‘I don’t seem to have any money in here.’ I smile, cupping my hand round the crisp tenner I’ve just found and taking a step backwards into George’s immaculate cream-painted hall. ‘Do you mind coming in a moment while I find some upstairs?’
He smiles, a slow, sexy, slightly stupid smile that might or might not be interpreted as open to suggestion. Which is fine, obviously. Stupid is good. I have absolutely no problem with stupid whatsoever. The chances of a reasonably intelligent—albeit slightly ginger—girl like me forming a lasting relationship with anyone who’s thicker than two short planks are verging on nil, so I can drag this chap upstairs right now if I feel like it, without giving a flying fuck about the consequences.
‘Sure.’ He lopes after me into the hall.
‘Whatevva.’ Of course by the time I’ve rolled the note I’ve just found in my purse into my palm, gone upstairs with it and come back down again, waving it between forefinger and thumb, I suddenly realise that I have absolutely no idea how to pull.
Do I just go straight for it and say huskily, ‘Come in, Notch Number Nine and a half, your time is up’? Should I just slip him my phone number and have done with it? Or would that look a bit Bored Housewife? Then again, I don’t live in my own house, I don’t even live in the dumpy, clarty flat any more either. I live in a house that’s so effortlessly pristine and minimalist it can only be inhabited by gay guys. So I can’t reasonably be mistaken for Mrs Two Point Four Children.
I’m just deciding to sod it and hand him the cash, when I notice he’s glancing into the kitchen, looking vaguely amused. I follow his gaze, to where the first batch of pink jelly willies stand turned out of their moulds, proud and erect—if ever so slightly wibbly—on the kitchen worktop. Buggeroo. He’s probably thinking I’m some sort of pervert serial killer who lures delivery boys into the house so I can have my wicked way with them before boshing them over the head and stashing them in the freezer to do things to with jelly later. I know if I were in his shoes—or even just his skanky trainers— I’d be a smidgen concerned for my personal safety right now.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I stutter. ‘I’m doing them for a hen party, see. Just for fun. I mean I’m not into anything kinky. I’m more M&S than S&M, honest. You can’t beat them for knickers.’
‘Shame.’ He treats me to another lazy, sexy grin, which turns my knees to a wobbling mass of blancmange. Is he laughing at me or not?
‘You’re a chef?’ he asks. ‘Caterer,’ I reply. ‘Weddings and stuff, mainly. Just getting started.’
He grins. ‘And does the caterer get to test the canapés?’ He nods towards the pink willies, which now seem so downright ridiculous, I have an absurd compulsion to get rid of him as quickly as possible.
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘What about the delivery boy?’ His grin widens. ‘Does he get to have a taste?’
‘He might.’ I can’t help laughing at the mischievous expression on his face. ‘Just the one, mind. These have to be at a party in Battersear tomorrow.’
I should really have known better. I should know that my capacity for alcohol generally tends to exceed the ‘just the one’ that’s good for me. Nick, as his name turns out to be, pronounces my jelly willies so delicious that he has to have another. And I just think sod it and jam in a couple for myself. And after I’ve eaten nine, or thereabouts, I tell myself that not only is he probably the most fanciable, un-uphimself male I’ve seen since I came to live in Islington, I decide he’s also one of the most scintillating I’ve ever met.
And we’re getting on so well.
‘Sheriously,’ he says, finishing off the last jelly and beginning to slur his words just ever so slightly. ‘I might be looking for shomeone like you. I’m a DJ, shee? I’ll be famoush this time next year.’
‘Really?’ I’m impressed. ‘How faschinating.’
I’m so drunk by this time that I’m pouring what’s left of the vodka into shot glasses and liberally tipping it down my neck. It doesn’t really occur to me to wonder why, if he’s such a famous DJ, he’s delivering bread all over North London on a crappy pushbike. And, to be honest, I don’t really care.
‘Me mate’sh organising a party shoon. He needs shomeone to do the food and shit. How ’bout I give him your number?’
In my drunken state, I decide this is a definite attempt on his part at trying to pull me. And, when I scribble my mobile number on the corner of a crumpled-up copy of Attitude and he closes his hand over mine as I hand it to him, I just know I’m IN THERE.