the Cuba flights, sure. I already said I’d put that on my credit card. So long as you’ll pay me back when you can…’
Lawrence looked down at his dilapidated trainers. ‘No, I was just saying that if I don’t get the flights to Paris now, they’ll be astronomical next month. So, if you lend me the money for that now, I’ll then have more money to pay you back for the Cuba money next month when I’ve been paid for that corporate filming job I did? Basically, it just makes good financial sense to get them now before they double in price?’
The knot in her belly, previously conker-sized, was now more iceberg in scale.
‘Holly?’ Lawrence took her hand. ‘You’d just be helping me out so much. Remember last year, when that rep from Red Green films was so positive about my work? I think if I can just get talking to them again this year then I might honestly have a shot at being taken on.’ He stared at Holly with his ‘look, I’m a reasonable man’ face on. ‘Folly, it’s only £50. If I had it and you needed it I wouldn’t think twice! You know, when I’ve made it, you won’t know what’s hit you, you’ll be sooooo spoiled!’
How did he do that? Not only manipulate her into lending him money, but also insult her by simultaneously insinuating that she was mean with her money? There was no winning.
‘Besides, you can just use Lawrence Logic and pretend the Cuba flights were £25 extra each. I know, I’ve got it! You’re always saying you’d go to the cinema more if only you had the time, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well… our plane will have in-flight entertainment on it, won’t it, Cheryl?’
Cheryl nodded. ‘Yes, it should have a full programme of the latest movies.’ She turned to stare at Lawrence, as though intrigued as to where he was going with this.
‘Well, an eight-hour flight is like going to the movies at least three or four times. So, at standard central London prices, you’re looking at £10 times four, plus if you indulge in popcorn once or twice, well, you’re already way over the £50 mark already!’
Cheryl looked impressed at Lawrence Vorderman. ‘That’s a funny way of looking at things. I might start doing that…’
Holly nodded weakly. ‘Yes it is. He’s a bit special, this one.’ She turned to Lawrence. ‘Have you checked there’ll be popcorn on the plane then?’
‘Ha-ha. You get the point, don’t you?’
Cheryl was smiling at them, clearly having fallen for Lawrence’s Odd-box charms.
Lawrence looked at Holly, hope flashing in his blinking, puppy-dog eyes.
‘Please, Fol? You know I’ll pay you back.’
Holly sighed.
‘OK. Sorry, Cheryl, can we just get another flight on there too? One return to Paris?’
‘Just the one?’ said Cheryl, looking to Holly in surprise.
‘Yes. I’m not going, I can’t afford it.’
As Lawrence went through the finer details, Holly picked up her other credit card and handed it to Cheryl. ‘Whack the whole sorry lot on there please.’
Lawrence grinned his schoolboy smile as Cheryl totted up the bill. Holly was practically shaking as she typed in her PIN and the receipt whirred and printed the four-figure amount that was pushing one month’s salary. It’s just pretend money, she told herself. And it’ll be a great chance for us to put the spark back. And he’ll definitely pay me back before my contract finishes, so it’s basically all good. Plus one day, Lawrence actually will be a red carpet sensation able to treat us and I’ll feel much less like a gargantuan mug, so thinking about it, we’re totally fine and dandy here aren’t we, she decided, just as Lawrence leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Thank you so, so much. Right, I’m taking you home for a mojito to say thank you!’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘And Hol?’
‘What?’
‘You’re sure you won’t come with me to Paris?’
‘ARRRRGH. NO!’ she squawked. ‘My love,’ she added, seeing the hurt in his eyes.
As they walked up the road towards Lawrence’s flat, Holly’s phone beeped with a text message: ‘You are cordially invited to an “Eff-Off Valentine’s Day party”. Next Saturday at Flat A, 249 Fortess Road, Tufnell. Bring booze, snacks and your sexy (ideally single) selves, 7 p.m. onwards. Love B xx.’
‘Oh right? I think I’ve just been invited to a party at my own house. How very Bella!’ Holly said as they walked through Lawrence’s cluttered but high-ceilinged hallway. Once again, as she walked into the tiny bedroom she’d dubbed The Lawrence Pit, she had to restrain herself from calling 999 to inform the police of a burglary. It looked like someone had taken a machine gun, pointed it at the room and splattered it with jumble-sale bullets. In the far corner of The Lawrence Pit was a not-quite-double bed. Next to that, a desk bowed inwards with the weight of the enormous monitor, currently doubling as TV and computer. Next to that stood the leaning tower of Ikea – a cream canvas wardrobe that was perpetually lopsided: having begun life as a temporary storage solution, it had become permanent as time went on. It was empty bar a few discarded items; among them a suit jacket that hadn’t seen daylight since 1997. The rest of his clothes were hung neatly… on the floor. Holly tried not to let any of this bother her as they kissed, fell into bed in a mojito-fuelled slumber.
The next morning, Holly was playing one of her favourite weekend games: setting her alarm at least an hour before she needed to get up, then pressing snooze every nine minutes and drifting back into legalised, blissful oblivion. On this particular Saturday, things were getting a little out of hand. She’d been snoozing for almost 90 minutes when Lawrence interrupted her by planting a kiss on her nose.
She opened her eyes one at a time. Lawrence was dressed in his Che Guevara T-shirt again, some rogue chest hairs poking out of the top.
‘Folly, sorry to wake you. I have to go now. Is it OK to borrow some cashish?’
‘Mmm? Sure. There’s a load of change in my purse. Help yourself,’ she said through slumber, before rolling back under the covers, wishing that his broken blinds would magically fix themselves in order to cover the gap where the sun was streaming through.
‘Oh,’ he said, surveying the coins. ‘I need a bit more than that. I’ve got to pay for my website hosting tomorrow or else it will all come crashing down.’
‘Is anything actually on your site yet?’
‘Well, no, but I have to pay rent on it still, otherwise I’ll lose the domain name, or something. Sorry. My Solo card is up to its limit, and mum said she can’t give me any more money this month. Can you lend me, like, fifty, that should cover it? Sorry, I hate to ask…’
As if on cue, the opening beats to The Littlest Hobo bleated out like a cacophony into her left ear. And the snooze fest was over with a thud. Holly punched the ‘stop’ button on her phone, and resolved to change the once-nostalgic-now-infuriating alarm tone at the next available
