see where the night leads us.”
Luke stares at me, his hands still halfway up the buttons of his blue shirt.
“Take that off,” I say huskily. “What’s the point of dressing up when all we want to do is undress each other?”
A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face, and his eyes begin to gleam.
“You’re so right,” he says, and walks toward me, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
Thank God! I think in relief, as he reaches for my wrap top and gently starts to untie it. This is perfect. This is exactly what I—
Ooh. Mmm.
Actually, this
is
pretty bloody perfect.
Four
BY EIGHT THIRTY the next morning, I still haven’t got up. I don’t want to move an inch. I want to stay in this lovely comfortable bed, wrapped up in this gorgeous white waffle duvet.
“Are you staying there all day?” says Luke, smiling at me. “Not that I don’t want to join you.” He kisses me on the forehead and I snuggle down in the pillows without replying. I just don’t want to get up. I’m so cozy and warm and happy here.
Plus—just a very small point—I still don’t have any clothes.
I’ve already secretly rung down to reception three times about my Special Express. (Once while Luke was in the shower, once while I was in the shower—from the posh bathroom phone—and once very quickly when I sent Luke into the corridor because I said I heard a cat meowing.)
And it hasn’t arrived. I have nil clothes. Nada.
Which hasn’t mattered up until now, because I’ve just been lounging around in bed. But I can’t possibly eat any more croissants or drink any more coffee, nor can I have another shower, and Luke’s half-dressed already.
I’m just going to have to put on yesterday’s clothes again. Which is really hideous, but what else can I do? I’ll just pretend I’m sentimental about them, or maybe hope I can slip them on and Luke won’t even realize. I mean, do men really
notice
what you . . .
Hang on.
Hang on a minute. Where
are
yesterday’s clothes? I’m sure I dropped them just there on the floor . . .
“Luke?” I say, as casually as possible. “Have you seen the clothes I was wearing yesterday?”
“Oh yes,” he says, glancing up from his suitcase. “I sent them to the laundry this morning, along with my stuff.”
I stare at him, unable to breathe.
My only clothes in the whole world have
gone to the laundry
?
“When . . . when will they be back?” I say at last.
“Tomorrow morning.” Luke turns to look at me. “Sorry, I should have said. But it’s not a problem, is it? I mean, I don’t think you have to worry. They do an excellent job.”
“Oh no!” I say in a high, brittle voice. “No, I’m not worried!”
“Good,” he says, and smiles.
“Good,” I say, and smile back.
What am I going to do?
“Oh, and there’s plenty of room in the wardrobe,” says Luke, “if you want me to hang anything up.” He reaches toward my little case and in a panic, I hear myself crying “Nooo!” before I can stop myself. “It’s all right,” I add, as he looks at me in surprise. “My clothes are mostly . . . knitwear.”
Oh God. Oh God. Now he’s putting on his shoes.
What am I going to do
?
OK, come on, Becky, I think frantically. Clothes. Something to wear. Doesn’t matter what.
One of Luke’s suits?
No. He’ll just think it’s too weird, and anyway, his suits all cost about £1,000 so I won’t be able to roll the sleeves up.
My hotel robe? Pretend robes and waffle slippers are the latest fashion? Oh, but I can’t walk around in a dressing gown as if I think I’m in a spa. Everyone will laugh at me.
Come on, there
must
be clothes in a hotel. What about . . . the chambermaids’ uniforms! Yes, that’s more like it! They must keep a rack of them somewhere, mustn’t they? Neat little dresses with matching hats. I could tell Luke they’re the latest thing from Prada—and just hope no one asks me to
Luke stares at me, his hands still halfway up the buttons of his blue shirt.
“Take that off,” I say huskily. “What’s the point of dressing up when all we want to do is undress each other?”
A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face, and his eyes begin to gleam.
“You’re so right,” he says, and walks toward me, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
Thank God! I think in relief, as he reaches for my wrap top and gently starts to untie it. This is perfect. This is exactly what I—
Ooh. Mmm.
Actually, this
is
pretty bloody perfect.
Four
BY EIGHT THIRTY the next morning, I still haven’t got up. I don’t want to move an inch. I want to stay in this lovely comfortable bed, wrapped up in this gorgeous white waffle duvet.
“Are you staying there all day?” says Luke, smiling at me. “Not that I don’t want to join you.” He kisses me on the forehead and I snuggle down in the pillows without replying. I just don’t want to get up. I’m so cozy and warm and happy here.
Plus—just a very small point—I still don’t have any clothes.
I’ve already secretly rung down to reception three times about my Special Express. (Once while Luke was in the shower, once while I was in the shower—from the posh bathroom phone—and once very quickly when I sent Luke into the corridor because I said I heard a cat meowing.)
And it hasn’t arrived. I have nil clothes. Nada.
Which hasn’t mattered up until now, because I’ve just been lounging around in bed. But I can’t possibly eat any more croissants or drink any more coffee, nor can I have another shower, and Luke’s half-dressed already.
I’m just going to have to put on yesterday’s clothes again. Which is really hideous, but what else can I do? I’ll just pretend I’m sentimental about them, or maybe hope I can slip them on and Luke won’t even realize. I mean, do men really
notice
what you . . .
Hang on.
Hang on a minute. Where
are
yesterday’s clothes? I’m sure I dropped them just there on the floor . . .
“Luke?” I say, as casually as possible. “Have you seen the clothes I was wearing yesterday?”
“Oh yes,” he says, glancing up from his suitcase. “I sent them to the laundry this morning, along with my stuff.”
I stare at him, unable to breathe.
My only clothes in the whole world have
gone to the laundry
?
“When . . . when will they be back?” I say at last.
“Tomorrow morning.” Luke turns to look at me. “Sorry, I should have said. But it’s not a problem, is it? I mean, I don’t think you have to worry. They do an excellent job.”
“Oh no!” I say in a high, brittle voice. “No, I’m not worried!”
“Good,” he says, and smiles.
“Good,” I say, and smile back.
What am I going to do?
“Oh, and there’s plenty of room in the wardrobe,” says Luke, “if you want me to hang anything up.” He reaches toward my little case and in a panic, I hear myself crying “Nooo!” before I can stop myself. “It’s all right,” I add, as he looks at me in surprise. “My clothes are mostly . . . knitwear.”
Oh God. Oh God. Now he’s putting on his shoes.
What am I going to do
?
OK, come on, Becky, I think frantically. Clothes. Something to wear. Doesn’t matter what.
One of Luke’s suits?
No. He’ll just think it’s too weird, and anyway, his suits all cost about £1,000 so I won’t be able to roll the sleeves up.
My hotel robe? Pretend robes and waffle slippers are the latest fashion? Oh, but I can’t walk around in a dressing gown as if I think I’m in a spa. Everyone will laugh at me.
Come on, there
must
be clothes in a hotel. What about . . . the chambermaids’ uniforms! Yes, that’s more like it! They must keep a rack of them somewhere, mustn’t they? Neat little dresses with matching hats. I could tell Luke they’re the latest thing from Prada—and just hope no one asks me to
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