trips with her own mother right now, rather than dear, lonely Phyllis, as lovely as she was. But there wasn’t time to get all emotional.
‘Tell you what,’ Amy chirped, after a longish interval, ‘I’ll borrow those trousers for work if you wear my turquoise Christian Louboutin wedges on Christmas Day. OK? Deal or no deal?’
Phyllis chuckled on the other end of the line, just as Justin emerged into the hall, pocketing his mobile. He sought Amy out, sliding his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzling his face into her collarbone.
‘I’ve never known such a girl for shoes!’ Phyllis laughed down the line. ‘High heels? Do you want to send me to my grave?’
Both women felt the full force of the dreadful pause that followed. Unwelcome tears pricked Amy’s eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ Phyllis said after a few moments. ‘How clumsy of me.’
‘It’s fine, really,’ Amy gulped as Justin, listening in, hugged her tight.
‘Anyway, you have a lovely night, all right?’ Phyllis went on.
‘I will,’ Amy whispered. ‘Thanks.’
‘And tell that son of mine he must be working far too hard if he’s leaving you to go out on your own rather than taking you somewhere nice.’
‘I hear you, Ma,’ Justin mumbled, from deep in the hollow above Amy’s collarbone.
‘Bye, Phyllis,’ Amy said, not trusting herself to say more.
‘Goodbye, dear.’
Replacing the receiver, Amy wriggled out of Justin’s embrace and turned to face him. She clasped his shoulders, took a deep breath, and eased him into an upright position, fixing him with the sternest glower she could muster. Justin couldn’t help giving a little snort of laughter, which he unsuccessfully tried to disguise as a coughing fit. He smelled nice, though. Luckily for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he spluttered after a few moments, ‘but you are even cuter when you’re cross.’
Amy drew back further, narrowed her eyes and raised a single eyebrow. An old trick, to be sure, but an absolute killer when it came to all things Justin.
‘I appear to be in the doghouse,’ he ventured. ‘Don’t tell me the colour’s run on the Marc Jacobs?’
Amy nodded.
‘Sheez, I hope it hasn’t faded out too much …’ He stopped when Amy whacked him. ‘Ooyah! OK, I apologise. I’m sorry I turned your shirt pink. I shall never go near the washing machine again.’
‘That’s not the solution I had in mind,’ Amy replied primly, stroking the fabric of her newly salmoned blouse. His flippancy was beginning to grate. ‘This blouse is ruined and I wanted to wear it this evening. Not to mention my knickers.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Justin smirked. ‘I was just about to mention those.’
‘Could you please at least pretend you’re concentrating on my crisis?’ Amy complained, capturing Justin’s wrists just as his hands began to travel down her body.
‘Spoilsport. OK, well, the blouse, let me think. Maybe I could dunk it in some bleach?’
It was impossible to tell if he was serious or not. ‘I’m sorry?’ Amy exclaimed. ‘Justin Campbell, did you just say the word “dunk” within twenty yards of my beautiful clothes? Would you ever dunk your precious threads in a bucket of Domestos?’
Bingo. An arrow to the heart. She may as well have asked: ‘Would you please jump off the balcony onto the concrete thirty feet below?’
Finally, he looked abashed. He freed his hands from her grip and laid them on her shoulders. ‘Come on, gorgeous, let me help you find something else to wear tonight. Tell you what, you can put on a fashion show, and I’ll be Simon Cowell …’
Amy awarded him a filthy look.
‘OK then, I’ll be Simon Cowell without the rude comments and dodgy strides.’ He led her through to the rumpled tranquillity of their bedroom, and flung open Amy’s double wardrobe doors.
It concealed an impressive collection. Not that much of it was particularly flash – Amy’s salary was definitely more High Street than Bond Street – but she’d made some impressive finds in Camden Market and Portobello Road over the past few years, and was secretly very proud of her bargain-hunting prowess. Justin, on the other hand, who could afford designer clothes a little more regularly than Amy’s once-in-a-blue-moon splurges, owned an immaculate capsule collection of casual work wear, which, for a straight bloke, was scarily tasteful.
‘Where is it you’re off to tonight again?’ he asked, stroking his stubble.
Amy turned and made a show of riffling through the rail. ‘Erm, just to the pub. With Jes. Shouldn’t be too late back.’ Slowly, guiltily, she risked a glance round. Thank goodness he wasn’t scrutinising her face; wasn’t aware of her lie.
Justin nodded. ‘OK, so no fancy gear, then?’
Colouring further, Amy breathed, ‘No, erm, I guess not. Nothing fancy.’
Before long she had tried on, and rejected, about seven different outfits. Silently she cursed her small frame. Come on! she snarled at the rail. I need elegant! Womanly! A bit of a chest! Nothing was right and Justin by now was lounging on the bed, unhelpful, mentally co-ordinating his own big night and paying little attention to her travails. Which should have been a blessing but, still, Amy found herself stung that he wasn’t being a bit more contrite, having just wrecked an entire drumful of her clothing.
‘Thanks, Justin, I’d never manage to get ready without you,’ she muttered sarcastically, tossing an Indian silk scarf towards the pile of discarded clothing and ‘missing’, draping it over Justin’s face instead.
‘Sorry, Abe, I was miles away.’ He leaped up and surged over to her clothing rail. ‘OK, pub night, yeah?’ He twisted his face. ‘Well, that’s a no-brainer, isn’t it?’ He plunged a hand into the wardrobe and pulled out her bootleg Miss Sixtys in triumph. ‘These!’ he beamed. Then he surged into the rail once more. ‘With this!’
Amy was aghast. Now he was holding out her old black polo-neck jumper.
‘And some trainers!’ he went on. ‘You’ve got some reasonably clean trainers in that shoe emporium of yours, haven’t you? Job done!’
‘I …’ Stumped, Amy did not know how to respond.
‘Well, what else would you wear to the pub?’ Justin went on. ‘You don’t want your fancy stuff coming back stinking of beer, do you?’
Amy had to concede his logic, even though she knew that his subtext was: ‘You, Amy Marsh, will go out tonight in the equivalent of a burka, and nobody will hit on you …’ however little he was prepared to admit it.
Still, in a last-minute save, she had her answer. ‘Justin, don’t be daft. I can’t go out in jeans and a jumper in June! I’ll melt into a puddle.’
‘But—’
