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  ‘I have it on good authority that Brent’s not quick,’ she says with a dirty chuckle. ‘That he’s very, very thorough.’

  I groan in protest as I unhook the gate between the two houses, making my way into next door’s back garden. We might be working together, even hanging out together, but she’s my little cousin. Sometimes it’s hard not to think of her as anything but young. I definitely don’t need to know about her sex life. Ignorance is bliss? I don’t think that counts, considering I’m her reluctant alibi.

  I’m not jealous, by the way. Except for cuddling. I do miss cuddling.

  ‘I was thinking I might come over again this weekend.’

  ‘To perve on my hot, temporary neighbour again?’ The gate squeaks as I close it behind me, the noise somehow much louder in the dark evening.

  ‘Nah, though he is a very welcome bonus. I thought we could watch a movie, eat carbs, and bond a bit.’

  ‘If we bond any more, you’ll be grafted to my hip.’

  Heather sets off laughing again, making me smile but then my smile falls when I realise how much I’ll miss her when she starts university in a couple of months. It might seem odd to some that we’re still talking despite having spent the whole day working together and then the evening together, but the fact is, we could probably carry on a conversation underwater. Also, I don’t like the idea of her travelling alone at this time of night.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yep.’ I carefully step over the next plant pot, this one overflowing with geraniums.

  ‘You should totally do something about him while you’re there.’

  ‘Do something? Like what?’

  ‘I dunno. Flirt. Let him catch you putting out the rubbish in your jammies or something.’

  ‘Ha! You want him to run away?’

  ‘Not the pyjamas you sleep in, obviously. You must have sexier ones than those.’

  ‘You are funny.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to be. I mean it—it’s not like you haven’t been drooling over that delicious piece of man bod yourself.’

  ‘I have not,’ I retort. ‘Well, maybe just a little,’ I amend. ‘But he isn’t really my type.’

  ‘Tall, bronzed, and hung like a donkey is everyone’s type, silly. Is he home?’ she adds a little excitedly. I already know he’s not but glance at the bank of darkened bi-fold glass doors on the back of the Victorian-era villa anyway. ‘What if he mistakes you for a cat burglar creeping around his garden and dashes out to tackle you to the ground?’

  ‘Then I’ll probably need a few days off work to recover,’ I murmur, peering under a small topiary hedge.

  ‘I’d say you would by the size of him. Remember when he was working out on the lawn the other day in nothing more than those blue shorts? Lawdy, lawdy!’ I can almost see her fanning her face.

  ‘You mean when you insisted on drinking your coffee upstairs, and I found you in the window seat with your tongue almost plastered to the windowpane?’

  ‘I seem to remember I wasn’t the only one.’ Her sardonic tone turns a little salacious as she adds, ‘God, those abs. And those shorts, remember?’ She makes an inarticulate noise as I swallow a little thickly myself because yes, I remember. How could I not? Particularly as the soft fabric clung to a very particular part of him. ‘That thing was like a Coke can! And so . . . bouncy. I’m surprised he didn’t injure himself.’

  ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation while you’re on public transport.’

  ‘Chill, the carriage is empty. But you should totally introduce yourself to him,’ she adds animatedly.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I stick the toe of my shoe in the flowerbeds, dispersing the flora and fauna as I scan for tell-tale signs of pink kitty skin, but no luck.

  ‘I mean it, he’d be perfect rebound material. He’s obviously single—’

  ‘Not obviously.’

  ‘If he’s not single, he must have a very understanding partner given the trail of women you’ve seen go in and out of his place.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d seen a trail of women come out of his place. I said he just looked like someone who would.’

  ‘Oh, Judgey McJudgerson,’ she taunts.

  ‘You never know what goes on behind closed doors,’ I reply a little loftily. ‘Besides, I’m surprised you’d suggest I sleep with a possible man whore given I’ve recently spent several months engaged to one.’

  ‘Ah-ah. No slut shaming. Besides, Cameron wasn’t a slut. He was a snake. And if you ask me, a man who’s free with his favours without expectation is exactly the rebound type.’

  ‘In theory, maybe.’

  ‘And speaking of theories, here’s one for you. Do you think the boss lady would accept deliciously sore as grounds for sick leave?’

  ‘I’m going to hang up if you say one more thing about your planned evening.’

  ‘I was talking about you. Say hot neighbour dude finds you wandering around his garden tonight? A damsel in distress with her pussy in need of rescuing.’

  I groan as though in pain. And not from my scraped knees.

  ‘What? It’s a valid concept and one worthy of investigating.’

  ‘The only pussy I’m interested in rescuing is this evening’s escaped feline. Besides, I’m more likely to need time off to recover from a concussion and a couple of cracked ribs.’ And cracking is exactly what my knee does as I straighten from looking under the very modern table of his patio furniture setting. ‘Because if he finds me wandering around his garden in the dark, I expect he’ll take me for a thief and tackle me to the ground.’ And the Coke can in his shorts isn’t the only large part of him; the man has to be six foot at least. And built. ‘Anyway, for all we know, he might be butt ugly or have heinous facial hair.’ Neither of us has seen his face, which has either been shaded by the maple tree that towers over his lawn, or his back was facing us. I didn’t know a back could be so muscly.

  ‘Personally, I like a bit of stubble.’

  ‘What’s your stance on porn star moustaches or bushy ones like Yosemite Sam?’

  ‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’

  Ha! Most boys her age haven’t gotten past the bum-fluff beard stage.

  ‘Mir, he was doing yoga in the garden. Think of how bendy he’ll be.’

  ‘This is such an inappropriate conversation to be having,’ I mutter, stabbing the toe of my shoe in the ornamental grass next.

  ‘Yeah, but a fun one. What do you care if he’s ugly or fuzzy faced as long as he makes your eyes cross in ecstasy?’

  ‘Just because he’s well-endowed doesn’t mean he’ll be an expert. It sometimes makes them lazy. So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Not Brent.’

  ‘I will hang up,’ I threaten.

  ‘Un-wedge your knickers,’ she says on a cackle. ‘I’d totally risk a concussion for a roll across the lawn with him.’

  ‘What has gotten into you?’ Heather is ordinarily very sweet if not a tiny bit socially awkward sometimes.

  ‘What can I say? Cocktails and sexting bring naughty Heather out to play.’

  ‘Well, feel free to bring back my sweet cousin Heather-feather anytime you’d like,’ I reply, using her childhood nickname.

  ‘I’ve heard Brent does this thing with a feather that—’

  ‘Lalalalalaa!’

  ‘Maybe hot neighbour dude could bring out naughty Miranda?’

  ‘Maybe you can ask him when you visit next.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I answer, sliding my hand low into a wall of tall bamboo, silently praying there’s nothing hiding in there—other than the cat, that is—as I squint into the thick, dark greenery. ‘For one, I don’t want to become just another woman traipsing in and out of his front door. God knows he doesn’t need one more. And two—’

  ‘You’re a big scaredy-cat?’

  ‘I am not. I’m more like an average-sized one.’

  Heather laughs, then adds, ‘And for two, you’re no
t into the Adonis type because you like your men blond and slightly pudgy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on. Cameron was hardly a catch.’

  ‘He isn’t pudgy! He’s just . . . large. Solid and manly.’ As I make my way over to a huge stainless-steel barbecue which shines eerily in the moonlight, I wonder briefly if I’m defending him or my taste in men. My tastes, definitely. ‘Here, pussy, pussy,’ I call, peering into the darkness.

  ‘Fat. Squat. And not yours.’

  ‘I’m aware.’ I stand quickly, bumping my head on the corner of the thing. Ouch!

  ‘Come on, Mir. You’ve got to move on.’

  ‘I am—I have!’ I press my hand over the smarting area as my nose begins to prickle with the onset of tears, the cause of which is hard to tell. Physical pain or drunkenly emotional?

  ‘One more thing, then I’ll shut up. This cat-sitting gig is over soon, right? If you get a chance, at least have a conversation with the man. I mean a proper adult conversation.’

  ‘I’m not having an adult conversation with him in my underwear, Heather.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to molest him. Just talk to him.’

  ‘You don’t let up, do you?’

  ‘Nope. Anyway, the train is pulling into the station now, but I have one more thing to say.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ My sigh is the song of the long-suffering.

  ‘I bet Cameron’s got moobs. Pudgy little ones with pasty pink nipples.’

  ‘He does not.’ Much.

  ‘And you know who doesn’t have moobs? Hot neighbour dude.’

  I’m distracted from answering by the sight of a disconcerting streak of pink shooting across the tiny lawn.

  ‘There you are, you furry felon! He’s here—David Meowie. Hang on.’ I stick my phone into the breast pocket of my shirt, my heels sinking into the earth as I follow the cat back across the grass and patio, over the table—at least, that’s the way the cat goes, but I stick to going around. Following her, I duck around the corner of the house just in time to see his snake-like tail disappear into the house via a medium-sized doggy door.

  ‘Ah, hell,’ I mutter, pulling my phone from my pocket again. ‘Heth, you’re sure he’s there waiting for you?’

  ‘He’s standing on the platform, on the other side of the doors, with a smile the size of half a bike wheel.’

  ‘And he’s a decent human?’

  ‘Well, he’s male,’ she answers, ‘some would consider that sort of human.’

  ‘Okay. Have fun. Use condoms. And call me if you need anything,’ I mutter, getting down on my knees on the patio. ‘I’ve got to go. The cat has just disappeared into hot neighbour dude’s house.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go in after him,’ I answer as though obvious. Though it would only be obvious if she was looking at what I am; the sight of a partially open doggy door.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. That’s breaking and entering.’

  ‘I can’t let him run free in someone else’s house. Besides, he’s a prize-winning Sphynx. If I lose him, I’ll never get a gig again. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait—this is drunk Miranda talking, not sensible, regular—’

  ‘No, this is desperate Miranda speaking. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ I hang up, deciding I might still be a little tipsy after all.’ Tipsy and desperate, but the only thing that matters right now is: can I pretend to be a golden retriever?

  I push the flap upwards with my palm, then wiggle my head and shoulders inside sort of sideways. And there in the middle of the kitchen table, in a beam of moonlight, sits David Meowie with one leg in the air as he inelegantly grooms himself.

  ‘Come on, David. We both know you don’t have the testicles for it.’ I twist forward, my palms on the cool kitchen tile, then wiggle in a little farther, forward momentum stopping as I reach my hips. ‘Get off the nice, hot neighbour dude’s glass table.’

  One thing I won’t miss about living in the homes of London’s wealthy—in addition to cleaning kitty litter and dishing up smelly food—is cleaning cat butt puckers off glossy furniture. Sphynx cats are strange, strange creatures.

  There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to twist back onto my side and slide in that way. But as I try, the waistband of my skirt snags on something.

  ‘Damn.’

  And as I try to rotate my upper body a little to see what, the snag becomes a tearing sound. Not only am I stuck, but now I can also feel the evening air where I shouldn’t.

  ‘Give me a break.’ I stare down at the light-coloured tiles, my shoulders wilting along with my utterance.

  Until I hear footsteps from somewhere farther inside the vast house—masculine footsteps, thankfully unaccompanied by the tap-tap of heels. From defeated to frantic, I begin to twist and thrust myself backwards, ignoring the rending sound of fabric in my haste. And if there’s anything guaranteed to make you sober up quickly, it’s the prospect of being caught doing something illegal. And stupid. Stupidly illegal? Maybe these are the reasons I close my eyes as the room floods with light, indulging in the toddler version of plausible deniability.

  Maybe I’m not so sober after all.

  ‘Escaped again, have you?’

  His voice is deep and smoky and a little amused. I screw my eyes tighter. I don’t need to look—really, I don’t—and not for fear of seeing a porn star moustache. Is being half in and half out of a stranger’s home, uninvited, only half a break and entering charge?

  Footsteps sound, then falter, the soles of his shoes making a shuffling sound against the tile.

  ‘What do we have here?’ Deep, smoky, amused, and a little bit posh.

  I brace myself as I raise my head. ‘Hello. You appear to have your hands on my pussy.’

  3

  Miranda

  As far as titles go, hot neighbour dude doesn’t do him justice.

  He’s so not a dude, even if he does look a little amusedly perplexed.

  Fair-haired, tanned, and tall, he doesn’t have a moustache of any kind—though he’s more than old enough to grow one—and he’s handsome in a delicious sort of urbane way. And judging by the sexy half smile he’s currently raining down on me, he’s thoroughly aware of just how good looking he is. Black pants and a white shirt open at the neck, the silken strips of a bow tie lie on either side, giving him the air of a gift someone couldn’t wait to unwrap.

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure,’ he almost purrs, readjusting David Meowie against his chest, who looks perfectly at ease there. This from the cat that’s done nothing but hiss and bare his teeth at me since I arrived ten days ago.

  That pleasure or the pleasure? It’s a strange kind of introduction, and one that sends my mind to review my previous statement.

  You appear to have your hands on my pussy.

  No. I couldn’t have said that because life isn’t that cruel.

  ‘I’m sure I would’ve remembered.’

  Oh.

  Damn.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ I hold up my hand, though I’m not sure it adds any dignity to my current position. ‘Let me get this straight. You find a strange woman half in and half out of your house, and that’s your response?’

  ‘Hm. You’re right. Half measures are never any fun. Are you in, or are you out?’ He issues his response like a dare.

  ‘What I am is stuck.’ His burst of deep laugher is startling, his head thrown back, the light in the room highlighting the rasp of sandy stubble on his chin. At least until he looks at me again, all faux seriousness.

  ‘I’m to believe this is the pussy you’re referring to?’

  ‘Obviously,’ I answer haughtily. Though I’m not sure I can carry it off, given my current position and circumstances.

  ‘You’re sure this cat belongs to you?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Then I must take you for a cat burglar.’ The flash of his smile is almost disconcerting. His teeth are white and even and not a b
it shark-like, yet . . . ‘Should I alert the authorities?’

  As he slides his hand into his pocket, I splutter a panicked, ‘What? No!’

  ‘Ah, but you see, I know this cat doesn’t belong to you.’

  ‘He doesn’t belong to you, either,’ I retort, suddenly annoyed and no longer concerned about being on my hands and knees, stuck half in and half out of his doorway. If I’m a thief, I must be the worst in metropolitan London.

  ‘No, but it is in my house.’

  ‘Then by that marker, so am I.’

  ‘Perhaps you belong to me, too.’

  ‘Erm, no.’ Or maybe yes please. Partially. ‘But as neither of us were invited, are you going to call the police on him, too?’ I point a finger at David Meowie.

  ‘I think it might be better if we continue this conversation face to face.’

  ‘Well, that would be wonderful but for the small matter of my being stuck.’

  He seems to ponder this for a moment, obviously still entertained by our exchange, before setting the cat down on the glass tabletop, who proceeds to curl himself up in a ball on top of an abandoned newspaper. The kitchen, now that the light is on and I get a moment to take it all in, consists of walnut cabinetry, dated beige tiles, and antique-looking accents. An old-fashioned kettle, the kind that whistles, sits on the stovetop, and a cookery book lies open on a stand.

  It sounds weird, but he really doesn’t look like he belongs here. It’s like that song from Sesame Street, the one about things not looking like the other.

  ‘Now, let’s see what’s to be done.’ Before I can answer, he drops to his haunches in front of me. ‘May I?’

  I nod, not able to find words because his eyes are a brilliant peacock blue this close. I can’t say I’ve ever seen eyes this shade before, and it’s absolutely unfair that God would give this man such ultra-thick lashes when I have to resort to an expensive mascara to get a similar effect. It’s hard to guess his age, but he’s definitely older, though not old. Early thirties, maybe? His lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile, the skin around his eyes is creased in the outer corners as though he finds amusement in everything. Though I suppose there is plenty to find comical in my current predicament. Only I could get myself into—