Obviously I never intended for anything to happen. My plan was to get in there, get it over with and get out quick. I just hadn’t bargained on Patrick Mitchell being so cute, that’s all.
I’d clocked that he was good looking from the photos Tamsin had shown me. And his wife looked quite sweet. Michelle. Pretty but a bit drab. I remember feeling sorry for her. She clearly had no idea what her husband was capable of. I believed most of the rumours I’d heard, to be honest, no matter what I said to Tamsin. There were just too many of them for it not to be true.
I arrived at my stuffy little room at the cheap-but-close Inn at about five o’clock. It contained a TV the size of a dinner plate, a hairdryer that was fixed to the wall in case one of the guests was a kleptomaniac, and a distinct lack of a mini bar. There was soap scum round part of the sink. Something that looked suspiciously like a pubic hair in the shower. The event started at seven, so I lay around doing nothing for a bit and then, just as terminal boredom was about to set in – I can’t bear doing nothing, let alone doing nothing on my own in a shit hole – it was time to get ready.
I made a real effort. I almost wanted him to make a pass at me so that I could report back to Tamsin how well I’d done. I worried that if he didn’t – if he was innocent of the charges – she might think I hadn’t tried hard enough. The evidence would be inconclusive. And if I had to go through with this I might as well try and get an A plus. The more gold stars I can chalk up against my name the better.
I wore the red bodycon dress that Tamsin suggested. I’m not one to big myself up but I know what my good bits are – small waist, long legs – and that dress certainly showcases them. I spent ages doing my make-up. I am useless at making up my own face. I either finish up looking like a clown or a prostitute, or both if there is such a thing (note to self, look into whether starting a brothel full of clown prostitutes would be an astute money-making venture). At one point I wiped it all off and started again. By the end I looked pretty passable.
I arrived at the posh hotel where the event was being held at bang on seven. I was dying for a drink. Tamsin had drilled it into me, though: don’t have more than three glasses of champagne. And I kept agreeing with her. I know I can be a bit of a loose cannon when I’ve had a few. That didn’t stop her saying it five more times, though. When Tamsin makes a point she likes to hammer it home.
They were handing out glasses of something warm, fizzy and sickly sweet as you went through the door. In all the anticipation of how I was going to approach Patrick and fulfil my mission I hadn’t even stopped to think how utterly miserable it would be to go to a do like this on my own. I’m not the sort of person who can strike up a conversation with a random stranger. It’s not just that I don’t want to – which I don’t – it’s that I wouldn’t know how. Flirting I can do. Banal ‘And what is it that you do?’ conversation kills me.
I had a quick scout around but there was nobody I knew. Everyone was in groups of four or five, slapping each other’s backs and clinking glasses left, right and centre. Their best night ever because they might win an award for the grading on Tart Up Your Garden For 99p. Later, four-fifths of them would be crying into their puddings no doubt. Their moment of glory cruelly snatched away. The mind-crushingly lame speech they’d written, thanking everyone from their partner and children to God, screwed up and chucked in the bin.
I stood about a bit, sipping my fizzy wine, and then I decided to have a look for a seating plan. I might as well at least go and sit in my allocated place. It might feel less humiliating than just standing there alone. Plus I could find out which table Patrick was on, which would make hunting him down later easier.
I was looking around for where it might be when I saw him. My prey. I recognized him immediately from the photographs, but the first thing that popped into my mind was how much better looking he was in real life. Which is saying something. The second thing was, Shit. I’ve really got to do this now.
He was chatting to a group of people. A man and three women. I edged a bit closer and it all seemed very businesslike. I heard words like ‘bottom line’ and ‘contingency’. Hardly foreplay. The seating plan turned out to be right behind them so I squeezed past – making sure I took the route that meant I was closest to Patrick. He gave me a smile as I made my way through, but it didn’t seem anything other than friendly. God, that man has a nice smile though.
And then that was that. They called us through to the main hall, I sat at a table full of people I had never met and had no interest in talking to, they served the prawn and avocado starter and the interminable ceremony began. But at least I had him in my sights.