““Ata …” No. I can’t pronounce it. Milt probably couldn’t either. It’s only now I realise that he hasn’t used it once, not through all ten courses or our Royal Progress to his room. His room! I was so stupidly naive I assumed we were whizzing to the rooftop bar. “A … Abigail,” I stutter. I’ve got her on my mind. He’ll expect to see her, expect to take my clothes off, throw me on the bed. No, not bed. Not now. I’m too hung over, don’t want to … “Gale?” I nod. Gale will do. There’s quite a... strong one blowing through my head, a sickening sort of churning in my stomach. It started in the lift. I realised then I was trapped with him – alone. Not Milt-and-Wayne-and-Ed-and-Gabe-and-Shorty, who was glamorous and witty, sophisticated, dishy, but one small balding man with sweaty hands. It was worse still when the lift doors glided open and I saw, not bar or disco, but rows and rows of bedrooms. I should have said “no”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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