did you,
erm, accept my invitation?” I ask nervously.
Flicking on the hot tap with my
big toe, I top up my fast-cooling tub, heart aflutter, willing him to say ‘no’
because, if the answer’s ‘yes’, I’ve got three huge hurdles to jump:
One: How can I sneak Mike Foster
into a strictly ticket-only bash?
Two: What will people think
if I do?
and
Three: Will I be signing my own
decree nisi if I spend New Year’s Eve with ‘Mr Roses’ instead of Mr Moss?
Oh Lord, I’m sweating, and not
because of the influx of boiling water and rising steam. Waiting with bated
breath, I’m sure I’m turning purple when, finally, he pipes up and loosens my
noose.
“I didn’t I’m afraid, Sally.
And please, call me Mike . Interesting as an evening with you in a
naughty nurse’s uniform would have been, I’m driving back to Gloucester as we
speak.”
Phew. Lucky, lucky let off. So
why do I feel so gutted? And strangely besotted?
“I see,” I say breezily, trying
to make sense of my feelings. “Well, have a good one. By the way, I hope you’re
on the hands free?”
Flustered, thinking about him thinking about me dressed as a nurse (what is it with
middle-aged men and hospital hotties?), I blush again and I’m certain this time, I definitely hear a groan. More of a urrr, aaah, mmm actually.
“Argh, no,” he growls. “I’m,
grrrr, sprawled across the front seat, hands everywhere but where they should
be!”
I blink rapidly, trying to
decipher the dialogue. Sprawled? That sounds dangerous. And somewhat rude. What
if he’s got . . . company? Female company?
Staring at the phone like it’s
sprouted legs, I feel a jolt of disappointment then blot it out with a better
idea. What if the thought of me in the bath has got my wild, sexy doc ready for
love in the fast lane?
Mmm. More like I’ve been
watching way too much late-night ER!
Intrigued, I listen in silence
as he adds, “Jesus, aaah. Sorry, I’ve lost Lisa . . . under the front seat.
Can’t quite reach her . . . think I need to pull over. No wait, gotcha!”
“Lisa?”
“Yep. Lisa - my Sat-Nav. Could
have had Tom but women tend to be better with directions. She’s guiding me to a
friend’s housewarming in the back of beyond, though I’ll probably end up in the
middle of a field.”
Ahh.
Relieved he’s with a mechanical
mate not a flesh and blood floozy, I’m about to mention his new job when he
says, “Look, I don’t want to pry, but how’s things? You both looked pretty cut
up the other night, have you managed to work it out?”
Sucking breath sharply, I
contemplate my answer.
Well actually Mike, I’ve kicked
him out. Been shagging your sidekick as it happens. Small world, isn’t it? Oh,
but don’t worry about me. My best friend’s on her way over to dress me to the
nines and drag me on a grab-a-guy night. You know, floodgates, retribution,
oats to sow and all that.
Maybe not, eh?
“It’s complicated,” I explain,
de-fluffing my loofah. “We’re having a bit of breathing space, I’m spending
some time with the girls.”
“Ah,” he says knowingly. “So
hubby’s out with the boys, then?”
Probably. Best case scenario.
He could be anywhere. With anyone.
Hearing my heavy sigh, he adds
quickly, “Hey, sorry, none of my business. I didn’t mean to barge in on your
bath. You have a great night, let your hair down and we’ll catch up soon,
yeah?”
“Mike - wait!”
I don’t quite know why I want
him to wait, what I’m going to say next - all I know is I just want to keep him
talking. About anything. Flowers, fingers, heck, even the weather - but it’s
too late, he’s hung up.
Bugger! I squeeze the phone
resentfully. What’s the matter with me? I shouldn’t be having naked
conversations with hot doctors anyway, let alone sulking when they end. I blame Amy and Bianca.
Before I can collect my
confetti of thoughts, the phone buzzes again. Butterflies fluttering, I assume
it’s Mike and try desperately to think of
erm, accept my invitation?” I ask nervously.
Flicking on the hot tap with my
big toe, I top up my fast-cooling tub, heart aflutter, willing him to say ‘no’
because, if the answer’s ‘yes’, I’ve got three huge hurdles to jump:
One: How can I sneak Mike Foster
into a strictly ticket-only bash?
Two: What will people think
if I do?
and
Three: Will I be signing my own
decree nisi if I spend New Year’s Eve with ‘Mr Roses’ instead of Mr Moss?
Oh Lord, I’m sweating, and not
because of the influx of boiling water and rising steam. Waiting with bated
breath, I’m sure I’m turning purple when, finally, he pipes up and loosens my
noose.
“I didn’t I’m afraid, Sally.
And please, call me Mike . Interesting as an evening with you in a
naughty nurse’s uniform would have been, I’m driving back to Gloucester as we
speak.”
Phew. Lucky, lucky let off. So
why do I feel so gutted? And strangely besotted?
“I see,” I say breezily, trying
to make sense of my feelings. “Well, have a good one. By the way, I hope you’re
on the hands free?”
Flustered, thinking about him thinking about me dressed as a nurse (what is it with
middle-aged men and hospital hotties?), I blush again and I’m certain this time, I definitely hear a groan. More of a urrr, aaah, mmm actually.
“Argh, no,” he growls. “I’m,
grrrr, sprawled across the front seat, hands everywhere but where they should
be!”
I blink rapidly, trying to
decipher the dialogue. Sprawled? That sounds dangerous. And somewhat rude. What
if he’s got . . . company? Female company?
Staring at the phone like it’s
sprouted legs, I feel a jolt of disappointment then blot it out with a better
idea. What if the thought of me in the bath has got my wild, sexy doc ready for
love in the fast lane?
Mmm. More like I’ve been
watching way too much late-night ER!
Intrigued, I listen in silence
as he adds, “Jesus, aaah. Sorry, I’ve lost Lisa . . . under the front seat.
Can’t quite reach her . . . think I need to pull over. No wait, gotcha!”
“Lisa?”
“Yep. Lisa - my Sat-Nav. Could
have had Tom but women tend to be better with directions. She’s guiding me to a
friend’s housewarming in the back of beyond, though I’ll probably end up in the
middle of a field.”
Ahh.
Relieved he’s with a mechanical
mate not a flesh and blood floozy, I’m about to mention his new job when he
says, “Look, I don’t want to pry, but how’s things? You both looked pretty cut
up the other night, have you managed to work it out?”
Sucking breath sharply, I
contemplate my answer.
Well actually Mike, I’ve kicked
him out. Been shagging your sidekick as it happens. Small world, isn’t it? Oh,
but don’t worry about me. My best friend’s on her way over to dress me to the
nines and drag me on a grab-a-guy night. You know, floodgates, retribution,
oats to sow and all that.
Maybe not, eh?
“It’s complicated,” I explain,
de-fluffing my loofah. “We’re having a bit of breathing space, I’m spending
some time with the girls.”
“Ah,” he says knowingly. “So
hubby’s out with the boys, then?”
Probably. Best case scenario.
He could be anywhere. With anyone.
Hearing my heavy sigh, he adds
quickly, “Hey, sorry, none of my business. I didn’t mean to barge in on your
bath. You have a great night, let your hair down and we’ll catch up soon,
yeah?”
“Mike - wait!”
I don’t quite know why I want
him to wait, what I’m going to say next - all I know is I just want to keep him
talking. About anything. Flowers, fingers, heck, even the weather - but it’s
too late, he’s hung up.
Bugger! I squeeze the phone
resentfully. What’s the matter with me? I shouldn’t be having naked
conversations with hot doctors anyway, let alone sulking when they end. I blame Amy and Bianca.
Before I can collect my
confetti of thoughts, the phone buzzes again. Butterflies fluttering, I assume
it’s Mike and try desperately to think of
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