‘Erm. A bit,’ I admit.
‘Put these on,’ she says helpfully, chucking me a horrid floral blouse and a pair of what can only be described as slacks. And beige slacks to boot. I have no idea who this woman is but, if she lives here, her taste in clothes is nothing like her taste in interior decor. Reluctantly I stand up, pulling on the blouse to cover my boobs and hastily stepping into the nasty slacks. ‘That’s better.’ The woman smiles brightly. ‘And you are?’
‘Katie,’ I say, stupidly holding out my hand in introduction. ‘Katie Simpson.’
‘God, why don’t you give her your full address and phone number as well, you ludicrous bat?’ a voice inside my head mocks, as I take in the full idiocy of the situation.
‘Mrs Black,’ says the woman, shaking my hand in return.
‘Hi.’
Well, I’m still none the bloody wiser, am I? Who is this? The cleaner? And if so, is she a nice cleaner? Is she likely to tell Nick’s girlfriend that her bloke is a lying, cheating, adulterous bastard? Or have we got away with it?
‘I’m Dudley’s mum,’ says the woman helpfully, spotting my confusion.
I gape like a goldfish. His mum?
‘Now, duck, you must be hungry. Come downstairs. There’s plenty of fresh coffee and I can put some more bacon under if you’d fancy it.’
And without another word she bustles me downstairs and into the kitchen where Nick—sorry, Dudley—a little girl of about twelve and a burly middle-aged geezer in overalls are all having breakfast.
I stare at the manky turquoise polish on my tootsies. This is truly excruciating.
‘Well, come in, duck,’ booms the man in the overalls, who is obviously Nick’s dad. ‘Let’s ’ave a look at yer.’
I step inside, feeling ridiculous in my mumsy outfit. The whole ensemble would be bad enough in itself, but unfortunately I’m so damn lanky that the slacks barely reach mid-calf.
‘Well, she’s a girl all right, in’t she, Ma?’ He laughs, scooping up egg yolk and brown sauce with a hunk of white sliced. ‘You know, love, ’e’s ’ad us right worried. Thought ’e was a poofter, we did. ’E’s never ’ad a girl back ’ere as long as we can remember, ’as ’e, Ma?’
‘Nope.’ Nick’s mum shakes her head. ‘Eighteen ’e is now and not a single girlfriend to speak of.’
Pardon me?
Eighteen?
God. That practically makes me a pervert. A flipping kiddie fiddler.
I tussle with my conscience all the way home on the tube. After I’d rammed down my bacon and fled, Nick followed me to the door, an anxious expression on his face. And it was suddenly obvious how much younger he was. God, I can be dappy at times.
‘Can I see you again?’
Oh God. Not the lovesick pup act.
‘Fuck off,’ said my head.
‘OK,’ said my treacherous, humungously large gob. ‘Call me. Anytime.’
Now I’m actually on my way home, I curse myself for my complete inability to pull off a successful one-night stand.
Mind you, just because I’ve said he can call me, doesn’t mean he’s actually going to bother, does it? That’s blokes for you.
Completely unreliable. After all, isn’t that the whole point of my not wanting one?
I’m a bundled up bunch of frustration all the way home. The Croissantus Interruptus I experienced earlier means I feel all unfulfilled and weird. I try leaning against the metal pole in the middle of the carriage, remembering the time Janice gleefully informed me she got a surprise orgasm from the vibrations.
Nothing.
Not a sausage.
And people are staring at me, wondering why the hell I’m standing up when the train is half empty. I shrug and make my way to a seat. Perhaps Janice was on a different line when it happened to her.
Anyway, it’s nothing a couple of Jaffa Cakes and a minute or two with the shower head won’t sort out the minute I get home.
When I eventually shuffle through the front gate, I’m surprised to see a figure hunched on George and David’s front steps. I’m not quite sure who it is, but from the way George is standing at the top window, peering over the scarlet geraniums in their window box and chucking the odd missile, I assume it’s someone who isn’t very popular.
And then I recognise the T-shirt he’s wearing.
It’s one of mine.
Which, I might add, I wouldn’t have minded getting back.
Yep. You’ve guessed it.
It’s only bloody Jake.
‘What do you want?’
My insides are doing back flips faster than an Olympic gymnast and my heart is using my tongue as a trampoline but I dodge the cherry tomato George lobs down at him and manage to appear cool as a cucumber.