Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday
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that’s kind of the point of addresses.’ He’s picking up my phone now – honestly, does the man have no boundaries whatsoever? – and tapping at the screen. ‘Here’s my number as well, so you can call if you’re late, or lost, or something. Or if you need any further information about the way parties work.’
‘Ha, ha,’ I say, not very impressively, before realizing that actually, I do need one very important piece of information about this particular party. ‘Is there a dress code?’
‘A dress what?’
‘Code. You know …’ I feel hopelessly, embarrassingly uncool, and wish I’d never asked the question. ‘Black tie … er … white tie …?’
‘Well, that’s up to you, but if you do insist on showing up in a tie you might feel a tiny bit overdressed.’
‘No, no, I meant—’
‘I know what you meant. For Christ’s sake, woman, you really do think I grew up in a peat bog, don’t you? I should get you to come with me to my auditions, spin the whole begorrah leprechaun crap without me having to say a word.’ He snaps the lid back on the biro. ‘And no, there’s no dress code. Wear whatever the hell you like. You’ll look good in anything.’
The Brazilian waitress, who’s just come to our table (to refresh our napkins? to dust for crumbs?) shoots me a look that says, simultaneously, You lucky, lucky cow and, Good in anything? He’s being a bit generous, isn’t he?
‘More wine?’ she asks. ‘Dessert? We have an amazing raspberry-jam tart and fresh custard.’
‘Oh, well, I’m always partial to a bit of tart …’ Dillon is interrupted by a ping from his phone. He glances down at it and his eyes narrow. He gets to his feet. ‘I need to go. Can you bring us the bill, darling?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got cash on me …’ I start to ferret for my wallet. ‘Can we split it between two cards?’
He stares at me. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Oh, God, I’m really sorry, would you prefer the cash?’ I’m mortified. ‘I can probably dash to a cashpoint, there must be one nearby …’
He stops me talking by, quite suddenly, leaning down and planting a very soft, very tender kiss right on the very top of my head.
‘Girls don’t usually offer to split the bill with me these days,’ he says, gently. His forehead puckers, as if he’s truly perplexed by what I’ve just done. ‘That’s … well, it’s extremely sweet of you, Fire Girl.’
Sweet? No!! Quarter of an hour ago, he thought I was cool and elegant! Sweet is all wrong!
(And what the hell was I thinking, anyway, blithering on about splitting the bill like that? That wasn’t very Audrey Hepburn.)
Dillon is taking three crisp fifties from his wallet and putting them down on the table.
‘That should cover it. So eight thirty tonight, yeah?’ he says, slipping his wallet and phone back into his jacket pocket.
‘Eight thirty it is! And I promise, I won’t be wearing a tie!’
‘What? Oh, yeah … right …’
And he’s off, heading for the door without turning back.
I watch him leave, and then I just sit for a moment or two, slightly stunned and woozily marinating in my Sauvignon fug.
Sauvignon that I now deeply, deeply regret. Because, let’s be honest, if I’m going out with Dillon O’Hara tonight, I should have started a detox diet and fitness regime … ooooh, let’s think … about ten years ago.
In fact, let’s just recap the most important part of that sentence: I’m going out with Dillon O’Hara tonight.
Unless I’ve just hallucinated the past two hours – I can’t have, can I? – then this is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most exciting thing to happen to me since … well, pretty much since the dawn of time.
And now I’ve only got three or four hours to make myself presentable enough to go out for the evening with a man who usually goes out for the evening with Victoria’s Secret models.
Thank God my hair is all right now, but I’m going to need to put in some serious effort on the make-up front, and find something to wear … Which is a minefield, because the sort of outfits that make me feel my most confident and pretty are probably not at all the sort of outfits that are going to make me fit in at …
Let’s just see where this party’s taking place, according to Dillon’s biro scrawl on my right hand.
Depot. 106 Shoreditch High Street.
‘Shit,’ I say, out loud.
It’s the Made Man party that Cass is going to.
‘Here’s your tart.’ This is the Brazilian waitress, coming over with a large bowl and plonking it down in front of me with a bit less ceremony than she was doing when Dillon was still at the table. ‘That was Dillon O’Hara, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s lovely.’
‘Yes.’
‘So do you work for him, or something?’ she asks, with the confused expression of someone who’s just spent the last hour trying to work out how someone like me (non-Amazonian, non-lingerie model) could possibly fit into the life of someone like Dillon O’Hara.
‘No. We’re just—’
‘Ooooh, are you going to Depot with him tonight?’ She’s caught sight of the scribble on my hand. ‘I’m dying to go there. It’s meant to be amazing.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, yeah. It’s impossible to get into, you know.’ She gives me the faintest hint of an up-and-down. ‘I hope you’ve got something good to wear.’
OK, that puts the tin lid on it.
I can’t go.
I mean, I just can’t, can I? It’s not just the lack of a decade’s worth of health and fitness. Or the fact that I have nothing – nothing – anywhere near good enough to wear. Or the fact that Cass is going to be there, and that it’s her big night, and that if I turn up, on her big night, with Dillon O’Hara, she’s going to kill me.
It’s all of these, combined.
Plus the fact that, now that the Sauvignon haze is starting to wear off a little bit, I’ve realized the truth of the matter: that me going out for the evening with Dillon O’Hara is just … well, it’s just as unreal as Audrey Hepburn was last night. It’s a hologram. A desert mirage. The idea can never, really, become reality.
I pick up my phone and scroll through to find where Dillon has put his number. I’m going to text him, immediately, to say I can’t go. Rip off the plaster cleanly and quickly, then just stop thinking about it.
Here it is, under D for Dillon.
He’s saved it, though, under the name Dillon Seamus Finlan Patrick Eoghan Diarmuid Patrick (again) Malachy O’Hara.
I let out a laugh. Followed, briefly, by a little, longing whimper.
But I can’t do it. I just can’t. Better, all round, for me to keep the memory of this perfect, albeit slightly bizarre, hamburger and wine lunch, and leave it there. Before sullying the golden perfection of this afternoon by turning up to the party badly dressed, poorly groomed, and slightly flabby.
And let’s face it, Dillon isn’t asking me there as his date. He has a sort-of-girlfriend (albeit one who cheats on him with huge naked Scandinavians). I’ll probably spend half the night trying to find him in a crowded sea