Well Groomed by Fiona Walker Page B

Gus’s and Penny’s guests and Tash was stranded with a dozen or so others in the hall, unable to squeeze inside. Amongst them was Kirsty Judd, balancing her long, curvy legs on the two strappy shoes Tash had spotted through the cat-flap earlier. She looked sensational – her freckled skin tanned in the Australian sun to a tawny gold, her fox-red hair freshly cut into a feathered urchin bob, her magnificent cleavage balancing like two rust-dusted golden globes on the wired corset of her tight little cocktail dress.
    Looking down at her own inside-out and wrongly buttoned checked shirt – the same shirt that she had mucked out in a week earlier – Tash realised that she was in unflattering contrast on the looks front. Her thick, woolly tights, Doc Martens and frayed denim hotpants were too grunge student for words, her hair was a damp, chilly bird’s nest of tangles, her nose a glowing beacon, her eyes as pink and puffy as two snapdragons. She looked unbelievably rough. The only kiss she was likely to get in the next minute was the kiss of life.
    As the huge crowd in the sitting room started counting backwards from ten, Tash slunk towards the shadow of the stairs and tried to blend into the vast pile of coats slung over the banisters.
    ‘Hi, Tash – so you made it after all,’ purred that slinky little voice, as mellifluous as maple syrup sinking through a waffle. Kirsty would make Jean Brodie sound like a Glaswegian welder.
    The counting had just reached seven.
    Grabbing an abandoned half-full glass of red wine from a nearby bookshelf, Tash managed a very stiff half-smile aimed in the general direction of Kirsty’s vast cleavage.
    ‘Must find Hugo.’ Kirsty melted away towards the sitting-room door just as he emerged from the kitchen, yawning widely and carrying a bottle of duty-free champagne.
    Swinging her narrow-eyed gaze from Kirsty’s enviously schoolboy bottom to Hugo’s tall shadow, Tash drew in a sharp breath as she clocked his tan – as dark and smooth as chocolate praline. With his tortoiseshell flop of wavy hair, straight, straight nose and Barclaycard-blue eyes, he looked like a photofit of every schoolgirl’s dream man. Tash’s teeth gritted with hatred.
    The count was now at five.
    Hugo looked up from tugging at the champagne foil and, catching Tash watching him, smiled nastily before moving lazily towards her. ‘So you made it after all?’
    ‘She’s gone that way.’ Tash jerked her head towards Kirsty’s retreating freckled back as the count reached two.
    ‘Really?’ he said flatly, standing opposite her now.
    ‘One . . . Happy New Year!’ came the shrieks from the sitting room as the sounds of greetings, kisses, popping champagne corks and whoops drowned out Big Ben on the radio.
    Hugo hadn’t moved a muscle. He barely seemed to notice that the year had turned at all.
    Tash backed slightly away into the stairwell, alarmed by his uncharacteristic attention. He was smiling broadly and watching her with condescending interest, as a scientist watches a white mouse which he has just injected with a deadly virus.
    The next moment she almost passed out as there was a loud bang inches in front of her. Suddenly, she was aware of icy, wet froth hitting her hot, breathless chest.
    Laughing at her, Hugo lifted the bottle of champagne to his lips, lapping at the foaming rim before taking it in his mouth and swallowing a lengthy mouthful.
    ‘Did I give you a fright?’ he mocked, passing the bottle to her. ‘Happy New Year.’
    Holding up her chin, determined not to rise to his teasing, Tash took a hasty swig and thrust it back at him.
    But Hugo was now gazing up at the ceiling.
    ‘How extraordinarily inappropriate,’ he murmured, cocking his head so that his tortoiseshell forelock flopped from left to right.
    Following his gaze, Tash blushed crimson with mortification as she realised they were standing directly under Zoe’s fat bunch of mistletoe which now bore only two pearl