Lindsey Kelk Girl Collection: About a Girl, What a Girl Wants. Lindsey Kelk

      ‘That’s fast work.’ Amy sounded horribly impressed. ‘Who? Where? How? I want all the gory details. I haven’t had sex in months, and you’ve been shagged twice in a week? I’m horribly jealous.’

      ‘He’s a journalist for the magazine,’ I replied, eyes locked on the handprint in the pillows, imagining Nick still lying there, still asleep. ‘I have a horrible feeling I may have just shat were I intend to eat.’

      ‘You are talking figuratively, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘Just making sure this isn’t the start of a different story.’

      ‘Figuratively,’ I confirmed. ‘And it was stupid. He’s a complete twat.’

      ‘Hot twat?’

      ‘The hottest.’

      ‘Oh my God, your life is turning into a Taylor Swift song. This is amazing.’ She didn’t sound too concerned. ‘Really, Tess, what’s the problem? You shagged a hot man. It’s good – it’s sorbet sex. Palate cleanser. Get the taste of tit-face Charlie out of your vag.’

      ‘That’s so poetic.’ She was disgusting sometimes. ‘Have you heard from him?’

      ‘No,’ she answered. ‘And don’t change the subject. Tell me about this foxy wanker who charmed your iron knickers off.’

      ‘I have no idea what happened, really. I think pretending to be Vanessa is getting to me,’ I said with half a yawn. Hearing Amy’s voice was like having a warm bath and a hot chocolate. ‘I saw him, I hated him, and then I wanted to have sex with him. And then I did. I didn’t even really have to try. It was mental.’

      ‘Women don’t really have to try – how many times have I told you?’ she said. ‘You just need to be, like, oi, big boy, let’s have it. And if they don’t respond, they’re not worth having. Or gay. Or both.’

      ‘I’m not sure I agree with that, but OK,’ I muttered, trying to remember whether or not I’d called Nick ‘big boy’ at any point in the past two days. It wouldn’t have been inaccurate, but it would have been indelicate at best. ‘I’m just mad at myself because he’s such a knob. I don’t even like him.’

      ‘So hate-fuck him until you go blind, come home and never think about him again,’ Amy suggested as though it were completely rational. ‘And you’re always mad at yourself. Or feeling guilty. Or feeling guilty about being mad. You are allowed to just enjoy yourself, you know.’

      ‘I am?’ That was a scandalous new concept.

      ‘Really, Tess, you’ve got to stop calling me from fucking Hawaii and complaining. Ooh, I’m in paradise. Ooh, I’ve shagged a gorgeous man. Ooh, I just found a magical pony that shits diamonds. Just get on with it.’

      ‘I haven’t found a …’ It took me a second to understand what she was getting at. ‘Fine. Sorry. I just feel a bit gross, that’s all.’

      ‘Because you had sex with a hot man?’

      ‘Because I had sex with a hot man who I don’t know and don’t like.’

      ‘Honestly, Tess Sigourney Brookes.’ Amy was starting to get annoyed. ‘It’s like feminism never happened with you sometimes.’

      ‘How is this feminism?’ I was starting to wish I’d never called. ‘How am I progressing women’s rights by letting a bad man put his penis in me?’

      ‘Have you never seen Sex and the City? And I’m fine. Thanks for asking.’

      Oh, bloody hell – of course. Amy had lost her job. I’d completely forgotten.

      ‘I’m sorry, I’m just so tired. It’s like five in the morning or something, isn’t it? I wasn’t thinking. Are you OK? Have you found a new job yet?’

      ‘I don’t really want to talk about it right now,’ she snapped, and then sighed, softening at once. We weren’t very good at being mad with each other. ‘Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about any of it. Come Sunday, you’re never going to see any of these people again, are you? So just have fun before you have to come home and live in the real world again.’

      She’d made a good – and worrying – point.

      ‘Thank you for being amazing,’ I said, fighting full-on yawns by now. And rightly so. I was jet-lagged, mentally exhausted from All Of The Lying, and physically exhausted from All Of The Sex. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

      ‘You’re welcome,’ she replied. ‘And you’d die. You’d actually just die.’

      ‘I’m going to sleep.’ I was smiling again. ‘Talk to you later.’

      ‘Not if it’s to tell me you found Aladdin’s lamp,’ Amy said. ‘Love you.’

      ‘Love you too,’ I said, waiting for the double beep to tell me she’d hung up before I set my phone back on the nightstand and fell fast asleep.

      The thing I’d learned first about Paige was that she was not shy about personal boundaries. Having already demonstrated how very comfortable she was with letting herself into my cottage, she had clearly decided it was perfectly reasonable for her to come into my bedroom while I was still fast asleep.

      ‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ she said, tapping me briskly on the top of the head until I opened my eyes, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. Not for me. ‘How are you still asleep? It’s almost ten.’

      ‘Oh shit’ I rubbed my eyes and tried not to upset any of my injuries. I was sore everywhere and I didn’t really want to have to explain why to Paige. ‘What time are we meeting Bennett?’

      ‘We’re not,’ Paige said with a frown. ‘He’s cancelled. Again. We’re meeting his son in half an hour, though. It would seem Daddy dearest is being a bit of a diva and his son is going to explain what’s going on.’

      ‘He has a son?’ I was a bit surprised. But then, as Amy often liked to remind me, even Elton John was married.

      ‘Yeah, he’s taking over the business. Has taken over the business. I don’t know, actually, I’m only the art director. They tell me naahthing.’

      ‘So Nick’s going to interview the son?’ I was confused. And still so very tired. It was all I could do not to swipe that coffee cup out of her perfectly manicured hand.

      ‘I don’t know.’ Paige shook her head. ‘If it’s all we get, it’s all we get. But will anyone care? I mean, who wants to know about the business brain? How often do you read about Robert Duffy compared with Marc Jacobs?’

      ‘Who?’ I asked.

      ‘You are funny,’ she said. ‘I keep forgetting you’re not actually Vanessa. Or in fashion. Or a photographer.’

      Exactly what I needed to be reminded of first thing in the morning.

      ‘Not that I’ve got time to worry about that.’ She slapped my duvet-covered arse and stood up. ‘Come on, out of bed. Up and at ’em.’

      ‘You’re looking very fresh considering the state of you last night,’ I commented on my way into the bathroom. Paige followed. Surely she didn’t think we were going to chat while I had a shower? She sat down on the toilet, lid down, and looked up at me, wide eyes bright and sparkling. Oh. She did.

      ‘Berocca, eye drops and four of these,’ she said, holding up the coffee. ‘And I work in fashion, darling. If you can’t get your shit together the morning after, you may as well fuck off to the teen mags where no one cares what state you’re in.’

      ‘Nice.’ I turned on the shower, waited for it to steam up the glass screen and pulled my clothes off as quickly as possible, disappearing under the stream of red-hot water and rinsing off all the residual sleep and sex.

      ‘Anyway, what state did you come home in?’ Paige shouted over