Free Mr Right for the Night by Marisa Mackle Page B

alongside the footpath. She steered well clear of them. She wondered if Claudine had gone home to Paris yet. The terrible twosome had been nowhere to be seen for the rest of the weekend, thank God! Steve would be sitting alone in his flat with his alternative music. He’d be feeling lonely. Well let him, Anna thought. There was nothing she could do for him now.
    The entire house was in darkness. She pushed the f ront door open and fumbled for the light switch. As the hall lit up the phone rang.
    ‘Hello?’ Anna said, expecting it to be for one of the others.
    ‘Ann?’
    ‘Anna, you mean?’
    ‘Oh right. Something spilled on my hand. I couldn’t make it out.’
    ‘Who is this?’ Anna was baffled.
    ‘Rich.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘From the other night, remember?’
    ‘You mean Rick?’
    ‘No Rich, short for Richard.’
    ‘Oh hi!’ She certainly hadn’t expected to hear from him. God, this was . . . well, a pleasant surprise really. When you met men in nightclubs you didn’t automatically expect them to ring. She wondered what he’d seen in her. She’d been fairly langers when they’d stumbled into each other. Not an amazing start. She’d probably looked like a tart gone wrong. In fact, oh God, it was all coming together now . . . she hadn’t even bothered to wash her hair!
    ‘How are you keeping?’ He had a throaty voice. A neutral accent. He was Irish most definitely but she couldn’t figure out from which part exactly.
    ‘Fine.’ Anna tried to keep her voice level. She didn’t want him to think she was excited about the phone call or anything. As if he was the only man who ever called .
    ‘What are you up to?’
    ‘Nothing,’ she said, immediately regretting it. How could she let herself down like that? She was supposed to be a woman with a jam-packed calendar.
    ‘Can I call round?’
    God, he wasn’t a bit shy in coming forward, was he? What could she say? She’d just gone and admitted to having no plans made. ‘Where do you live?’ he pushed.
    She told him. She felt she had no choice.
     
    It took Anna exactly fifteen minutes to scramble speedily around the flat, shoving lone shoes and socks under the bed, grabbing air freshener from the bathroom and drenching the air with it. She emptied the overflowing ashtray, cleaned two coffee cups and checked to make sure the packet of Jaffa cakes was still intact in the press.
    What else? Oh yes, she grabbed three visible books, Mars and Venus on a Date , Mr Maybe and Amanda’s Wedding and threw them in a nearby press. No point giving him any daft ideas. There. She was ready. She took a quick glance in the mirror. Christ! This wouldn’t do at all. She slapped a generous scoop of Flawless Finish on her face, painted a pink mouth somewhere near her lips and sprayed herself liberally with Miracle. The doorbell rang.
    A shocking thought suddenly struck her. This guy was a stranger. What if he was a murderer or a raving nut head? Or an addict? A sex addict maybe, oh God. T he bell rang again. She couldn’t l et him in. She couldn’t. How would she possibly be able to explain it all later to the police as they took fingerprints from her battered body and examined her fingernails for traces of broken skin? The door from the upstairs flat opened and suddenly someone was running down the stairs, Grainne! Thank God. At least it looked like her behind the facemask.
    ‘Are you answering the door or what?’ Grainne looked exasperated.
    ‘Yes . . . well . . . Would you ever do me a huge favour?’
    She explained her predicament. Grainne listened, gobsmacked.
    ‘So you see, if you could just check in on us in about fifteen minutes, say,’ Anna whispered excitedly.
    ‘Fifteen minutes might be too late.’ Grainne’s eyes widened dramatically.
    ‘Right, ten. Thanks, Grainne.’
    Anna shot downstairs and threw the door open. ‘Sorry I didn’t hear the door,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I had the TV on.’
    He stood in the middle of the porch, combat-clad legs