I smiled, grateful he couldn’t see my grinning face through the phone.
‘Let’s not talk about Nick Jones. I don’t want to think about work.’ Except now, of course, Iwasthinking about work, specifically, the Jonny Delaney interview tomorrow and whether Nick would be there.
‘Want to come over for a drink?’ he said.
It was tempting, but I needed to keep a clear head for the interview. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
‘That’s a shame, I thought we could celebrate my new flat.’
‘Let’s do a proper housewarming when you’re back.’
‘God, I’m so looking forward to having some space. I’m fed up of living in a hotel room. I don’t care how great the bed is.’
‘What’s so great about your bed?’ As soon as the words had left my lips, I regretted them. Or rather, realised how laden with innuendo they sounded.
He chuckled. ‘After all these years, you’re finally asking?’
I’ve thought about your bed a million times, I wanted to shout. But that would have been spectacularly uncool.
‘Are you inviting me over to see your etchings?’
‘It’s my last night in the hotel. I thought maybe you’d like to spend it with me.’
Blood was pumping in my ears. It was also making other parts of me pulse. But this was a decision my brain needed to make, and it was very strenuously advisingagainst.
‘You’re off on a work trip and I’ve got a big interview tomorrow morning.’ These were lame reasons, I knew, but I would have sounded even lamer listing myrealobjections: my armpits needed shaving, there was possibly a strand of tuna stuck in my teeth from lunchtime and I was wearing lust-extinguishing underwear – knickers like grey flapping sails and a mustard-coloured bra. (In my defence it had been half-price.)
‘Another time, then.’
My mouth was dry, but I managed to answer him. ‘Another time.’
