Half an hour later, I’d reached the station, paid off the most talkative taxi driver in Yorkshire and installed myself in the Quiet Carriage with provisions for the journey: one large latte, a Diet Coke, a large bottle of still water, two plain croissants and a packet of salt and vinegar McCoy’s crisps.
‘Ladies and gentleman, welcome to York. This train is for London King’s Cross, calling at all stations to Peterborough, where there is a bus replacement service to…’
Fuck’s sake. I scrolled through my phone. Three emails from Peregrine asking how the weekend was going, a text from Mum saying that Jeremy Paxman was very poor on Celebrity Bake Off last night and she thought he might get the boot, a message from Bill with the link to a review for a new French restaurant in Shepherd’s Bush and a message from Lex saying could I ring her ‘immediately’. Some sort of sordid sex story, probably. Strangled with courgetti. Spanked with a spatula. That sort of thing. It could wait. I was in no way strong enough for that discussion, and anyway I was in the Quiet Carriage. I fell asleep before I’d even had a sip of coffee.
The flat smelt when I opened the door. It was the sort of smell you know if you’ve ever ventured into the bedroom of a teenage boy. A musty, stale odour. In the sitting room, Joe lay on the sofa in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt watching Antiques Roadshow, empty packets of crisps scattered around him. A large bottle of Lucozade stood propped on his belly like a cairn on top of a hill.
‘My angel is home!’ he said, swivelling his head towards the door.
‘I’m not feeling very angelic, I can tell you that for free.’
‘Oh dear. Did it not go well?’
‘It went… Erm… How did it go?’ I dropped my bags by the kitchen table and flopped on the opposite sofa. ‘For starters, I probably shouldn’t have kissed my interview subject.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Not really. I mean he tried to, but I said no.’
‘Pols! What on earth? That’s unlike you.’
‘I know, I know. But I was trying to be professional. Or something.’
‘Did you fancy him?’
‘No. Not my type. He’s kind of hot, but in a very obvious way. Tall. Blond hair, sort of… athletic, you know. Blah blah.’
Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Those are the worst. The ones who are obviously hot.’
‘Don’t be mean, I’m not strong enough. I nearly died from my hangover on the train.’
‘Here, have some Lucozade. And then sit down and tell me everything.’
‘No, no, I’m good. I think I need a hot bath and bed.’
Joe sighed and turned his head back to the telly. ‘You’re so boring. I tell you everything.’
‘Too much sometimes, I’d say. Anyway, what have you been doing all weekend? Apart from marinating on the sofa.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.