, my breath shallow, skittery as a pony. ‘Never.’
The helium air stills.
A giggle becomes a gasp.
His thighs are strong and substantial, the sofa taking his weight. I look down and notice the zip of his jeans is strained. Reaching up to my face, he strokes my ear lobe. Whatever extinguished the laughing gas a moment ago also took the ambient noise– the street traffic no longer bleeds in through the windows and walls. I hold my breath as I listen for the tick, tick of my heart, but even that is silent. His knuckles come to rest just below my chin.
Tipping my head back, I enjoy the sensation of his thumb slowly moving down my neck and tracing the line of my sweater. I enjoy the roughness of his stubble as he showers me with small kisses. He straightens up and pulls me to him.
But the chemistry is off as I taste the fake blood and shame of a previous kiss.
I push him away. He responds immediately, taking back his hand, and shifting his weight. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve never been tickled before,’ I say, as I scramble out from under him. Bad things come in threes. I know because I’ve tracked them all my life. And three things happen now that create a repeat performance of Halloween. One of us rejects the other, a phone vibrates in a pocket, and we part as quickly as we can. I don’t need to ask him if it’s ICE calling. I can feel it in my bones.
Chapter 21
Planning a huge house party with only two weeks’ notice, while simultaneously preparing for a well woman conference, is stressful. But the birthday boy works his butt off alongside me. Who’d have thought Vince and I could act as a team?
A hundred black and white helium balloons line the ceilings, giving the ground floor a sense of constant flux, and 007 movie posters line the walls, but the bar is the ultimate star. Mixologists dressed in white tuxedos are primed to mix designer cocktails. There’s a choice of a Vespa, or a martini any which way you want it, alongside all the usual cocktail suspects. Did I say the bar was the star? That’s not technically correct. The celebrities are so twinkly you could swing on them.
Vince might have a hermit lifestyle these days, but I discovered a glittering contacts book and exploited it. And we’ve faked a few more friends. After hitting up a lookalike agency, the house is studded with Bonds. All the 007s of movie history are here, although you’d have to look very hard at this particular Pierce Brosnan to spot the likeness as I refused to pay for the expensive one. And disappointingly, the woman at the poker table is not the promised dead ringer for Judi Dench. The fake double agents are joined by villains with dodgy eyes, steel hearts and cheaper appearance fees. In the top bedroom a drag version of Shirley Bassey is warming up to sing‘Happy Birthday’.
The Bond theme suits Vince’s all-white house. There’s a roulette wheel in the living room and blackjack in the breakfast room. People are also enjoying the ‘Pin the Blue Rinse on Ancient Vince’ game he and I created in a moment of madness. Turns out he’s not too luvvie to make fun of himself. I didn’t think I had a cat in hell’s chance of persuading him to host a party, especially given his disappearance from society afterCancelled, but from that moment on the green he embraced the crossroads of his fiftieth. We pulled a blinder in the limited time we had, connecting every night on Zoom sessions, which he insists I charge for.
I watch the actor fitting as comfortably into the lead in his own drama as he does any role, welcoming people with his all-embracing hug. He also fits perfectly into his cerise pink velvet jacket, a nod to Daniel Craig, whose lookalike has just nipped upstairs for a pee. He has grown his stubble into a neat beard for the occasion, and the amount of grey in it makes me wonder if he dyes his hair. The budget for this event was eye-watering– you could sponsor a herd of goats in Cyprus for the price we’ve paid for the olives alone, stuffed with exotic spices and rolled in edible gold.
Two fans who came to give him a birthday balloon, not realising there were a hundred more expensive versions inside, have been ushered in and stand awkwardly near the buffet wondering who to talk to. I feel their pain. Trussed up in a rose gold dress, with platform trainers to take the sting off being on my feet all night, I wander past gaming tables I have no clue how to play. I constantly scan the room for Joe so I can sneak him into the garden.
While Vince was out with his agent for pre-party drinks, I supervised the caterers dropping off the buffet and let Joe in with all the ingredients and equipment he needs to run a New York pizza takeout from the back garden. I’ve kept my master stroke under wraps, planning to get the pizza shack going after the casino packs up and before the DJ starts. It will peak at midnight when people have the munchies and a second wind. Joe has no idea he is catering to a household name although he will recognise him from the telly soon; we’re still using the Tony Soprano pseudonym, much to the caterers’ amusement. Meanwhile Vince has no idea he’ll be treated to a fresh pizza made with New York water. I reckon it will go down as his best birthday present ever.
Vince’s star has risen in the last week. ‘The Canceller Comes Back as a Wolf’ was the headline in theLondon Gazettea few days ago. The papers commended his performance in a TV series about a firm of lawyers who could happily survive in the jungle. He’s playing ‘Oz’, a wolfish QC who can tear apart a witness with his teeth and seduce a crown court judge with his soulful eyes.
‘Come here, my lucky charm,’ he says as I breeze past on the way to check on drag-Shirley. I almost choke at the irony of that. Ignoring my protest, he takes me by the waist, and steers us towards the roulette table. He asks me to pick a colour and when he wins a small amount of chips he keeps me there, quizzing me on my preferences, squeezing my hips every time luck goes his way.
When he shoves most of his remaining tokens on twelve red at my suggestion, two things happen. Red twelve wins. And Vince grabs me, pushing me backwards in his arms so I see the world upside down. He then kisses my chest, just below the diamonds I’ve bought from Claire’s Accessories. While I don’t mind the gesture of affection, I’m bothered by the blood rushing to my head. I also can’t get back up without his help as gravity is working against me.
While I’m down here, he poses for a photograph and I consider how strange people look standing on the ceiling, with a carpet of balloons below them. One of the balloons floats from the living room floor into the hall, leading my eyes to an upside-down actress whose name escapes me. And behind her, Joe, in a white dress shirt and black trousers with a white coat over his arm. I flash him a smile, but he’s focused on Vince, who continues to grip my waist when I regain my height. Maybe he’s using me as a prop as his molten eyes look double-glazed and his breath smells of whisky and olives.
I remove myself from his arms and watch the actress buzz in, take his chin in both hands, and give him a small kiss on either cheek. The whole room smiles– his TV drama was well received and who doesn’t want the two leads of a beloved show to hit it off? But Vince hardly notices her. His eyes are fixed on Joe, and they are shining.
‘Holy crap you are good at your job,’ he says to me under his breath.
‘I know,’ I say, pulling myself together. ‘But just wait until you taste the pizza. He’s made the dough with authentic New York water. Well, it’s from New Jersey actually, but I’m sure even the Statue of Liberty would enjoy it. And your vegan guests are going to love the artichoke and spinach option.’
‘How did you do it? How did you even know? Daisy Blane, youarea magician.’
Joe is still frozen, and I’m wondering if he’s overwhelmed by the starriness of it all. As I walk towards him, I’m overtaken by Vince, who throws his oversized arms around the startled chef. And when Joe takes a step back, I spot the likeness. They both have that strong jawline, straight nose, olive skin, and legs that look too long for their bodies. And then I think about their voices, their deep chesty laugh, and their relaxed, confident manner. Snap! Why didn’t I notice it before? Joe hasn’t just walked in on a fiftieth birthday party with a Bond theme. He’s crashed back into his youth.
His lips form a thin, unamused line and his eyes bore into me as Vince goes in for another hug. Everyone is observing the drama, no doubt wondering who Joe is as he tries to back even further away.
