for life tonight. I’ve never met anyone before who’s quite as obsessed about rugby as I am.’
‘Do you play yourself?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I do. I know being wrestled to the ground by fifteen blokes every Saturday isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but I love it.’
I can’t work out whether it is prompted by this image, or by the fact that I have finally drunk too much champagne, but I do feel very hot all of a sudden.
‘You two–together again! Humph. I’m shtarting to think I should be getting jealous!’
You might have thought Valentina would have sobered up now, after all that dancing. Not on the evidence before us.
‘I think I’ve got a bit dirty shomehow,’ she says, flopping onto Jack’s knee.
‘Have you had a good dance?’ I ask politely.
She lifts up her skirt to demonstrate that the back of one leg and the front of the other is covered in a black streak of grime.
‘Yesh, but I have absholutely no idea how this could posh-hhibly have happened. Have you, Evie?’ she asks me.
Jack, who is trying to ensure she doesn’t fall off his knee and injure herself, looks over to me.
‘I think it’s because you did the splits, Valentina,’ I say.
‘The splits? Did I really? Ha! I amaze myshelf shometimes.’
Jack and I catch each other’s gaze.
‘And everyone else,’ I say, smiling.
She grabs Jack’s glass, obviously realising it’s been, oooh, minutes since she last had something to drink, and almost slides onto the floor in the process. He manages to stop her, but not easily. The veins in his neck are bulging as he lifts her up into his arms.
‘I think I’d better get Valentina back to the B and B,’ he pants.
‘Yeah. Of course,’ I say.
‘Jack, I…think…I think…we should go and have a good old dancsh,’ says Valentina, her head wobbling from side to side. He pulls her in tighter to make sure he’s not going to drop her.
‘It was lovely meeting you,’ he tells me.
‘You too,’ I reply.
‘Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ he adds.
‘Oh, I think I’m going to go now anyway,’ I shrug.
‘Right,’ he says.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
And off he goes. With Valentina in his arms.
Which feels horribly, horribly wrong.
When Jack has left, I scan the room to see if Charlotte is still around and realise that she must have gone to bed, like most of the other guests seem to be doing. The disco man is packing up now and I see no particular reason to hang around, especially as Gareth is still loitering somewhere like a particularly determined Klingon.
As I lean over to pick up my bag, I spot something on the chair next to me. It’s a phone. A phone that can only be Jack’s.
Chapter 21
Sunday, 25 February
I manage to get down for breakfast just before they stop serving. I find Patrick and Grace, polishing off huge plates of smoked salmon and free-range scrambled eggs.
‘So did he perform all right?’ I ask, as Grace and I meet at the juice table. ‘Or have you had more romantic experiences sitting on the tumble dryer?’
‘The latter, I’m afraid,’ she says, pouring herself a large glass of orange. ‘He couldn’t even stand up, never mind get it up. Still, we have got two weeks in the Maldives to look forward to, so there’s plenty of time for him to make it up to me.’
‘Assuming his hangover wears off any time soon,’ I grin. The bags under Patrick’s eyes currently look like they could be carrying a week’s worth of shopping.
‘Anyway, how did you get on after we left?’ she asks.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You know what I mean,’ she says. ‘I mean Jack. Did you make any progress?’
I look at her as if she couldn’t have suggested anythingmore ludicrous–as if she’d asked me about my budding relationship with Ken Dodd.
‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from that I fancy Jack,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s very nice and all that…’
‘Not thick–like I told
‘Do you play yourself?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I do. I know being wrestled to the ground by fifteen blokes every Saturday isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but I love it.’
I can’t work out whether it is prompted by this image, or by the fact that I have finally drunk too much champagne, but I do feel very hot all of a sudden.
‘You two–together again! Humph. I’m shtarting to think I should be getting jealous!’
You might have thought Valentina would have sobered up now, after all that dancing. Not on the evidence before us.
‘I think I’ve got a bit dirty shomehow,’ she says, flopping onto Jack’s knee.
‘Have you had a good dance?’ I ask politely.
She lifts up her skirt to demonstrate that the back of one leg and the front of the other is covered in a black streak of grime.
‘Yesh, but I have absholutely no idea how this could posh-hhibly have happened. Have you, Evie?’ she asks me.
Jack, who is trying to ensure she doesn’t fall off his knee and injure herself, looks over to me.
‘I think it’s because you did the splits, Valentina,’ I say.
‘The splits? Did I really? Ha! I amaze myshelf shometimes.’
Jack and I catch each other’s gaze.
‘And everyone else,’ I say, smiling.
She grabs Jack’s glass, obviously realising it’s been, oooh, minutes since she last had something to drink, and almost slides onto the floor in the process. He manages to stop her, but not easily. The veins in his neck are bulging as he lifts her up into his arms.
‘I think I’d better get Valentina back to the B and B,’ he pants.
‘Yeah. Of course,’ I say.
‘Jack, I…think…I think…we should go and have a good old dancsh,’ says Valentina, her head wobbling from side to side. He pulls her in tighter to make sure he’s not going to drop her.
‘It was lovely meeting you,’ he tells me.
‘You too,’ I reply.
‘Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ he adds.
‘Oh, I think I’m going to go now anyway,’ I shrug.
‘Right,’ he says.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
And off he goes. With Valentina in his arms.
Which feels horribly, horribly wrong.
When Jack has left, I scan the room to see if Charlotte is still around and realise that she must have gone to bed, like most of the other guests seem to be doing. The disco man is packing up now and I see no particular reason to hang around, especially as Gareth is still loitering somewhere like a particularly determined Klingon.
As I lean over to pick up my bag, I spot something on the chair next to me. It’s a phone. A phone that can only be Jack’s.
Chapter 21
Sunday, 25 February
I manage to get down for breakfast just before they stop serving. I find Patrick and Grace, polishing off huge plates of smoked salmon and free-range scrambled eggs.
‘So did he perform all right?’ I ask, as Grace and I meet at the juice table. ‘Or have you had more romantic experiences sitting on the tumble dryer?’
‘The latter, I’m afraid,’ she says, pouring herself a large glass of orange. ‘He couldn’t even stand up, never mind get it up. Still, we have got two weeks in the Maldives to look forward to, so there’s plenty of time for him to make it up to me.’
‘Assuming his hangover wears off any time soon,’ I grin. The bags under Patrick’s eyes currently look like they could be carrying a week’s worth of shopping.
‘Anyway, how did you get on after we left?’ she asks.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You know what I mean,’ she says. ‘I mean Jack. Did you make any progress?’
I look at her as if she couldn’t have suggested anythingmore ludicrous–as if she’d asked me about my budding relationship with Ken Dodd.
‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from that I fancy Jack,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s very nice and all that…’
‘Not thick–like I told
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