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  “Er, excuse me?” she shot back indignantly—her good intentions of offering him the benefit of the doubt evaporating in an instant, “I think I had every right to be angry. After all, you were incredibly rude.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he replied. “But I don’t think I was in the remotest bit rude.”

  “Not in the . . . ? I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You stood in Xantia’s hall ogling my tits. I’d call that rude. What would you call it?”

  He looked at her quizzically and took a moment to reply.

  “Oh no,” he said slowly, a penny clearly dropping inside his head. “Do I feel like a berk. I’d come over here to have a go at you, when it was all my fault. Now I get it. You thought I was eyeing up your . . .”

  She blushed. His sandy-colored hair was fashionably short with long sideburns. She’d not noticed that before.

  “Well,” she said, “weren’t you?”

  “No, not at all. I was staring at your T-shirt.”

  “My T-shirt,” she repeated doubtfully.

  “No, honestly, I was,” he said anxiously. “You have to believe me. You see, until recently I was going out with this woman who owned an identical top. In fact she was wearing it the first time we met. It was a painful split and seeing it again just knocked me for six, that’s all.”

  She began shaking her head. “But it was a plain white T-shirt.”

  “Well, yeah,” he said, “a plain white T-shirt that had ‘I’m having a party in my pants, want to come?’ printed across the front.”

  Rachel’s jaw dropped. “That’s absurd,” she said with a half-laugh. “I think I’d have noticed if I’d been wearing something like that, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “You’d have thought so, but I guarantee that’s what you had on.”

  “You promise you’re not making this up?”

  “Absolutely.”

  There was a warm openness to his face. She was suddenly in no doubt that he was telling the truth. She stood thinking.

  “Oh my God,” she said slowly, realizing what must have happened. She’d been so desperate to get out of her top after wetting it in the shower that she’d simply pulled on the first one in the freebie pile as quickly as she could, without so much as glancing at the front. What was more, even when she’d taken it off to change back into her own dry clothes, she still hadn’t noticed the motif.

  “I’d got my T-shirt wet when I was cleaning Xantia’s shower, and I’d borrowed one in a hurry. I never looked at the front. . . .”

  His face broke into a broad grin. She couldn’t help noticing the smattering of freckles over his nose.

  “Well, at least we’ve got that sorted,” he said in a friendly way. “I really am sorry about what happened. I just got a bit carried away. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “No, I’m sorry for being so unpleasant. Shelley—she’s my best mate—she said that because you had a copy of The Clitorati sticking out of your pocket, I’d clearly got you all wrong. She reckoned you were most likely looking at something else completely because you were cross-eyed like the lion in Daktari.”

  “Cross-eyed?” he repeated.

  “Yeah. Oh God I’m sorry, now I’ve embarrassed you.”

  “No, you haven’t.” He was still grinning this boyish, slightly lopsided grin that she couldn’t help finding attractive. “It’s just that I’ve never been compared to a cross-eyed lion before.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Please, it’s OK. Really.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment or two.

  “So, bit of a coincidence you turning up like this,” she said eventually.

  “Not really. I’ve been coming here since it opened back in the eighties.”

  “Oh right,” she said, wondering how she could have even considered he might be a stalker.

  “I’m Rachel by the way,” she added politely.

  “Yes, I know, I just saw your set.” Another lopsided grin.

  “Oh right, course. You did tell me your name the other day, but it’s gone right out of my head.”

  “Matt. Matt Clapton.”

  “Hi, Matt,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He motioned his head toward the two glasses he was holding. “Er, I don’t think I can quite.”

  “Oh God. No, course you can’t,” she said, feeling herself go red. “Stupid of me.” Her hand fell back to her side.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I thought your set was great,” Matt said eventually. “Very, very funny.”

  “Really? Thanks.” Rachel started twirling her hair round her finger—the way she always did when she felt self-conscious.

  “Yeah. You were brilliant. I mean it wasn’t just the gags. . . .” He was becoming so animated now that the beer was starting to splash onto the floor. “But your timing’s totally spot on. You had the audience eating out of your hand.”

  “Honestly? You really think so?” The hair twirling got faster.

  “Absolutely.”

  More silence.

  “Well,” he said, “I’d better get going. There’s somebody waiting for me at the front there.” He nodded his head in the direction of the stage. Rachel turned to look. All the tables in the front row were empty except one where a slim, pretty woman with long blond hair was sitting nibbling peanuts. Having finished with the T-shirt girl, she thought, he hadn’t wasted any time finding somebody else.

  “So, is it good, then, The Clitorati?” she said as he moved to go.

  “Oh the book. I haven’t read it. When you rang I realized I’d run out of paper, so I ended up writing down your address on the inside of the cover. It actually belongs to my flatmate.”

  “Oh well, I hope she’s enjoying it.”

  “He,” Matt said.

  “Oh right. Sorry. I just assumed . . .”

  They both hovered awkwardly for a few more seconds.

  “Right, well . . . see you then,” he said. “And I really am sorry about the other day.”

  “Yeah, me too. Bye.”

  As he walked away he turned back to give her another lopsided grin.

  Onstage Pitsy Carter was about to lead her less than enthusiastic audience in the second songfest of the evening. “Right, all together now,” she yelled. “. . . Oh, don’t go jogging in a white track suit when you’ve got a heavy flow. . . .”

  * * * * *

  “It was the chili that did it,” Adam groaned as he continued to press the chapati firmly to his nose. They’d used up all the paper napkins.

  “Don’t be daft, Ad,” Rachel said, watching his blood seep out from round the chapati and drip onto the tablecloth. “Chili makes people sweat, it doesn’t give them nosebleeds. You know as well as I do, it’s your mother who caused it.”

  Having lost their table at Momo, they had ended up at the Taste of the Raj in Tottenham Court Road. Adam had been suitably apologetic about turning up late. He’d spent the morning clothes shopping. Then when he’d gotten home he’d decided to update his wardrobe catalog. (He kept a meticulous card index file of all his clothes—right down to his socks and pants—which told him exactly what shirt, tie and socks went with which suit.) It was past six before he knew it. Seeing how genuinely sorry he was, Rachel hadn’t had the heart to get cross with him.

  They’d almost come to the end of their meal when Adam’s mother, Sylvia, phoned him on his mobile in a state of near hysteria. It turned out that her bridge had come out in a piece of nut brittle during Hetty Wainthropp Investigates and she was insisting that since Adam was in London, he should come over to Stanmore and fix it right away.

  “Mum,” he’d said in a pleading tone, “it’s past ten and Rachel and I are just finishing dinner. Plus, I don’t have any instruments with me. Can’t it wait until Monday when you can see your own dentist?”

  Apparently it most definitely couldn’t. He continued his feeble protest for another minute or two before fina
lly caving in. No sooner had he done so then blood started gushing from his nose.

  “I think it’s stopping now,” Rachel said, thinking, not for the first time, what an overbearing old bat Adam’s mother was.

  Gingerly, he pulled away the chapati.

  “Yeah,” she said, leaning forward slightly and peering at his nostrils. “It’s fine.”

  He put the chapati on his side plate, on top of the bloodied napkins.

  “Oh by the way,” he said nasally. “I don’t suppose you happened to see last Monday’s Guardian Media? The Telegraph’s advertising for a features editor. . . .”

  “Adam,” she said gently, reaching out and taking his hand. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. Comedy is what I do now. It’s my life. I am not about to give it up.”

  “But this is such a great opportunity. Sixty grand plus a car. It’s a decent package.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “OK, OK,” he cut across her, in a resigned tone. “Forget about the job. Look, there’s something else I want to discuss with you too.”

  “Go on,” she said, wondering what on earth was coming.

  “I’ve just been on the phone to Barry, my accountant. He’s adamant we shouldn’t delay getting married much longer. Thing is, I’ve done some pretty profitable share deals this year and it turns out that if we get married before April 6, I can sell my shares and pass the profit over to you without having to pay capital gains tax. I’d be saving thousands and the money would stay in the joint kitty.”

  As he took a calculator from his breast pocket, Rachel threw back her head and laughed. “Do you know, Adam, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re on about.” She paused and wetted her lips. “But that dibby thing you do with your finger on the calculator is like pure sex.”

  He grinned at her for a moment or two. “Rache, what I’m saying isn’t even remotely complicated. You just can’t be bothered to listen, that’s all.” He tapped in a few more numbers. “Right, just bear with me a sec. . . .”

  “Adam,” she said quietly, trailing her finger over the tablecloth. “There’s this nationwide comedy competition happening in a few weeks and I’ve pretty much decided to enter.”

  “Right,” Adam said, putting down the calculator. “I reckon—at a conservative estimate—I could save twenty grand in capital gains tax if we got married before April. Christ, even you have to admit that’s not to be sneezed at.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t,” she said. “But about the competition . . .”

  He wasn’t listening.

  “You don’t have to make your mind up now,” he was saying. “But getting married straightaway makes extremely sound financial sense for both of us.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

  He put down the calculator. “So tell me about this competition.”

  She explained. “It’s such a fantastic opportunity,” she said, brimming over with excitement. “Lenny reckons I’d be daft to pass it up.”

  “I dunno, Rache,” Adam said, running his finger idly over the rim of his beer glass. “I hope you’re not overstretching yourself. I mean, the opposition is bound to be pretty fierce.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s a risk, but it’s one I’m prepared to take.”

  “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. Though I have to say that in my experience, competitions are for losing, not winning . . . but if it’s what you really want to do . . .”

  “It is, Ad,” she said, her face lit up with enthusiasm. “Believe me, it is.”

  * * * * *

  “Rache,” Adam said, “you didn’t tell me Austrians had moved into your building.”

  “They haven’t,” she said.

  “So why is the front door being opened by a bloke wearing lederhosen and a Tyrolean hat?”

  “What?” Rachel leaned across Adam and peered out of the car side window. “Blimey. Who on earth’s that?”

  “I don’t like this,” Adam declared. “Look, you stay here, I’m going to check him out.”

  He opened the car door.

  “Adam,” Rachel hissed, pulling him back. “For Chrissake, be careful. He might have a . . .”

  “A what?” Adam said. “A semiautomatic bratwurst? Don’t be daft.”

  “I’m not being daft,” she came back at him, “and I’m not having you confront him on your own. I’m coming too.”

  By the time they reached the door, the man had disappeared inside. It then took Rachel several seconds rummaging through her bag before she found her keys. The moment they stepped into the hall, they spotted him hovering outside Shelley’s flat.

  “Er, excuse me,” Rachel called out. “Can I help you?”

  The man swung round. He was tiny, with a fair-sized paunch. He also had a beard and was wearing small gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Oh, hi Rache. Hi Adam,” he said—except it wasn’t the voice of a he. He was a she.

  “Shelley?” Rachel said uncertainly. “Is that you under there?”

  Shelley pulled off the beard and burst out laughing. “Course it is.”

  Adam rolled his eyes.

  “I’ve been to a fancy dress party. We had to go as our favorite hero or heroine.”

  “So,” Adam said, “who did you go as, Captain Von Trapp’s batman?”

  “Hah, hah. Oh come on—isn’t it obvious who I am?”

  Rachel and Adam looked at her and then at each other.

  “Not really,” Rachel said. “No.”

  “Oh come on,” Shelley urged. “It’s easy. Guess.”

  “Nope. Give up,” Rachel declared.

  “I’m Dr. Joseph Bircher. You know—who invented muesli.”

  “Oh right,” Rachel said diplomatically. “I bet that’s a first for a fancy dress party.”

  “Yes,” Adam said. “Very whole grain, I’m sure.”

  Then he whispered to Rachel that Bircher was Swiss.

  Rachel elbowed him in the ribs.

  Shelley feigned offense at the whole-grain remark and then invited them in for a drink. Adam made noises about having to get to his mother’s, but Rachel said five minutes wasn’t going to make much difference.

  While Shelley disappeared in search of a bottle of Château Noshit Aussie organic, Adam went to the loo.

  When he came into the living room, he winced at the decor as if he were seeing it for the first time, flicked an imaginary spot of dirt off the pony skin sofa and sat himself down gingerly next to Rachel. A moment later Shelley came in, carrying two glasses of red wine.

  “The thing about so many wines,” Shelley said, “is that they put antifreeze in them to give them a kick. This stuff is totally additive free.”

  She handed a glass to each of them and then went back to the kitchen to fetch her glass of cranberry juice.

  Adam took one sip of wine and pulled a face. “I can understand why they add the antifreeze,” he muttered.

  This time Rachel kicked him. “Be quiet,” she hissed. “Shelley’ll hear you.”

  Just as Shelley walked back into the room, Adam’s mobile went off. It was his mother again.

  “I’m sorry, but I really do have to go.” He stood up and kissed Rachel briefly on the lips. “It’s probably best if I sleep at Mum’s tonight. I’ll pop round tomorrow to say good-bye.”

  Rachel smiled—doing her best to conceal her disappointment. They hadn’t done it in ages and now they wouldn’t until he got back from South Africa.

  “OK. See ya.”

  He gave Shelley a hesitant, awkward peck on the cheek and left.

  After Adam had gone Rachel told Shelley about the comedy competition and about having met Matt Clapton again. She listened, made highly encouraging noises about the competition and laughed when Rachel explained the mix-up over the T-shirt, but Rachel could tell her friend was preoccupied.

  Eventually their conversation fell into silence.

  “You know,” Shelley said eventually, as she carried on swinging on the ga
rden swing and dragging her feet over the Astro Turf. “You’re so lucky to have a somebody who loves you.”

  Rachel’s smile was tinged with guilt.

  “I mean,” Shelley went on, “at this party tonight, there wasn’t one bloke who seemed even remotely interested in me.”

  Rachel was tempted to say this probably had more to do with the beard and lederhosen than any innate unattractiveness, but she didn’t.

  “Look,” she said, “I know how hard it 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?”