As the taxi speeds away from the kerb, I take a step back and look at the house. It’s enormous. Presumably, a guy like him doesn’t live in the whole pile. I expect I’ll get inside to discover that he’s dragged me to some grotty bedsit with a fan heater and cold spaghetti hoops burnt onto the stove. And he’ll have a bed that’s supposed to turn into a sofa during the day but which, like a typical bloke, he won’t have bothered to fold away, so it’ll still be covered with a rucked-up sheet—just why is it that single blokes always have navy or bottle green sheets that so readily show up bodily fluids?—and a duvet with no cover.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Nick lives in the whole house. Which is as immense as I thought. And it’s beautifully decorated. The hall alone is the size of my old Balham flat. The floor is carpeted in silky buttermilk and every room is stuffed full of objects that look as though they’ve been lovingly collected over years of travelling. Indian rugs and saris are draped in a stunning jewel-pink sitting room just off the kitchen. African wood carvings fill the study. In the downstairs loo are several large Chinese papier-mâché heads and a Nepalese prayer flag. And there are photos in silver frames everywhere. A couple I assume to be his parents. And several endearing kids, one of which has to be him. Licking an ice lolly, petting sheep at the children’s zoo, riding a tractor. In all of them, he’s got the same coffee-coloured eyes and cheeky, lopsided grin.
‘Ahh.’ I pick up one of him on a beach. He must be about seven in this one. His smile is all gappy and he’s sat on a fat, black donkey, eating an ice cream with a flake stuck in the top. ‘Little Dudley at the seaside.’
‘Stop it,’ he begs, laughing and grabbing me by the wrist. ‘Come upstairs. There ain’t no embarrassin’ piccies up there.’
‘Now hold one just one minute.’ I spin round, catching him unawares as I slap the photo back on the silver leaf fireplace. ‘What do you think I am? Some easy lay?’
Nick/Dudley looks horrified.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stutters. ‘I didn’t mean. We don’t ’ave to…you know. I just fort…’
‘I’m joking, you daft sod.’ I giggle, pulling him in the direction of the stairs and allowing him to lead me up them. ‘In fact I thought you’d never bloody ask.’
This is excellent. OK, so we have nothing in common, apart from drinking and shagging, but we don’t have to talk, do we? Anyway, he’s gagging for it and I’m stone cold sober. I’m going to have a completely meaningless shag and I’m not even shiftfaced.
I don’t even feel guilty.
Nick’s bedroom is as stunning as the rest of the house. A huge French sleigh bed dominates the middle of the room. Crisp, white sheets, covered with a soft grape-coloured throw. Not very bachelor-like. Something’s not really right here. I can’t help hearing the faintest ding-a-ling of alarm bells somewhere at the back of my mind. He’s a bike courier, for flip’s sake. And not a very bright one at that. You’d expect someone like him to live in a right bugger’s muddle. Not this vast showpiece.
I think back to when the taxi drew up outside. He did have a key, didn’t he?
I mean we haven’t just broken into a total stranger’s home…
Have we?
Buggery fuck. I’ve had an entirely different sort of break and enter situation in mind all evening.
I decide to test him.
‘Where’s the bathroom?’
He jerks his head towards a door which opens straight off the bedroom. Of course. An en-suite. Well, that doesn’t mean he lives here. Anyone—well, anyone apart from me, obviously—might reasonably have expected a house like this to have such a luxury. And this bathroom is luxurious. Everything is polished, expensive and has something of the feminine touch about it. Bottles of Ralph Lauren Romance products line the sink. There’s even a tube of Immac in the bathroom cabinet. This last, of course, can mean one of only two things.
Hairy Back.
Or Live-In Girlfriend.
I sincerely hope it’s the latter.
Nick insists on showering before coming to bed, thus allaying any fears I might have had personal hygiene-wise. I notice he doesn’t use the en-suite. Which is weird. As if from habit, he goes into another bathroom just off the landing. Which seems really odd. When he comes back, scrubbed clean and smelling, not of expensive French cologne, as you’d have expected of the owner of this stylish palace, but of Pine Fresh Flash—or perhaps it’s Toilet Duck— I’m relieved to notice his back is rug-free.
It must be Live-In Girlfriend then. Unless the Immac has worked wonders. After all, this is the house of one, or even two, very wealthy professionals. Nick can’t possibly live here by himself. He’s quite clearly a Kept Man. This is very obviously a case of Absent Girlfriend Syndrome.