IN THE MORNING WE NEEDED SUSTENANCE. We phoned room service. When they knocked at the door, I looked around frantically for a place to hide.
The room had nothing. No cubbyhole or wardrobes, no armoire.
So I lay flat on the bed and pulled the duvet over my head. Meg whispered to go into the bathroom but I preferred my hiding place.
Alas, our breakfast wasn’t delivered by just any anonymous waiter. It was brought by a hotel assistant manager who loved Meg, and whom she loved, so he wanted to chat. He didn’t notice that there were two breakfasts on the tray. He didn’t notice the prince-shaped lump under the duvet. He talked and talked, and caught her up on all the latest, while I, in my duvet cave, started to run out of air.
Thank goodness for all that practice riding in the boot of Billy’s police car. When the man finally left, I sat up, gasping.
Then we both gasped, we were laughing so hard.
We decided to have dinner that night at my place, invite some friends over. We’d cook. Fun, we said, but it would mean food shopping first. There was nothing in my fridge besides grapes and cottage pies.
We could go to Waitrose, I said.
Of course we couldn’t actually go to Waitrose together: that would cause a riot. So we drew up a plan to shop simultaneously, in parallel, and in disguise, without visibly acknowledging each other.
Meg got there minutes before me. She wore a flannel shirt, a bulky overcoat and a beanie, but I was still surprised that no one was recognizing her. Plenty of
Brits watched Suits, surely, yet no one was staring. I’d have spotted her in a crowd of thousands.
Also, no one looked twice at her trolley, which was filled with her suitcases, and two large Soho House bags containing fluffy dressing-gowns she’d bought for us on checking out.
Equally anonymous, I grabbed a basket, walked casually up and down the aisles. Beside the fruit and veg I felt her stroll past me. Actually, it was more a saunter than a stroll. Very saucy. We slid our eyes towards each other, just an instant, then quickly away.
Meg had cut out a roasted-salmon recipe from Food & Wine and with that we’d made a list and divided it in two. She was in charge of finding a baking sheet, while I was tasked with finding parchment paper.
I texted her:Â What the F is parchment paper?
She talked me onto the target.
Above your head.
I spun around. She was a few feet away, peering from behind a display. We both laughed.
I looked back to the shelf.
This?
No, the one next to it.
We were cackling.
When we’d got through our list, I paid at the checkout, then texted Meg about where to meet. Down the parking ramp, under the shop, people-carrier with blacked out windows. Moments later, our shopping snug in the boot, Billy the Rock at the wheel, we roared out of the car park, heading for Nott Cott. I watched the city going past, all the houses and people, and I thought: I can’t wait for you all to meet her.
