Forfeit (Original Edit)

Chapter Thirteen

Xander pretty much moved in after the wedding and we barely saw another person for a whole, divine week, banishing any thought of bunny boiler exes or what happened in Year Eleven. Things were so good he'd even agreed to go to shopping in Carlisle. The dress code for the Forfeit Halloween dinner was 'Black' and I hadn't a thing to wear on my feet. With lunch including a couple of glasses of Rioja, I'd had the loveliest afternoon wandering around the shops, eventually finding footwear nirvana. Even Xander had grudgingly admired the absolute perfection of the black python Gucci knee-boots.

In the kitchen, he handed me a large glass of wine, trying not to laugh at my underwear and Ugg boots combo. Not the best look, I'll admit.

'You are the best boy...'

Xander raised his eyebrows expectantly. 'Say it.'

'You are the best not-boyfriend a girl could have.'

He slapped my backside, still watching me with utter amusement while he listened to his phone messages. I knocked back a healthy slug of unoaked Chardonnay and flicked through our purchases. My dress, his shirt, his jacket, books, make-up... where the hell were my boots? I tugged Xander's arm. Fifteen hundred pounds of footwear had to be found, please get off the phone.

'Xander, where are my boots?'

'I put everything from the car by the table,' he said, covering his ear to listen to his phone.

Frustrated, I performed another futile search of the bags. I didn't miraculously find the boots but a twinkle did catch my attention. Just visible under the fridge was my belly bar daisy. Thank God. I'd lost it three days ago and hadn't dared tell Xander.

With no regard for my state of undress, I ran out to the car. No boots. OMG. How on earth had I lost them? They were in a huge box, in a big bag. Shop, pub, car. The pub. I dived inside and, digging out the receipt for the drinks, I dialled the number on the bottom, playing with the daisy. The barman finally answered but said there was nothing left in the bar.

'I've lost my boots,' I wailed as Xander finally got off the phone.

'Don't be silly, we only went from the shop to the pub. How could you lose them?' He realised he wasn't helping. 'Oh come on, you can get a new pair tomorrow.'

'I don't want new ones tomorrow.' Red alert, red alert, irrational woman alert. 'I want those ones, tonight.'

'They're just boots, bloody expensive boots but still.' He looked me over again with a growing smile. 'Want me to take your mind off them?'

'No,' I lied. 'We'll be late.'

He shrugged and threw me over his shoulder. Hello, Mr Caveman.

   

Oak Bank, Xander had already warned me, was probably the swankiest, most discreet boutique hotel in the country with one of the best menus. I wasn't sure any of that was entirely true, but I couldn't fault its über-cool charms. The recently renovated seventeenth century country house was kitted out with innovative, local artisan furniture - rustic oak tables were adorned with roofing slate plates and simple crystal glasses. Even the pumpkin lanterns littered around the place looked hand-carved by a master craftsman. The hotel oozed class, impeccable taste and a soupcon of frivolity. Framed mirrors, each no bigger than a postcard, covered the corridor leading to the restaurant - you could check your individual body parts but not all of them at the same time. I adored the place.

'Come on, we're already late,' I said, giggling as Xander studied his reflection, smoothing a barely noticeable kink in his centimetre-long hair. I'd never seen him preen. 'I can't believe you're wearing those scruffy jeans to this place.' His top half was smart in a crisp black shirt and black cashmere sweater but the bottom half was mid-wash denim, very tatty mid-wash denim. He shot me a wink. The boy looked a billion dollars and he bloody knew it. 'OMG, you're as vain as me. I'd never twigged.'