“So what was her name?” asks Molly as she closes her phone.
“I don’t think it ever got that intimate,” I reply as I stretch my legs out on Murray’s two-seater.
Molly leans forward and picks up the copy of Vanity Fair from the coffee table. “He still has this? It’s nearly three years old.”
“If I had a house I’d probably get a conservatory fitted like hers,” I say.
“Surely you don’t fit conservatories,” says Molly, fanning the pages without looking at them, “you construct them.”
The toilet flushes and Murray strolls in to the lounge fastening his belt.
“Well, that one came out kicking and screaming,” he says.
“Do you mind…” groans Molly wearily.
“Don’t crease that magazine.”
I look at my watch, “Are you ready now?”
“Yeh,” replies Murray. “Just needed to throw some passengers overboard.”
Out on the street, Molly checks her phone again.
“I’m going to leave you two to your sordid evening.”
“You’re not coming to the Cloisters?” I say. “It’s 3-for-1 Tuesday.”
“I have to meet someone,” says Molly.
“Mind you don’t get a dose,” says Murray.
“I’ve just been sitting in your flat so it’s probably too late. See ya.”
And with a wave Molly wanders off down the street. Murray and I start walking the other way.
“Hey,” says Murray after a few moments, “Guess who I spent Saturday night with.”
“Bruce Hornsby And The Range?”
“Tanya Cole.”
“Who?”
“You remember…”
Do I? I don’t think so…Oh, wait, yes I do…
“Not Dustbin Tits?”
“Please,” groans Murray, “why does everybody still have to call her that?”
“It suits her,” I say, “or should I say them?”
“Anyway,” continues Murray, “we spent a very romantic evening together and I found her nothing short of charming and attentive.”
“Eeugh…” I mutter.
“What do you mean ‘eeugh’?”
“You’d better get yourself checked out, never mind Molly.”
“So you’re saying she’s a slag?”
“Come on,” I say. “She’s got ALL YOU CAN EAT FOR A TENNER tattooed on her navel.”
“She explained that, actually,” says Murray defiantly.
“Oh, really,” I say.
“Yes. She used to sell nuts from a tray at illegal cage fights and one day her blouse got torn and she lost her price list so her supervisor wrote it on her stomach, only it was permanent ink.”
I look at him for a minute as we walk. He seems convinced.
“She’s desperate to get it removed,” he says quietly.
“Who wouldn’t be?” I say.
“It doesn’t make her a bad person.”
“Certainly doesn’t.”
“She’s very misunderstood.”
“That’s just the way it is.”
We cross the road as the Cloisters comes into view.
“Anyway,” I say as I glance left and right, “I thought Dustbin Tits was going out with Sensible Pants?”
Murray shakes his head as we reach the other side, “No, that was just a one off. Actually, I heard that Sensible found out he’s a quarter Scottish. Or is it an Eighth Scottish?”
We arrive at the pub door, resplendant with smokers.
“Really?” I say.
“Yeah,” says Murray. “So now everyone’s calling him Reasonable Kilt.”
“Has he started wearing a kilt then?”
“No,” says Murray, pulling open the door, “but apparently he never wore pants either.”
