The World According to Vince - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 0,12
so she curled up on my knee and Zeus snoozed in the pet carrier.
As soon as I sat down, a hot bird with a nice pair of knockers was on me like white on rice.
“Oh my God, that’s so cute! Are these your dogs?”
She leaned down to stroke Tap, giving me an eyeful of her tits, but Tap curled away from her, peering up with worried eyes.
“She’s a bit shy with strangers,” I said. “Zeus is more of a slut—he’ll let anyone stroke him.”
She giggled and tossed her hair back. “I love your accent. Are you Scottish?”
I got that a lot. Americans heard my northern accent and assumed I was a kilt-wearing Jimmy.
“Nope, Derby born and bred, me.”
She obviously had no clue where I meant, but I was used to that. She stroked Zeus who raised his head and yawned, causing Miss Tits to back off as she caught a whiff of his rank breath.
“Oh, yuk!” she huffed, waving her hand in front of her and screwing up her face.
At which point I lost interest in her. I knew Zeus had bad breath, but there was no need to hurt his feelings.
Love me, love my dogs.
After I’d grabbed Tyson from the dog play pen where he’d just shoulder-barged a Jack Russell he was playing with, sending the little fella rolling like a beach ball, I apologized to the owner who at least understood that it wasn’t malicious. Tyson just got over-excited and forgot he was the size of a ten-ton truck, and he wasn’t at all keen to leave his new playmate behind. The Russell was up and shaking himself, tail going like the clappers. No grudges held.
We jogged back slowly while Tap and Zeus curled up together in the pet carrier. Being with my dogs was my happy place. Although hot sex with a raging fox was up there, too. My thoughts turned to Grace. Was she softening towards me?
I checked my watch and sighed; time to get back, feed the hounds, then meet Rick for a suit-fitting with Uncle Sal.
Uncle Sal’s real name was Signor Salvatore Finotello. He was a top bloke and top tailor with Armani. In his youth, sometime in the last century, he’d been the fitter at all the catwalk shows and was definitely the best at tailoring bespoke suits. Most people had to wait six months or more for an appointment with him, but he thought I was the dog’s bollocks and made sure he had time to sort out a couple of wedding tuxes for Rick and me.
Some models can be such wankers, and think that only the couturiers count and that fitters or senior tailors like Uncle Sal don’t matter. But it’s like a Formula One car—a nice design is going to get the fans drooling, but it’s the mechanics who make it fly. Same with designer clothes: you show some fookin’ respect.
The kids were sleepy after I’d fed them so I didn’t feel too bad going out again. Even so, Tap tried it on.
“Enough with the sad eyes,” I said, kissing her on the top of her furry little head. “Your dad has responsibilities. I’ll be back soon, promise.”
She sighed heavily as if my promises meant nowt, which was a bit harsh, and limped off to her bed.
I was running late, as usual, so I didn’t check my phone as I hurried out the door.
It was ringing when I found Rick waiting for me outside Emporio. I was already a few minutes late so I just let it go to voicemail again.
“You could have waited inside, you tosser,” I grinned at him. “It’s freezing out here.”
He shrugged and looked uncomfortable, frowning at the enormous glass-walled entrance, several storeys high.
“Blimey, it’s only a suit-fitting—you’re not going to be stood against a wall and shot, you sad muppet! It’s for your wedding. Cheer up a bit!”
He grimaced, although it might have been a smile. “Let’s get it over with,” he said, the grumpy bastard.
Uncle Sal looked about a hundred years old, maybe more. He’d been with Giorgio since the start and no one wanted to guess what would happen when he finally snuffed it. He’d come to New York to promote the opening of the Fifth Avenue store ten years ago and stayed because he said New York was his spiritual home.
“Ciao, Vincent! Come sta il mio bellissimo ragazzo? Vieni a dare a papà un bacio!”
He was gay as a coot and flamboyant as a flamingo, always wearing eye-watering waistcoats and matching cravats