The waistband of the dress was so tight I felt like a ketchup bottle. Would I explode if I sat down? Perhaps I simply wouldn’t be able to sit all evening.
‘I know what I’m doing, Flo,’ Mia replied. ‘They’ll be the sort of people who wear black tie on the weekends and you don’t want to feel out of place, do you?’
Still, at least the red dress distracted me from the Percy debacle.
That evening, I packed it along with an old pair of wellies and a dusty Barbour that I found buried on the coat stand in the hall. Plus six pairs of knickers, two bras, one pair of pyjamas, two pairs of jeans, four different types of top that ranged from casual T-shirt to frilly peasant shirt, two jumpers, my plain black dress from Whistles (what if they went to church on Sunday?), and three pairs of shoes. Converse, black pumps and red heels to go with the dress.
These provisions meant that I arrived at King’s Cross on Saturday morning dragging a large suitcase behind me as if I was off to the South Pole for several months instead of Norfolk for one night. Still, better to be prepared. You never want to run out of knickers.
Rory laughed when he spotted me under the departures board. ‘Let me take that,’ he said, reaching for the bag.
‘Where’s your stuff?’ I asked. He had nothing with him. Just his satchel hanging over one shoulder.
‘Keep various bits and pieces at home. Christ, this is heavy.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Anything for you. Right, come on, platform eleven. Let’s go before the plebs get all the seats.’
He set off for the ticket barriers, booming ‘Excuse me, sorry, sorry, excuse me!’ at other travellers before I could tell him off for being a snob. He stowed my bag and we found a table nearby. I sat by the window while Rory took off his tweed jacket, folded it and slid it carefully on top of his satchel in the overhead rack. He sat with a book on Margaret Thatcher he’d retrieved from the satchel and rubbed a hand up and down my thigh.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yep, all good.’
‘I mean about the dog situation.’
‘Oh, that,’ I said. We’d texted about it the previous night but I’d tried to play it down. ‘Yeah, fine. I mean, there are now ninety bajillion photos of me grimacing like a gargoyle on the internet but hopefully people forget these things.’
‘I blame that character you work with. What’s he called? Jack?’
‘Zach.’
Rory scowled. ‘How did he allow the situation to get so out of control?’
‘Well, he was at the back of the room, so he cou—’
‘And did you see the way he looked at me?’ he interrupted. ‘When I mentioned what I did? I suppose he’s some sort of communist.’
‘I think Ruby’s quite keen on him.’
‘Surely your sister has more taste than that?’
I opened my mouth to reply and then looked out of the window, unsure who I should defend.
‘Anyway,’ Rory went on, his voice more conciliatory, ‘I just wanted to make sure you weren’t too humiliated. But let’s forget it all and have a decent weekend. I’m thrilled you’re here.’
‘Me too,’ I replied, although I was nervous about meeting his parents, especially his artistic mother. ‘Has nice mother,’ I’d written on my list. ‘What’s your mum like?’
‘Like? What do you mean?’
‘You know, what’s her deal? Are you close?’
Rory scratched his chin. ‘She’s quite eccentric. Her father, my grandfather, was a reasonably famous portraitist so they had a bohemian upbringing – illegitimate siblings, wine at breakfast, affairs with the nannies and so on. But I adore her. As will you,’ he said, squeezing my leg, ‘don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worrying,’ I lied. ‘And what about your dad?’
‘He’s also mad. Very English. Practically stitched into his red corduroys.’
‘Ah, so that’s where you get it from?’ I teased. Rory looked like a posh chimney sweep today, in a navy wool waistcoat over a light blue herringbone shirt, with navy trousers and a pair of suede ankle boots.
‘Maybe,’ Rory conceded, sliding his hand down my leg and pinching me around my knee.
‘Ouch!’ I said, and dived for his leg to do the same but he caught my wrist.
‘Nice try but you’re not that strong.’
‘Oww, all right, time out,’ I said, and he released my wrist. I settled back against my seat again. ‘What did your dad do?’
‘He was in the army, then left and went into the City, and now is mostly concerned with killing things. Pheasants, fish, our