Free The Personal Shopper by Carmen Reid Page B

leave and so sorry, etc etc.
    Exiting the table head high in what she hoped was a dignified manner, she couldn’t help taking a glance back to see if Lloyd had got up to follow her. Well, why not? Wasn’t he desperate to know more about her? The dwarf-baiter? Even if she was 35!?
    No! He wasn’t even watching her go! His head was turned, he was deep in conversation with Lucinda, who – outrageously – had moved herself back into the chair Annie had just vacated.
    But of course Hillary the hostess was chasing after her, catching up with her at the door.
    ‘How did it go? You’re looking so fabulous by the way,’ she gushed. ‘We will phone you tomorrow and ask if there’s anyone you met tonight that you want to contact.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Annie managed, although she’d have preferred a pithy, Pah, don’t bother. What a bunch of losers!
    She buttoned her jacket up, fled to the first pub she could find and gulped down a gin and tonic while waiting for her minicab to turn up, more thoroughly humiliated than she could ever remember feeling after any school disco.
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
    Connor babysits:
     
    Dark blue chunky cashmere rollneck (Armani)
    Slouchy indigo jeans (Nudie)
    White T-shirt (Paul Smith)
    Pink and aqua socks (Paul Smith)
    Tight boxers (Aussie Bum)
    Suede bowling boots (Camper)
    Total est. cost: £520
     
    ‘Why does no-one want me?’
     
     
    ‘Mizz Valentine, you been on a hot date?’ the taxi driver greeted her with a grin. It was the same driver who’d taken her home from Dinah’s house last Friday, Mr Abdul Nwocha and his not-so-trusty Nissan Bluebird. The week before she’d noticed an ominous rattle underneath the car, hinting at an exhaust close to exhaustion. It was still there.
    But, like all the other drivers she knew at this cab firm,   he was cheap but polite, friendly and waited outside your home until you were safely inside.
    ‘How did it go?’ he asked Annie once she was buckled into her seat.
    ‘It was fine.’ She offered him a smile. She wasn’t even going to begin to describe the evening in its full glory. Yet another dating disaster, further proof, as if she needed it, that she was hopeless at this . . . that there was no-one good left out there . . . and that husbands were   completely underrated. She squeezed away the tears of frustration that were threatening, balled up her hands and tried to concentrate on Mr Nwocha and his chat.
    ‘Be seeing him again?’ he asked, his dark face and shiny leather jacket gleaming in the oncoming headlights, his tree-shaped air freshener swinging madly, sending blasts of throat-tightening fake pine as the car jolted on creaky suspension over the speed humps in the road. Each one threatened the exhaust with a death blow.
    ‘No, somehow I don’t think so.’ She managed a smile. ‘I don’t think he was really in my Dream Date Top Ten . . . Busy night?’ she asked, needing a change of subject.
    ‘It will be, my friend.’ He smiled and cranked up the tinny music coming from the radio.
    Traffic, football and the weather filled the remaining minutes of the journey, then once Annie had paid and tipped him, despite his protests, and was getting out of the car, Mr Nwocha leaned over and patted her arm reassuringly: ‘If you’ve no date for next week you can always give me a call.’ A throaty giggle followed this, along with a wink.
    ‘Thank you,’ she smiled , ‘I’m sure you’d be a very nice date.’ She winked back. ‘Have a good night.’
    ‘I’m a great cook,’ he offered as she closed the cab door.
    ‘Then you won’t be alone for long,’ she told him.
    As she walked to her front door, her phone beeped with a text from Dinah.
    DID I WIN THE BET? it read.
    Annie wondered if Mr Nwocha’s offer would count.
    As she opened the door, she could hear the very, very welcome sound of Connor McCabe – the six-foot-three, dark-haired, devastatingly handsome actor that every woman deserved to have as a best friend –