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‘It is,’ I said, quietly.

‘Is it bigger and better than the English dicks you’ve been getting?’

I looked up at his sweaty face. Calm down, William Wallace, I thought. You’re not invading England, just my vagina.

‘Eh?’ he puffed, getting well and truly carried away. ‘Does the Scottish scheme guy fuck you better?’

Christ. What was it with Scottish men and turning absolutely everything into a national competition?

I grunted, lowering my gaze, watching his pale white arse push in and out.

‘Tell me how good my Scottish beef is!’ he started again. Honestly, the man sounded like he was about to rally troops.

‘Yeah . . . it’s like . . . the best Scottish . . . eh . . . beef dick I’ve ever had,’ I muttered, hoping that would shut him up.

It did not.

‘Oh, FUCK YES!’ he shouted triumphantly – and pulled out in a flash, then wanked his last few strokes over the top of me.

A moment later, he threw his head back dramatically and bellowed:

‘FREEDOM!’

I blinked up at him, just as the jizz came firing out of his cannon all over Claire’s dress, hitting my neck and cheek.

He stood there, his dick softening into some sort of chubby slug, panting like he’d just personally liberated Scotland from a long history of colonial wee tossers. All he was missing was a horse, blue face paint and Nicola Sturgeon in a nasty cerise suit beside him.

‘Fucking hell,’ he said, leaning forward and planting a sweaty kiss on my forehead.

Fucking hell indeed.

I stood up, feeling Robert the Bruce’s warm spunk run down my body. Jesus, this was a new low, even for me. Then I glared at Claire’s dress, completely tarnished.

‘I don’t suppose your mum’s got anything that will take this out?’ I asked.

Chapter Thirteen

I woke the next morning on Claire’s crushed velvet sofa, feeling like someone had used my skull as a maraca all night long. For a moment, I just lay there blinking at the ceiling, trying to remember where I was, why my tongue felt like a carpet sample, and why my dress appeared to be shedding white dust like a cheap Christmas tree. Then I remembered it wasn’t dust. It was dried spunk. Joe Ferguson’s, to be exact. I rolled around on the tiny sofa, letting out a long groan.

Then, suddenly, a loud buzzing started. Then again. Aggressive, deafening.

‘Claire!’ I called out. Nothing. ‘Claire!’ I tried again. Then I briefly remembered her saying she was doing a homer at twelve. I squinted at the light stabbing through the blinds, dragged myself to my feet and staggered over to the intercom, which was vibrating on the wall like it had a personal vendetta against my hangover.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I croaked, staggering over and lifting the handset. ‘Hello?’

‘Harri!’ My mum’s voice exploded through the speaker. ‘Are you ready?’

I blinked slowly. ‘Ready for what?’

A gasp, then her voice stormed back. ‘What do you mean for what, lady?’ she barked. ‘For the bloody soup kitchen!’

‘Mum,’ I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. ‘There is absolutely no way on this earth that I’m surviving industrial strip lighting and the smell of cooking today. Not when—’

‘You’d better move your arse, Harri. People are relying on you!’ she bellowed.

My stomach sank. I was barely relying on myself right now.

‘I can’t,’ I muttered. ‘I’m hanging on to consciousness by a thread. I’m really sick, Mum!’ Before she could respond, I thunked my forehead against the handset and hung up.