jeans and a
parka. They are chatting intimately, so must be a couple.
He feels a touch uncomfortable: he and Cath seem to be the only straight people here.
* * *
‘I’m the only straight woman here,’ Anna is muttering.
‘Hold on . . . ’ Lou is sending another text to Sofia. Where are you? I’m worried. Please call me. I’m at the show . Then she looks up, scans the queue.
‘Actually, I reckon you’re right. Ha – now you know what it feels like.’
‘Fair point. So, what’s first?’
‘There’s this talk at eleven.’ Lou pulls the programme from her pocket; she’s folded it to the right page. ‘I definitely want to go to that.’
Anna peers over her shoulder. ‘Mm, sounds interesting . . . ’
At that moment someone coughs behind them. Lou turns, sees a slightly plump woman with wispy brown hair and an anxious expression.
‘Sorry,’ says the woman and nods in explanation at the two coffees she is carrying. ‘Can I squeeze through?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Lou and Anna part to make room. Lou is careful to protect her tummy, in case she gets jolted.
The woman hands the man in front of them one of the drinks and he smiles at her. ‘Thanks, love.’
His hair is greying at the temples; he has the sort of face that Lou instinctively warms to. There is an intimacy to the way he looks at the woman.
She leans in close to Anna. ‘Well, you were wrong,’ she whispers and jerks her head towards the couple.
* * *
Sofia has been vaguely aware she is not in her usual bed all night. The mattress is lumpy and narrow and she has almost no room to move. When she wakes more fully, she realizes
why: she’s in a sleeping bag, on a sofa. But whose? There’s a bamboo blind opposite, letting in far too much light – it makes her head hurt. The carpet is covered in ghastly
orange and brown swirls – if she’d seen it before, she knows she’d have remembered. On the table next to her is an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts. Ugh. She heaves
herself up onto her elbows to push it away. Her throat is parched; she badly needs some water.
Then she remembers.
Malene.
Oh no . . . They were dancing in the club when Malene asked her back to her flat, Sofia recalls that, though where they are in relation to Soho now she has no idea. It was late, and she was
drunk; presumably they got here in a taxi.
The rest is blank. She fervently hopes she didn’t sleep with her – that she’s not in Malene’s bed might be a good sign . . .
Gradually she pieces events together. She remembers kissing Malene, here on the sofa, the room spinning. Yes, she was so giddy, it was like being on the waltzer at the end of Brighton Pier. At
one point she actually thought she might vomit. She remembers that in the brighter light of the living room, Malene had terrible skin, and looked about nineteen. Then there was the smoker’s
breath – what a contrast to Lou . . . Sofia had had a pang of conscience, and backed off.
Still, now she’s stuck who knows where, and she has no clue what the time is.
Where’s her mobile?
Ah, here: by some miracle, it’s still in her breast pocket. She’s amazed she didn’t take off her denim jacket when she fell asleep. She must have been in a very bad way.
She tugs out the phone. It’s completely out of battery, and Sofia never carries her charger around.
Then she sees a familiar thin white wire trailing from a socket to the table with the ashtray. What luck – Malene must have an iPhone too.
The mobile will take several minutes to acquire a basic charge. She’ll get ready meanwhile. She feels bad enough about her behaviour already; the last thing she wants to do is hang
about.
* * *
‘Well I never,’ says Anna, as they step inside the hall of the show. ‘Marketing babies. What a weird world we live in.’ Everywhere there are pictures of
wondrous newborns, clear-skinned, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked; there’s not a runny nose or cradle-capped scalp in
parka. They are chatting intimately, so must be a couple.
He feels a touch uncomfortable: he and Cath seem to be the only straight people here.
* * *
‘I’m the only straight woman here,’ Anna is muttering.
‘Hold on . . . ’ Lou is sending another text to Sofia. Where are you? I’m worried. Please call me. I’m at the show . Then she looks up, scans the queue.
‘Actually, I reckon you’re right. Ha – now you know what it feels like.’
‘Fair point. So, what’s first?’
‘There’s this talk at eleven.’ Lou pulls the programme from her pocket; she’s folded it to the right page. ‘I definitely want to go to that.’
Anna peers over her shoulder. ‘Mm, sounds interesting . . . ’
At that moment someone coughs behind them. Lou turns, sees a slightly plump woman with wispy brown hair and an anxious expression.
‘Sorry,’ says the woman and nods in explanation at the two coffees she is carrying. ‘Can I squeeze through?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Lou and Anna part to make room. Lou is careful to protect her tummy, in case she gets jolted.
The woman hands the man in front of them one of the drinks and he smiles at her. ‘Thanks, love.’
His hair is greying at the temples; he has the sort of face that Lou instinctively warms to. There is an intimacy to the way he looks at the woman.
She leans in close to Anna. ‘Well, you were wrong,’ she whispers and jerks her head towards the couple.
* * *
Sofia has been vaguely aware she is not in her usual bed all night. The mattress is lumpy and narrow and she has almost no room to move. When she wakes more fully, she realizes
why: she’s in a sleeping bag, on a sofa. But whose? There’s a bamboo blind opposite, letting in far too much light – it makes her head hurt. The carpet is covered in ghastly
orange and brown swirls – if she’d seen it before, she knows she’d have remembered. On the table next to her is an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts. Ugh. She heaves
herself up onto her elbows to push it away. Her throat is parched; she badly needs some water.
Then she remembers.
Malene.
Oh no . . . They were dancing in the club when Malene asked her back to her flat, Sofia recalls that, though where they are in relation to Soho now she has no idea. It was late, and she was
drunk; presumably they got here in a taxi.
The rest is blank. She fervently hopes she didn’t sleep with her – that she’s not in Malene’s bed might be a good sign . . .
Gradually she pieces events together. She remembers kissing Malene, here on the sofa, the room spinning. Yes, she was so giddy, it was like being on the waltzer at the end of Brighton Pier. At
one point she actually thought she might vomit. She remembers that in the brighter light of the living room, Malene had terrible skin, and looked about nineteen. Then there was the smoker’s
breath – what a contrast to Lou . . . Sofia had had a pang of conscience, and backed off.
Still, now she’s stuck who knows where, and she has no clue what the time is.
Where’s her mobile?
Ah, here: by some miracle, it’s still in her breast pocket. She’s amazed she didn’t take off her denim jacket when she fell asleep. She must have been in a very bad way.
She tugs out the phone. It’s completely out of battery, and Sofia never carries her charger around.
Then she sees a familiar thin white wire trailing from a socket to the table with the ashtray. What luck – Malene must have an iPhone too.
The mobile will take several minutes to acquire a basic charge. She’ll get ready meanwhile. She feels bad enough about her behaviour already; the last thing she wants to do is hang
about.
* * *
‘Well I never,’ says Anna, as they step inside the hall of the show. ‘Marketing babies. What a weird world we live in.’ Everywhere there are pictures of
wondrous newborns, clear-skinned, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked; there’s not a runny nose or cradle-capped scalp in
Similar Books
![Her Three Protectors [The Hot Millionaires #3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/440204/thumbs/152x264/her-three-protectors-the-hot-millionaires-3-siren-publishing-menage-everlasting.png)
