Page 1 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Prologue

Off the Mediterranean Coast, late at night

‘Quick! He’s getting away!’

Two women in evening gowns give chase. Rushing across the pool deck of the giant cruise ship, they dive past the live band and down the stairs. Darting and dodging through the uniformed crew and jiving guests that have gathered for the Dancing Under the Stars extravaganza.

‘Sorry, excuse me, sorry,’ apologizes the older woman.

‘Get outta the way!’ yells the younger.

Rainbow-coloured cocktails go flying; paper umbrellas rain down like confetti through the warm, floodlit skies as passengers are knocked fully clothed into the swimming pool with loud shrieks and splashes.

‘What the . . .?’

‘Oh my God, I am SO sorry! Please, send me the dry-cleaning bill.’

But there’s no time to stay and apologize. The cruise ship is nineteen decks high and the length of three Premier League football pitches. And he’s getting away. Clutching on to the hems of their dresses, they race in hot pursuit. Adrenaline pumping. Chests heaving. Hearts hammering. There might be a generation gap between these two women but you’d never know it from the way the fifty-year-old is out-sprinting the twenty-six-year-old.

‘Be careful, don’t trip—’

Too late. Spoke too soon.

‘Argh!’ As the older woman races ahead her heel catches on the sequinned hem and she goes flying.

‘Shit, you OK?’

‘I can’t run in these heels!’

‘Durrr! Don’t you know the high heel is a patriarchal tool to slow women down? Why do you think I’m wearing my trainers?’

‘Oh, shut up and give me a hand.’

OK, forget the bit about the generation gap.

A whistle blows behind them. They both snap back and turn to see the cruise ship’s own security team suddenly appear. They’re uniformed and armed with batons and stun guns.

‘Stop! Security!’

One of them shouts a command and waves a stun gun. Hang on, is that a real gun? Screams rise up from the crowds but the fleeing assailant has no intention of being arrested and now the security team join the chase as he leaps tables and overturns chairs, roughly shoving guests and crew out of his path as he makes his getaway.

‘STOP HIM!’ both women yell urgently.

‘He’s a thief!’

‘A liar.’

Tossing her heels aside, the older woman clambers to her bare feet.

‘The biggest mistake of my life!’

Way up ahead, on the dance floor, Dolores Lopez from Miami, recently divorced and celebrating her new-found freedom with a two-week cruise around the Mediterranean with her two best girlfriends from high school, is on her third round of strawberry daiquiris and enjoying some kick-ass moves, when the live music abruptly stops and she suddenly finds herself in the middle of all this commotion.

And now directly in the path of a dark-haired man sprinting towards her. Hearing the woman’s cry, she’s unexpectedly – and very annoyingly – reminded of her ex-husband. And she really doesn’t want to be reminded of her ex-husband.

Which is the reason she decides to stick out her rhinestone stiletto.

‘It was for all the years I had to wear flats ’cos he was a short-ass,’ she tells local police the next the morning, showing them her six-inch stiletto as evidence when they come on board to take statements. ‘And that was for all the years I had to do his goddamn laundry,’ she adds, explaining why she tipped the rest of her daiquiri all over the assailant’s white dress shirt as he stumbled and fell.