Page 98 of The Girlfriend Clause
“Well. Thank you, Andrea.” I cleared my throat. “So we have just over two weeks now. We need to be ready. Are you happy to say we’d been keeping our relationship quiet, because we prefer privacy? Prior to the art gallery, I mean.”
She nodded.
“Good. The other thing is… you should probably see where I live. For authenticity.”
“Authenticity. Right.”
“I’ve seen yours already,” I said. “It did give me some… insight.”
She fixed me with a look.
“And we’ll need to get you some things,” I added quickly. “For the various events.”
“Things?”
“The wedding. It won’t be low-key. There’ll be photographs, people will expect a certain standard.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my clothes?”
“No. Not that. You always look—I mean, your dress is very—you’re—”
Oh, for fuck’ssake.
“Am Ilovely, Liam?” She smiled and tipped her head on one side.
“Yes.” My ears felt hot. “You—you definitely are.”
“Oh.” Her eyes dropped, left hand reaching to touch the end of a strand of dark hair hanging over her shoulder.
“Anyway,” I said briskly. “We have to think about what you’ll need. For the welcome dinner, the ceremony, reception, after-party, the recovery brunch. It’s a lot.”
“It’s a wedding marathon.”
“With judgment at every checkpoint.” I picked up my knife and fork, determined to salvage some dignity. “So I thought—if you’re free—perhaps this weekend we might…”
“You want to upgrade me from Primark and Zara’s, is that what you’re saying?” I searched her face for anger or sarcasm but couldn’t be sure.
“I don’t—”
“It’s okay, Liam. I’m teasing you.”
Oh.
“Of course.” I looked at my seabass. I’d barely touched it. Andrea’s plate was already empty, cleared in anticipation of her bad boy mushrooms. “Well, should I pick you up? Or I could send a car—”
“I was hoping you’d just give me your credit card.”
Was she?Fuck. Maybe Bonnie was right—
“Liam. I don’t want your bloody credit card.” She rolled her eyes like the idea was ridiculous, then laughed.
She wouldn’t be the first to ask, though. One girl—Sveta—had kitted out her whole apartment after I’d let her borrow it to buy groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, but she didn’t even tell me. Bonnie had spotted Harrods on the bill later.
“Just do whatever you normally do when you’re fitting out a fake girlfriend in posh wedding gear,” she added.
“No plan, as it happens,” I said. “First time.”
“Well,” she said. “I am happy to smarten up my look on your budget, if you insist.”
