Kerry moves in closer. ‘She could be having second thoughts and he’s rushed to London, armed with champagne, hoping for reconciliation.’
‘I hope not. I hope it’s something serious. Ugh, now you’ve got me rooting for a death in the family, Kerry.’
‘Here’s to dead grannies!’ she toasts. ‘May his reasons for blowing you off this week be unspeakably tragic.’
I clink glasses with her and down the rest of my cava. Panic is setting in. Without Tom, there is no column and – more importantly – I haven’t seen him naked yet. That would be the real tragedy. Kerry has a dreamy little smirk on her face.
‘Stop thinking about Kieran’s paddle; this is about me.’
‘What? That’s . . . How did . . .?’
‘He told me. You are a pair of monsters and now I have to live with that image in my head forever.’
Kerry snorts and blushes a little. ‘He’s quite the over-sharer, isn’t he? Don’t be mean, and don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Being blindfolded and—’
‘There’s a blindfold too? Jesus, you have this whole sexy, submissive thing going on. I feel impressed and mildly uncomfortable at the same time.’
‘Yes, well . . . Did you meet Hannah? More wine?’
I hold out my glass and Kerry fills it halfway. ‘Nice deflection, Kerry, and yes, I met Hannah – and admired her artwork.’
We stare silently at each other.
Kerry speaks first. ‘Do you think she painted them with her feet or her mouth?’
‘Hard to tell,’ I reply, casually looking around to make sure Hannah isn’t standing behind me. ‘I’m more inclined to think Harry the dog did them.’
There’s a crash from the living room, and moments later Kieran appears at the kitchen door. ‘Beth’s fallen over. She’s fine, but I think the party’s over, ladies. Grab your coats.’
We hover in the doorway as Kieran says his goodbyes, and then make our way back down the stairs and try to call a taxi. The cold night air adds at least seventeen units to my blood-alcohol level and I’m forced to sit on the kerb until either the taxi arrives or the street stops spinning. The journey home is a bit of a blur, but with a little help from Kerry, I make it to my front door without incident.
‘You sure you don’t want to crash with us tonight?’ she asks, taking away my keys as I try to open the letter box. ‘Will you be OK alone?’
Without waiting for an answer, she opens the door and turns on the hall light. I throw my handbag in the direction of the living room. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I mumble. ‘I’m going to make toast.’
‘Oh Christ, don’t cook anything. Just go to bed.’
We clumsily hug goodnight before I locate my bedroom and throw myself into bed. I hear Kerry locking the front door and then the jingle as she posts my keys through the letter box.
As I drift off, I feel the soft thud of Heisenberg jumping on to the bed beside me, quickly followed by a whack on the head from a sturdy paw. I fucking hate that cat.
Chapter Twelve
‘You know I’m loving your column, Cat,’ Natasha announces as I take a seat in her office on Monday. ‘I understand that it hasn’t changed your life, but I do feel that you’re being a tad overcritical with regards to the author.’
‘Am I?’
She lifts a copy of the magazine, already open at my page. ‘If Guy Wright isn’t a friendless, loveless Neanderthal, I’ll be very surprised.’
I laugh. ‘He deserves it! He’s filling women’s minds full of shite that only exists in his own twisted world. He’s trying to turn us into robotic—’
‘He’s been in touch,’ she interrupts, handing me a printed email. ‘Seems he reads your column.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I laugh.
‘Nope, have a look.’
From: Wright, Guy
