Page 87 of The Girlfriend Clause
“It’s a compliment. Hot dogs are great.”
James rolled his eyes. “Andy, I don’t think you’re getting this. Billionaires don’t understand clutter. Their idea of mess is a crooked picture frame in the guest wing.”
“We don’t all get to live in luxury penthouses with views of the Thames,” I said. Part of me relished the idea of Prima von Donna tiptoeing through the debris that had nowhereto hide because the apartment was so small. “He’s been here before and—”
“Forsex, Andy. He wasn’t looking at the decor,” said James. “Did he even leave the bedroom?”
“He’ll just have to handle it,” I insisted.
“That’s my hot dog,” said Eliza.
Me:Cool. See youthen.
Let him see it. This was real. This waslife.May he trip over Mr. Darcy’s scratching post on his way out.
“Right, well, I’d love to stay and help clean up, but pad thai waits for no man,” said James, jumping up. “I’ve got to get home for my Uber Eats. Good luck with your sexy psychopath—don’t let him talk you into signing anything else.”
And he was gone.
“Bit late for a pad thai,” said Eliza.
I shrugged. Maybe we should just give it a light once-over? Pizza boxes squatted on the floor like modern art sculptures. The kitchen counter was hidden under three half-dead avocados and five sample packs of Fortis ErectaGel—one of which was suspiciously sticky. And an overflowing laundry basket perched on top of the fridge—because where else could we keep a week’s worth of knickers? Certainly not in the laundry room I didn’t have.
I wasn’t quite sure how things had got like this, but it definitely wasn’t billionaire boyfriend-ready.
“Okay. It’s ten thirty. So allowing for sleep, we’ve got… three hours?” I looked at Eliza. “We can do it. Right?”
“Andy, it’ll take you at least half an hour to do your hair in the morning.”
She was right. And I still had to take off my nail polish. Notto mention, a good thirty minutes to ensure my makeup was convincinglySaturday-morning-no-makeup.
Not that I cared what he thought.
But it was important that I looked good while I didn’t care.
I scooped up three wine glasses and jammed the pizza boxes under my armpit, then headed to the kitchen, booting a cluster of Mr. Darcy’s cat toys in the direction of his basket as I went.
“Well, we’re committed now.”
I mean, it wasn’t like the place wasthatbad. It waslivedin.
We had nothing to hide.
*
“The loo! Andy, you haven’t cleaned the loo!” Eliza’s voice had an edge of hysteria. “What if he needs a wee? We can’t very well send him to the pub next door.”
She stood at the kitchen sink frantically scrubbing the last two pots, her hair tied in a pineapple on top of her head. It was nine forty. Fuck. He’d be here any minute.
I was already coated in a thin film of sweat from vacuuming like a maniac, but she was right—I’d forgotten the loo. Dammit. Liam’s toilets were probably so pristine you could perform open-heart surgery on the lid. Mine needed an exorcism, not a wipe down.
“On it,” I bellowed from the bathroom. I gave the loo a spray and a swipe, then threw the cloth into a bucket—only to realize the bucket had nowhere to go. The airing cupboard would have to do. We’d been piling random junk in there since dawn, once it became clear that the homely debris of our daily lives wasn’t so muchshabby chicas it was Hoarders: Mad CatLady Edition.
I shoved the bucket into a small nook at the bottom of the cupboard under a twisted plastic Christmas tree and a broken clothes horse, giving an extra shove to the leaking lava lamp and novelty popcorn maker that looked dangerously close to escaping. Mum’s “gifts” were stuffed onto the highest shelf where they wobbled like a badly stacked Jenga tower, one door slam away from total humiliation.
Nine fifty. Ten minutes.Shit.I mentally checked off my list ofbare minimums. I needed a shower, and my teeth were still furry. Then deodorant… maybe mascara? No—too try-hard.Or was it?And was there even time to redo my nails? Absolutely not. What if he showed up early? What if he actually wanted coffee? My heart was thudding so hard I half expected Eliza to tell me to keep it down.
Seven minutes later, my sister and I were both sitting on the sofa, flicking oh, so casually through carefully selected magazines, our collection ofHeat,Closer,andTake a Breakstashed under the sofa along with a stray box of tampons. This was the time for my three copies ofArtMonthlyto shine, along with an ancient copy ofTatlerEliza had managed to dig out. Not that we were bothered about impressing Mr. Billionaire. We just didn’t feel entirely comfortable with anyone knowing about our addiction toTorso of the Weekor how thoroughly thumbed theI Married my Cousin’s Ghostarticle was.
