debated whether or not to try him on his cell. She didn’t want him to think that she was checking up on him, though of course this was precisely what she was doing. After all, Graham had told her that he was going out with some of the lads from the office tonight. He probably wouldn’t be too pleased to have her calling up to confirm his whereabouts in front of his work colleagues. Come to think of it, she didn’t really want them jumping to the conclusion that she was some mad, possessive bunny boiler. Then again, this was assuming that he was actually out with his work colleagues, and not simply using them as an alibi. For all she knew, he could just as easily be in bed with some ex-girlfriend he’d bumped into on the tube, or even worse, some man called Darren he’d met at a gay support group a week ago. That was the trouble with cell phones. They were so bloody mobile. Great if you were stuck in traffic and needed to let an important client know that you were going to be late for a meeting. Even better for tracking down a coke dealer on a Saturday night. But when it came to confirming whether the man you were dating really was where he said he was, with the people he said he was with, they were no use at all. Which, presumably, was part of the reason men liked them so much.
She could always pretend that she was calling to confirm details of the dinner party they had been invited to tomorrow night, though she knew perfectly well that Graham’s old school friend Jeremy and his wife, Pip, were expecting them at 7:30 P.M. sharp. Caroline felt nauseous at the mere thought of it. Jeremy and Pip were two of the most irritating, smug, middle-class twits she had ever met. The prospect of spending an entire evening facing them over the dinner table made her stomach churn. No doubt they’d be sampling some exotic new recipe Pip had picked up at one of her evening classes. What was it last time? Braised pheasant with pancetta? Followed by grilled peaches with a raspberry and red wine sorbet? Designer food, her mother would have called it. For once, Caroline was forced to concede that she had a point.
What was Pip doing learning all these fancy new recipes anyway? It wasn’t as if she actually ate anything. Caroline could picture her now—moving her food around her plate, rearranging it in a series of ever more decorative displays, before finally whisking the plate away and tipping the whole lot into the bin. Pip was one of those annoying stick insect women who took absolutely no pleasure in food. Cooking was just another means of drawing attention to her superior breeding and impeccable good taste.
Caroline resented women like Pip, and berated herself for feeling so intimidated by them. She wondered if it was worth skipping dinner tonight and maybe having a few lines of coke instead. It wasn’t as if she made a habit of it. How much harm could come from missing the odd meal here and there? And how much weight could she expect to lose in a day? Half a pound perhaps? Not a lot, but just enough to give herself that extra boost of confidence. And maybe she should wear that slinky black dress, the one that drew attention to her cleavage. Pip may have been blessed with narrow hips and the appetite of a bird, but she was obviously at the back of the queue when other assets were given out. As for Jeremy, Caroline had yet to meet a married man whose eyes didn’t wander when there was a decent pair of breasts on show.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to call Graham now, she thought, wandering into the bedroom and opening her wardrobe. Better to concentrate on making a big impression tomorrow night. One thing was certain—if she wore that dress, nobody would be admiring Pip’s cooking for very long. It would be worth it just to see the look on her face.
Martin was lying on his back with his legs in the air. Inches above his face, Carl was issuing instructions. “Okay, Martin. Take it nice and slowly. Tighten those tummy
She could always pretend that she was calling to confirm details of the dinner party they had been invited to tomorrow night, though she knew perfectly well that Graham’s old school friend Jeremy and his wife, Pip, were expecting them at 7:30 P.M. sharp. Caroline felt nauseous at the mere thought of it. Jeremy and Pip were two of the most irritating, smug, middle-class twits she had ever met. The prospect of spending an entire evening facing them over the dinner table made her stomach churn. No doubt they’d be sampling some exotic new recipe Pip had picked up at one of her evening classes. What was it last time? Braised pheasant with pancetta? Followed by grilled peaches with a raspberry and red wine sorbet? Designer food, her mother would have called it. For once, Caroline was forced to concede that she had a point.
What was Pip doing learning all these fancy new recipes anyway? It wasn’t as if she actually ate anything. Caroline could picture her now—moving her food around her plate, rearranging it in a series of ever more decorative displays, before finally whisking the plate away and tipping the whole lot into the bin. Pip was one of those annoying stick insect women who took absolutely no pleasure in food. Cooking was just another means of drawing attention to her superior breeding and impeccable good taste.
Caroline resented women like Pip, and berated herself for feeling so intimidated by them. She wondered if it was worth skipping dinner tonight and maybe having a few lines of coke instead. It wasn’t as if she made a habit of it. How much harm could come from missing the odd meal here and there? And how much weight could she expect to lose in a day? Half a pound perhaps? Not a lot, but just enough to give herself that extra boost of confidence. And maybe she should wear that slinky black dress, the one that drew attention to her cleavage. Pip may have been blessed with narrow hips and the appetite of a bird, but she was obviously at the back of the queue when other assets were given out. As for Jeremy, Caroline had yet to meet a married man whose eyes didn’t wander when there was a decent pair of breasts on show.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to call Graham now, she thought, wandering into the bedroom and opening her wardrobe. Better to concentrate on making a big impression tomorrow night. One thing was certain—if she wore that dress, nobody would be admiring Pip’s cooking for very long. It would be worth it just to see the look on her face.
Martin was lying on his back with his legs in the air. Inches above his face, Carl was issuing instructions. “Okay, Martin. Take it nice and slowly. Tighten those tummy
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