Can't say no to her chapter8

Chapter 8

The drive back was uneventful, although I can't say the same for my mood.

Flossie had climbed straight into the back of the car, apparently deciding that paying for nearly six hundred pounds' worth of shopping hadn't earned me the privilege of having her sit beside me. She settled in with her phone, tucked one leg beneath herself and spent most of the journey scrolling through TikTok.

I attempted conversation twice.

"So, what did you think of--"

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

Ten minutes later, I tried again.

"Doing anything tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

Wonderful. Riveting company.

By the time we turned onto the lane leading to the farmhouse, I'd given up and resigned myself to listening to snippets of other people's conversations, terrible music and the occasional shriek of laughter coming from the back seat.

Still, I was in a remarkably good mood.

We'd spent the afternoon shopping, I'd bought Flossie enough clothes to stock a small boutique, and she'd promised me a fashion show. The last part was rather important.

I'd thought about little else since leaving the shops.

Whether she actually intended to go through with it was another matter. She hadn't mentioned it once on the drive home, and I was beginning to worry I'd somehow imagined the entire arrangement.

The farmhouse appeared through the trees, its windows reflecting a miserable grey sky. A few leaves had collected against the front step, and there was that damp autumn smell you get in the countryside when it's been threatening to rain all day.

I parked outside and went round to collect the shopping.

Flossie was already halfway to the front door.

"Bring everything in, Willy."

"Yes, boss."

She didn't turn round, but I could hear her laughing.

Inside, the house was lovely and warm. There was a faint smell of woodsmoke from the sitting room and the familiar scent of candles Flossie always seemed to have burning.

She dropped her handbag onto the arm of the sofa, keeping hold of it for a moment before letting go.

"Put the bags there."

I set them beside the sofa.

"Now take everything out and lay it out nicely."

"Everything?"

"Yes, Willy. Everything."

I got to work.

There was the tank top, the camo hoody, the jeans, several other tops and all the lingerie we'd bought later in the afternoon. I took each item out, removed the tissue paper and laid it across the cushions.

The stockings were particularly awkward. Every time I thought I'd arranged them properly, the packaging would slip or they'd fall onto the floor.

Flossie watched for a bit.

"You're making quite a meal of that."

"I'm trying not to ruin your expensive stockings."

"Our expensive stockings, surely?"

She giggled.

"Well, you paid for them."

"That was rather my point."

When I'd finished, the sofa looked like the display window of a particularly disreputable department store.

I stood back to admire my work.

"Not bad."

Flossie gave it a cursory glance.

"Very nice, bestie."

It was while I was flattening the empty shopping bags that I realised something was missing.

The little white box.

I'd seen her pick it up in the last shop, and I'd been curious about it ever since. It hadn't come out of any of the bags.

I glanced towards her handbag.

Flossie caught me looking.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She raised an eyebrow, then yawned so widely I thought her jaw might dislocate.

"God, I'm shattered."

My heart sank.

"Oh."

"I think I need a nap."

"A nap?"

"Yes, Willy. You know, when you go to sleep for a bit?"

"Thank you, Floss. I'm familiar with the concept."

She stretched her arms above her head. She was still wearing the enormous grey hoody and joggers she'd travelled home in, with a pair of thick socks pulled up beneath the cuffs. There was something black and close-fitting underneath the hoody, visible briefly at her wrists and collar, but I scarcely noticed.

"Fill my water bottle, would you?"

She handed it over before I'd answered.

"Yeah, alright."

"With ice, please."

"Anything else? A slice of lemon? Little paper umbrella?"

She smiled sweetly.

"Don't tempt me."

I went into the kitchen and filled her bottle from the tap, adding a handful of ice cubes. The Aga was ticking away quietly, and the kitchen windows looked out onto the wet garden.

For a moment I just stood there, bottle in hand, wondering whether I ought to remind her about the fashion show.

Probably not.

I took it upstairs.

Flossie was stretched across her bed, phone in hand, her hair spread over the pillowless mattress.

"Here you go."

"Thanks, bestie."

I put the bottle on her bedside table, retrieved her pillow from the floor and passed her the duvet, which was hanging halfway off the bottom of the bed.

She accepted them without looking away from her screen.

Then she said, "Oh, and while I'm asleep, you can tidy my bedroom."

I looked around.

Christ almighty.

The place was a tip.

There were clothes absolutely everywhere. Jeans hanging off the chair, tops draped over the end of the bed, a collection of shoes apparently abandoned wherever she'd happened to remove them. Damp towels were on the radiator and the dressing table was covered in make-up, brushes, empty packaging and enough hair products to open a salon.

Lingerie seemed to make up a good third of the mess.

There were bras on the chair, knickers mixed in with jumpers and stockings tangled around a pair of jeans. Considering what we'd just bought, I wondered whether Flossie was quietly preparing to launch her own underwear empire.

"Err, alright."

"And Will?"

"Yeah?"

"Do it properly. Don't just shove things in cupboards."

She gave me a quick tour of the storage arrangements, without actually getting out of bed.

Dirty things in the hamper. Clean things in the wardrobe. Bras and knickers in the top drawer, everything else in their respective places. Shoes on the rack.

"Got all that?"

"Think so."

"And take the hamper downstairs when you're finished."

"Anything else?"

Her gaze settled on the pile of shoes beside the wardrobe.

"Sorry if they're a bit smelly, bestie."

She giggled.

The comment caught me completely off guard.

After the previous night's business with her feet, she knew perfectly well what sort of effect that remark would have on me.

I tried not to react.

Flossie watched me for a moment, her little smile growing.

"I'm sure you'll manage."

I picked up one of her trainers.

"Very generous of you."

She laughed.

"Oh, and when you're finished, clean your car."

I stopped.

"My car?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's dirty."

"It's not dirty."

"The back is."

"Floss, I washed it about three days ago."

She looked at me as though this was entirely beside the point.

"The inside, Willy. I don't like sitting in a dirty car."

I very nearly pointed out that the back seat had been perfectly respectable before she started occupying it.

Instead, I said, "Right."

"And once you've done that, you can go home, freshen up and go to the shops. Get something nice for dinner."

I frowned.

"Dinner?"

"Yes. You're cooking for me tonight."

"Am I?"

"Mm-hmm."

I should probably have objected to the manner in which she'd decided this.

Instead, I found myself rather pleased.

I liked cooking, and the thought of spending the evening with Flossie was certainly appealing. Besides, a proper dinner together sounded reassuringly normal after the peculiar afternoon we'd just had.

"Yeah, alright. I'd like that."

"Good."

She pulled the duvet up.

"And don't wake me while you're tidying. I want some proper sleep."

"Understood."

She turned back to her phone.

Then, almost as an afterthought, added, "Need to be well rested for your fashion show tonight, don't I?"

I looked up.

There it was.

She hadn't forgotten.

"Right. Of course."

She smiled.

"Promise you won't wake me?"

"Promise."

"Good boy."

That settled it, apparently.

She rolled over, leaving me standing in the middle of her bedroom with an empty water-bottle cap in my hand, a mountain of washing and the increasingly ridiculous feeling that I'd somehow become her unpaid housekeeper.

Still, she had promised the fashion show.

And I was absolutely determined not to ruin my chances.

I started with the floor.

It took a surprisingly long time to establish which clothes were clean. Flossie appeared to operate a system whereby anything she'd worn once was simply thrown in the general direction of the wardrobe and left for somebody else to interpret.

I began sorting.

The ordinary clothes weren't a problem. T-shirts and jumpers could be folded and put away. Jeans went into their own drawer.

The underwear was rather more distracting.

I kept finding expensive-looking bras tucked beneath completely ordinary things, and delicate knickers tangled up in clothes that looked as though they'd been worn to muck out a stable.

I'd known Flossie for years, but standing in her bedroom folding her underwear was still a fairly extraordinary experience.

The worst part was that I was trying desperately to behave as though it wasn't.

She was lying on the bed, supposedly having a nap, although the unmistakable tapping of her thumbs suggested otherwise.

Every time I picked up something particularly revealing, I became convinced she was watching me.

And occasionally, when I glanced over, she was.

She never said anything. She simply looked back at her screen with that irritating little smile.

Eventually I moved on to the shoes.

There were dozens.

High heels, boots, trainers, sandals and things I couldn't have named if my life depended on it. Several pairs looked expensive enough that I was frightened of damaging them.

A few had clearly seen better days.

I picked up a black heel and wrinkled my nose.

It was a rather unfortunate reminder of the previous evening.

Flossie made a small noise from the bed.

I looked over.

"Something funny?"

"No, bestie."

She was smiling at her phone.

I wasn't convinced.

At one point I spent a good five minutes searching for the partner to an almost identical black heel.

When I finally found it, I discovered it belonged to an entirely different pair.

Apparently, Flossie owned three sets of black heels that looked more or less identical to any sane person.

I decided women were completely beyond my understanding.

Twenty minutes later, the bedroom was transformed.

The floor was visible, the clothes were put away, the shoes stood neatly on their rack and the dressing table looked considerably less like the aftermath of a robbery.

I picked up the full laundry hamper.

"All done, Floss."

No answer.

"I'm off to do the car."

Still nothing.

She was typing something on her phone. I stood waiting, feeling increasingly foolish.

Eventually she held up one finger.

Wait.

So I waited.

When she'd finished whatever was so important, she glanced up.

"Mm. Fine."

"You're welcome."

She was already back on her phone.

I carried the hamper downstairs.

The washing machine presented another dilemma.

Flossie hadn't actually told me to put a wash on, and I had no intention of guessing which of her expensive clothes could survive forty degrees.

There were enough different fabrics in that basket to bankrupt me if I made a mistake.

I left it beside the machine.

Better safe than sorry.

Then I drove home, collected the Hoover and a bucket of cleaning supplies, and set about giving the Fiesta the cleanest interior it had received in its entire life.

Not that it particularly needed one.

There was some dust on the dashboard, a few receipts in the door pockets and a bit of grit on the floor mats. Hardly the sort of conditions that warranted an emergency visit from environmental health.

Nevertheless, I vacuumed the seats, cleaned the glass, wiped every bit of plastic I could find and went over the carpets twice.

At one point I considered taking it to a professional car wash, but after spending nearly six hundred pounds on Flossie, paying somebody else to clean my own car seemed an unnecessary extravagance.

An hour later, it looked immaculate.

I put in a fresh air freshener, shut the doors and stood back to admire my work.

She'd better appreciate this.

Although, knowing Flossie, she'd probably get in, find a single crumb and tell me to start again.

Back inside, I washed my hands, made myself comfortable on the sofa and put the cricket on.

Bliss.

England were playing the final Test of the summer. Day three, and the match was still nicely poised.

For anyone unfamiliar with cricket, a Test match can last five days and still finish as a draw. It's one of the many reasons the sport is superior to practically everything else.

I was halfway through watching a particularly entertaining passage of bowling when I realised something.

For the first time all day, nobody was asking me to do anything.

No bags to carry.

No bedroom to tidy.

No car to clean.

No instructions whatsoever.

I almost didn't know what to do with myself.

Naturally, my phone buzzed.

Flossie.

Be here for 7. Bring a bottle of wine that suits whatever you're cooking.

Straight to the point, as ever.

I checked the time and started thinking about dinner.

Sea bass seemed like a good option. I'd do it with proper buttery mash, asparagus and broccoli, finished with garlic butter.

Nothing ridiculously complicated, but if you cooked everything properly, it was lovely.

I genuinely enjoyed cooking. Unlike tidying Flossie's bedroom or spending half the day following her around the shops, it was something I could do without feeling completely out of my depth.

And I wanted to impress her.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

I watched the cricket until six, then reluctantly turned the television off, had a shower and found something reasonably smart to wear.

I even put on some aftershave.

It felt a bit ridiculous, dressing up to cook dinner for someone I'd known most of my life, but I couldn't help myself.

By half past six I was at the supermarket.

The place was practically deserted apart from a few students buying cheap lager and a member of staff who looked thoroughly fed up with life.

I picked up the fish, potatoes, asparagus, broccoli, butter and garlic. Then I headed for the wine aisle.

Fish called for white wine, apparently, although I've always preferred red. I selected a decent Sauvignon Blanc and grabbed myself a beer for while I was cooking.

Just as I was about to head towards the tills, my phone went off again.

Best get 2 or 3 bottles. Let's make it a party x

I grinned.

Well, that sounded promising.

I returned to the wine aisle and picked up another white and a bottle of red. There was no chance I was spending an entire Saturday evening drinking Sauvignon Blanc if I could help it.

Before leaving, I added a tub of honeycomb ice cream.

Flossie's favourite.

A small detail, perhaps, but I knew she'd appreciate it.

Or at least I hoped she would.

By the time I paid, it was nearly seven.

Which meant, of course, that I was going to be late.

I arrived at the farmhouse twelve minutes after seven.

The windows glowed warmly against the darkening yard, and the gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I carried the shopping towards the front door.

It was unlocked.

"Hello?"

"In here!"

Flossie was sitting at the kitchen island, phone in hand, still wearing her enormous hoody and joggers. She'd tied her hair into a loose knot and looked as though she'd spent the entire afternoon doing absolutely nothing.

Which, as far as I knew, was precisely what she'd done.

She glanced at the clock.

"You're late."

"Twelve minutes."

"I know. I counted."

I opened my mouth to say something about the lengths I'd gone to for her that afternoon, but before I could, she slid off her stool and gave me a huge hug.

"Hello, Willy."

The irritation disappeared almost instantly.

"Hello, Floss."

She was already looking into the bags.

"Ooh, what are you making?"

"Sea bass, mash, asparagus and broccoli. Garlic butter as well."

"I love sea bass!"

"I know."

She spotted the ice cream.

"Is that honeycomb?"

"Naturally."

Her face lit up.

"Oh, bestie. You know me too well."

"One of my few redeeming qualities."

"Very few."

She laughed and pulled the wine out.

"Three bottles?"

"You did ask."

"Good boy."

I wished she'd stop saying that.

Or perhaps I didn't.

That was increasingly difficult to establish.

She put the whites into the fridge, leaving the red on the worktop, then opened one of the whites and poured herself a glass.

"Red needs to warm up a bit," she announced.

"I know, Floss."

She ignored that and opened my beer for me.

"There."

"Cheers."

For a while, everything was wonderfully normal.

Flossie perched on her stool, drinking wine and chatting while I peeled the potatoes. The kitchen was warm, the Aga was giving off its usual heat, and the rain had begun tapping against the windows.

She asked about the car.

"Properly clean?"

"Floss, you could perform surgery in the back of it."

She laughed.

"Good. I'll sit there more often."

"That's what worries me."

"Maybe I'll get you a little chauffeur's hat."

"I draw the line at the hat."

"We'll see."

I couldn't help laughing.

Then I asked whether she'd managed to get any sleep.

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I rested."

"On TikTok?"

"That counts."

"Of course it does."

We chatted about people we knew, the day's shopping and something ridiculous she'd seen online.

She even asked about the cricket.

"How's England doing?"

"Not bad. Depends how tomorrow goes."

"How long's the match?"

"Five days."

She looked genuinely appalled.

"Five days? And people actually watch that?"

"Yes, Flossie. Some of us appreciate culture."

"Five days of men throwing a ball at each other."

"Bowling."

"Whatever."

"You're a cultural embarrassment."

She picked up a tea towel and threw it at me.

"Cook my dinner."

I caught it.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Careful, Willy."

But she was smiling, and for a moment it felt like we were back to being the two idiots who'd grown up together.

I rather liked that.

The potatoes were coming along nicely, and I'd started preparing the vegetables when Flossie peered at my beer.

"You're still drinking that?"

"Yes."

"Come on, finish it."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to try the red."

There wasn't much left, so I obliged.

She opened the bottle and poured me a glass, then stood watching while I tasted it.

"Well?"

"Much better than white."

She smiled.

"I knew you'd like it."

I carried on cooking.

It was only when I reached for my glass again that I noticed something odd.

Flossie had barely touched hers.

She'd been sitting there with the same glass of white wine for ages, occasionally taking tiny sips. Meanwhile, I'd finished my beer and was making a respectable start on the red.

I didn't give it much thought at the time.

Flossie wasn't a particularly quick drinker.

And I had a meal to finish.

The sea bass went into the pan, the vegetables were ready, and I put together a garlic butter that smelled absolutely fantastic.

When everything was cooked, I plated it up and carried the dishes to the table.

If I may say so myself, it looked bloody lovely.

Flossie inspected it.

"Very impressive, Willy."

"Wait until you've tasted it."

She took a mouthful of fish.

Stopped.

Then looked at me.

"Will."

For one awful moment, I thought I'd undercooked it.

"What?"

"This is really good."

I grinned.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Seriously."

"Well, I did tell you I could cook."

She took another bite.

"God, it's lovely."

I felt ridiculously pleased with myself.

There was something about Flossie giving me a genuine compliment that made the entire afternoon seem worthwhile.

Which was probably rather pathetic, considering what I'd spent.

But there we were.

We ate, talked and laughed. She told me about a girl from university who'd made a spectacular fool of herself on a night out, and I told her about a particularly unpleasant customer I'd encountered at work.

At one point she laughed so hard she nearly knocked her wine over.

"Steady on," I said. "I'll have to charge for cleaning."

"Don't be silly. You enjoy cleaning for me."

I looked at her.

She smiled innocently and carried on eating.

When she'd finished, she put down her knife and fork.

"I'll have you cooking for me again, William."

"Whenever you desire, Ma'am."

She regarded me for a moment.

"I'm sure you will."

There was something about the certainty of it that left me wondering whether she'd taken the joke rather more seriously than I had.

I cleared the plates and loaded the dishwasher, then fetched the ice cream.

Flossie practically squealed when she saw it.

"Honeycomb!"

"Only the finest for Her Majesty."

"You're spoiling me."

"I've been known to."

"Yes, you have."

She gave me a little smile.

I suddenly found the ice cream rather interesting.

After dessert, we stayed at the table with the wine.

The dishwasher hummed in the background, and the windows had turned completely black apart from our reflections.

It was nice.

Really nice, actually.

For all the strange things that had happened over the past couple of days, I still enjoyed Flossie's company more than anyone else's.

She was funny, clever and capable of making me feel like the most important person in the world.

She was also quite capable of making me feel like a complete idiot.

Usually within the space of five minutes.

She reached for the red and topped up my glass.

"You trying to get me drunk?"

She grinned.

"Would I do that?"

"Absolutely."

"Rude."

I took a sip.

By then I was beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy. Not falling-over drunk, nothing like that, but warm and a bit loose around the edges.

Flossie, meanwhile, seemed perfectly sober.

Her second glass of wine was barely touched.

We talked for another ten minutes or so, until I noticed her looking towards the living room.

The shopping was still spread across the sofa.

All of it.

The tank top, the hoody, the jeans.

And the lingerie.

I found myself looking in the same direction.

Flossie noticed immediately.

"Something on your mind, Willy?"

"Not particularly."

She laughed.

"You're such a bad liar."

"Apparently so."

"You're thinking about your little fashion show, aren't you?"

I could feel myself blushing.

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"Alright, yes."

She grinned.

"I knew it."

"Well, you did promise."

"I did, didn't I?"

"You did."

She glanced towards the living room once more.

"Well, we've got all evening."

Excellent.

I sat up slightly.

"But first," she added, "I want to play a game."

I should have known.

"What sort of game?"

She leant back in her chair.

"Truth or dare."

I laughed.

"What are we, fifteen?"

"Oh, don't be boring."

"Floss, we're sitting in your kitchen drinking wine."

"Exactly. Perfect time."

I considered arguing.

Then I remembered the fashion show, decided not to push my luck and nodded.

"Alright, then."

"Good. You first."

"Naturally."

She rested her chin in her hand.

"Truth or dare, Willy?"

Truth seemed the sensible choice.

At least then she couldn't make me do anything stupid.

"Truth."

Flossie considered the question for a moment.

Then she smiled.

"Why did you spend so much money on me today?"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Of all the questions she could have asked.

"What?"

"You heard."

She tilted her head.

"Why did you spend nearly six hundred pounds buying me clothes?"

I looked at my wine.

"Because..."

And there I stopped.

Because what?

Because she'd asked?

Because I wanted her to be happy?

Because I was hopelessly in love with her and still clinging to the completely irrational hope that one day she might look at me differently?

None of those was something I particularly wanted to admit.

Especially not after several glasses of wine.

Flossie waited.

"Come on, Willy."

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Not really."

She smiled faintly.

"That's an awful lot of money to spend without knowing why."

"Well, you're my best friend."

"Am I?"

"Obviously."

"So you spend six hundred pounds on all your friends?"

I opened my mouth.

Then thought better of it.

She was watching me, one finger tapping against the stem of her wine glass.

"You're making this rather difficult."

"It's truth or dare. You're meant to tell the truth."

"I am."

"Are you?"

I couldn't look at her.

She let me struggle for a few seconds before speaking again.

"Shall I make it easier?"

"Please."

"Did you buy me all those things because you thought I'd like you more?"

Christ.

There it was.

Out in the open.

She hadn't raised her voice or made a joke of it. She'd asked the question as casually as if she'd wanted to know whether I'd remembered to buy milk.

Which somehow made it much worse.

"Floss..."

"Come on, bestie."

I looked down at the table.

There was absolutely no way I was answering that.

"Can I pass?"

She laughed.

"Oh, Willy."

"Seriously."

"One question and you're giving up?"

"Apparently."

She studied me for a moment.

Then smiled.

"Alright. You can pass."

"Thank God."

"But you have to drink."

I glanced at my wine.

"How much?"

"Finish what's left."

I hesitated, then did as I was told.

Flossie watched with an expression that suggested she'd got precisely what she'd wanted.

As soon as I put the glass down, she topped it up again.

"Right. Your turn."

I was quite relieved to be on the other side of the questioning.

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

"Typical."

I considered my options.

Then I remembered the previous evening.

And suddenly I had a rather brilliant idea.

"Right," I said. "I dare you to go to the front door, pick up one of my shoes and give it a proper sniff."

Flossie stared at me.

"Sorry?"

"You heard."

She burst out laughing.

"Are you serious?"

"Completely."

"Oh my God, Willy. You're disgusting!"

"That's a bit rich coming from you after last night."

She raised an eyebrow.

"What about last night?"

"Well, I seem to remember someone making me smell her feet. Thought it was time for some payback."

"Payback?"

"Role reversal, Floss. How the tables have turned."

She was still laughing.

"You're unbelievable."

"You picked dare."

She studied me for a moment.

Then, apparently deciding she'd better honour the rules of her own game, stood up.

"Fine. Where are these horrible things?"

"By the front door."

We went into the hallway.

It was noticeably cooler than the kitchen, and there was a draught coming from beneath the front door.

My trainers were exactly where I'd kicked them off.

Flossie looked down at them.

"Oh, brilliant. Your disgusting trainers."

"They're perfectly respectable, thank you."

She picked one up using just two fingers, holding it away from herself.

"God knows what's living in here."

"Only one way to find out."

She gave me a filthy look.

I grinned.

This was going to be magnificent.

Slowly, and with an expression of complete disgust, she brought the trainer towards her nose.

She took one sniff.

Then immediately recoiled.

"Oh, Willy! That's absolutely vile!"

I burst out laughing.

"Really?"

"Yes! When did you last wash these?"

"They're shoes, Floss. You're not supposed to wash them after every outing."

"Well, you should bloody consider it!"

She dropped the trainer beside its partner.

I was laughing so much I could barely speak.

After everything she'd put me through the previous night, seeing her reaction was deeply satisfying.

"That," I managed, "was absolutely worth it."

Flossie put her hands on her hips.

"Enjoy yourself?"

"Immensely."

She looked at me for a long moment.

Then she smiled.

"Good."

There was something rather deliberate about that smile.

"Because that's the last time you're getting the upper hand tonight."

I laughed.

"Fair enough."

She walked past me towards the kitchen.

"Come on, bestie. Back to the table."

For once, I'd managed to embarrass her.

It wasn't much of a victory.

But I'd take it.

"You'll regret that, mister," she called over her shoulder.

I was still laughing when we sat back down.

Flossie picked up her wine and regarded me across the table.

"Truth or dare?"

Remembering what had happened the last time I'd chosen truth, I didn't fancy another interrogation about my feelings.

"Dare."

She smiled.

"Really? No more truths?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Alright."

She looked around the kitchen, apparently searching for inspiration.

Then her face lit up.

"I dare you to stand up and introduce me properly. Like I'm royalty arriving at a banquet."

I stared at her.

"You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

I gave her a theatrical sigh and stood up.

If she wanted an introduction, she was going to get one.

I cleared my throat and adopted the most ridiculous posh accent I could manage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests and whatever other unfortunate souls have been dragged here this evening..."

Flossie started giggling.

"... may I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Flossie, Duchess of Shropshire, Supreme Ruler of This Kitchen and Terror of the Local Shopping Centre."

She burst out laughing.

I gave an elaborate bow.

"Your Majesty."

"Oh my God, Willy!"

"Was that acceptable?"

"Brilliant."

She wiped her eyes.

"Although you forgot something."

"What's that?"

"The wine."

She pointed towards my glass.

"Every dare comes with a drink."

"Since when?"

"Since now."

"That's convenient."

"Very."

I took a drink.

"Good. Sit down."

I sat.

She was still grinning, and I couldn't help smiling back.

It was a stupid game, really. Exactly the sort of thing we'd have done when we were younger, although preferably without quite so much wine involved.

At least she'd stopped asking difficult questions.

"Right," she said.

I looked up.

"Truth or dare?"

"Hang on. Isn't it my turn to ask you?"

She tilted her head.

"Are you complaining?"

I considered the question.

"No."

"Good. Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

I didn't even need to think about it.

Flossie's smile widened.

"Oh, this is going to be fun."

She glanced towards the living room.

Then back at me.

For a moment she seemed to be considering something.

"No," she said, almost to herself. "Not that one yet."

I frowned.

"That sounds ominous."

"Don't worry about it."

"Very reassuring."

She picked up her glass.

"Willy."

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

I looked at her.

What an odd question.

"Of course I do."

She smiled.

"Good."

Then she looked towards the living room again.

The shopping was still spread across the sofa, and her handbag remained on the arm where she'd left it.

Somewhere inside was that little white box.

I wondered whether she was finally going to explain what she'd bought.

Flossie set down her glass.

"One more dare."

I laughed nervously.

"You're very keen on these."

"Well, you keep choosing them."

Fair point.

I reached for my wine, then hesitated.

I'd certainly had enough to drink by then. My head felt pleasantly light, and I was finding practically everything Flossie said amusing, even when I wasn't entirely sure why.

She, on the other hand, was as bright-eyed as she'd been when I'd first arrived.

Flossie got up and walked towards the light switch.

"Floss?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she flicked off the main kitchen light.

The room became much darker, lit only by the cooker hood and the little lamp on the dresser. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows.

"What are you doing?"

She picked up her phone from the island and turned it over in her hand.

Then she looked at me.

"Truth or dare, Willy?"

I thought about the money question.

About her asking whether I'd bought everything because I wanted her to like me.

There was absolutely no chance I was going through that again.

"Dare."

Flossie smiled.

"Good."

She held out her hand.

"Come with me."