is to find a decent bloke with all the jerks and wallies out there.”
She told Shelley about Tractor, the seventies freak who’d tried to pick her up in the Red House the other night.
“Oui, madame,”
Shelley chortled when Rachel got to the clitoris-licking frog joke. “That’s hysterical. So what does he look like, this bloke?”
Rachel told her.
“So exactly how pale would you say his skin was?”
“Very. You could rent him out for hauntings.”
“Really. That pale.” The idea clearly turned Shelley on. “Plus I’ve always found that whole seventies thing rather sexy. I mean it’s so cheesy, it actually gets stylish again—a bit like Leo Sayer or Vesta curry.”
“Shelley, he uses
The Clitorati
to pick up women. Is that sad or what?”
Shelley shrugged. “I dunno, I think it’s sweet in a naff kind of way. Maybe he’s just shy and it’s his way of hiding it.”
“Yeah, right,” Rachel said dismissively.
“So, did his balls look big in the leather trousers?”
“I didn’t investigate,” Rachel said, giggling and pulling a face.
Shelley pretended to go all pathetic. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m a poor pregnant woman who isn’t getting any.”
“Oh come on,” Rachel said warmly. “There’s somebody out there for you. I know it.”
“Not who’ll take on another bloke’s baby.”
Rachel stood up, went over to Shelley and put her arm round her.
“Yeah he will,” she said, hugging her tight. “Just wait and see.”
“You reckon?” Shelley smiled doubtfully.
“Promise—or my name’s not an anagram of Czar Hat Elk.”
CHAPTER 7
“I agree,” Rachel declared. “They are completely and utterly gross. Sam, look at me—I would never, ever ask you to wear one. And that’s a promise. Grandma had no right to start talking to you about page boy suits—particularly not cherry-red velvet ones. Apart from anything else, it’s far too early. Adam and I haven’t even set a wedding date yet. But I promise that as soon as we have, you will hear about it from me, not Grandma. OK?”
Sam nodded and carried on eating his Coco Pops, which were floating disgustingly in orange juice. Rachel picked up a half slice of buttered toast and disappeared once more behind the
Guardian,
but she couldn’t concentrate because her mind kept going back to what had happened—or to be precise, not happened—when Adam came round the day before, to say good-bye.
When he arrived (an hour or so after Rachel had gotten back from dropping Sam at his best mate Charlie’s house, where he was going to spend the day), she had answered the door wearing nothing but a cook’s apron and a sexy smile. She had kissed him and led him into the kitchen where she was in the middle of preparing a scrambled egg and smoked salmon brunch.
“C’mon,” she’d purred, handing him a glass of champagne, “why don’t we take all this to bed?”
“Wonderful thought, Rache, but the thing is, my mum cooked me kippers before I left.”
“Oh right,” she said. “Stupid of me, really. I might have known she’d cook for you. I should have phoned and checked with you first.”
“Might have been an idea.”
He went on to say that tempting as it was, he didn’t have time for sex because he had to rush back and get started on his packing.
“Come on, Ad,” she said, putting her arms round him. “This is the last chance we’ll get.” She removed one of her arms from round his neck and began undoing his jeans belt.
“Rache, not now,” he’d said, clamping his hand over hers. “I really don’t have time. It’s not just my packing I’ve got to do, there’s a whole load of stuff I must get in the post before I leave, not to mention a pile of bills waiting to be settled.” He paused and lifted her chin, which had fallen almost to her chest. “Come on, Rachel,” he said softly, “what’s a month when we’ve got our whole lives to look forward to? Now then, why don’t you go and put something warm on.
She told Shelley about Tractor, the seventies freak who’d tried to pick her up in the Red House the other night.
“Oui, madame,”
Shelley chortled when Rachel got to the clitoris-licking frog joke. “That’s hysterical. So what does he look like, this bloke?”
Rachel told her.
“So exactly how pale would you say his skin was?”
“Very. You could rent him out for hauntings.”
“Really. That pale.” The idea clearly turned Shelley on. “Plus I’ve always found that whole seventies thing rather sexy. I mean it’s so cheesy, it actually gets stylish again—a bit like Leo Sayer or Vesta curry.”
“Shelley, he uses
The Clitorati
to pick up women. Is that sad or what?”
Shelley shrugged. “I dunno, I think it’s sweet in a naff kind of way. Maybe he’s just shy and it’s his way of hiding it.”
“Yeah, right,” Rachel said dismissively.
“So, did his balls look big in the leather trousers?”
“I didn’t investigate,” Rachel said, giggling and pulling a face.
Shelley pretended to go all pathetic. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m a poor pregnant woman who isn’t getting any.”
“Oh come on,” Rachel said warmly. “There’s somebody out there for you. I know it.”
“Not who’ll take on another bloke’s baby.”
Rachel stood up, went over to Shelley and put her arm round her.
“Yeah he will,” she said, hugging her tight. “Just wait and see.”
“You reckon?” Shelley smiled doubtfully.
“Promise—or my name’s not an anagram of Czar Hat Elk.”
CHAPTER 7
“I agree,” Rachel declared. “They are completely and utterly gross. Sam, look at me—I would never, ever ask you to wear one. And that’s a promise. Grandma had no right to start talking to you about page boy suits—particularly not cherry-red velvet ones. Apart from anything else, it’s far too early. Adam and I haven’t even set a wedding date yet. But I promise that as soon as we have, you will hear about it from me, not Grandma. OK?”
Sam nodded and carried on eating his Coco Pops, which were floating disgustingly in orange juice. Rachel picked up a half slice of buttered toast and disappeared once more behind the
Guardian,
but she couldn’t concentrate because her mind kept going back to what had happened—or to be precise, not happened—when Adam came round the day before, to say good-bye.
When he arrived (an hour or so after Rachel had gotten back from dropping Sam at his best mate Charlie’s house, where he was going to spend the day), she had answered the door wearing nothing but a cook’s apron and a sexy smile. She had kissed him and led him into the kitchen where she was in the middle of preparing a scrambled egg and smoked salmon brunch.
“C’mon,” she’d purred, handing him a glass of champagne, “why don’t we take all this to bed?”
“Wonderful thought, Rache, but the thing is, my mum cooked me kippers before I left.”
“Oh right,” she said. “Stupid of me, really. I might have known she’d cook for you. I should have phoned and checked with you first.”
“Might have been an idea.”
He went on to say that tempting as it was, he didn’t have time for sex because he had to rush back and get started on his packing.
“Come on, Ad,” she said, putting her arms round him. “This is the last chance we’ll get.” She removed one of her arms from round his neck and began undoing his jeans belt.
“Rache, not now,” he’d said, clamping his hand over hers. “I really don’t have time. It’s not just my packing I’ve got to do, there’s a whole load of stuff I must get in the post before I leave, not to mention a pile of bills waiting to be settled.” He paused and lifted her chin, which had fallen almost to her chest. “Come on, Rachel,” he said softly, “what’s a month when we’ve got our whole lives to look forward to? Now then, why don’t you go and put something warm on.
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