I shake my head. “The drugs were out of my system within hours. It happened in a private dwelling so no CCTV, no trace of drugs, no evidence.”
“In other words, he got away with it?” Pulling on my arm, she motions me away from the bar to a low row of seating around the periphery of the room where we don’t need to yell at each other. “Oh, is that a new Stella McCartney dress?” Tamsin catches my hand before I sit, insisting I do a little spin, the hem doing a little flip as she inspects both the fabric and the cut.
“No, I made it,” I admit with a tiny burst of pride.
“You’ve got mad skills.”
“Mad sewing machine skills,” I say with a laugh. Because the rest of my life …
“You have the technical skills, yes, but you also have an excellent eye.” Turning my wrist, she examines the pearl buttons on my deep cuffs. “This is totally gorg, babe.”
I murmur my thanks as I swish my hand under my bum and thighs to minimize creasing and to stop my legs from gluing themselves to the PU bench. “What were we talking about?”
“I asked you what happened to that lowlife. Did your brother ever catch up with him?”
“No.” Something uncomfortable twists in my gut. “No one has seen him since. He just sort of disappeared.”
“Weird.” Tamsin’s expression scrunches.
“Not as weird as the email he sent me.”
“The man who roofied you, sent you an email? What a fucking liberty! What the hell did he have to say?”
“It was an apology. I mean, it was weird, but it was definitely an apology. It said something like he hadn’t considered how it might disturb me.”
“Disturb you?” she squeaks. I shrug. “I’m sorry,” she intones in her approximation of deep and posh, “so sorry I roofied you with nefarious intentions, old girl! It just hadn’t occurred to me that you might not be into it. You know what that sounds like?” she adds angrily. “Like he thought you might be perfectly fine about waking with your knickers in your pocket and no recollection of what happened. Like you’d just put it down to having one too many wines and a jolly good time.”
“Personally, I think it’s more likely that he didn’t give one single shit about how I’d feel. It’s something I’m trying not to dwell on.”
“Fab outlook.” Glassware clinks as she touches her drink to mine. “Fuck him. But—obviously—not really. Unless you can do so with a broom handle.”
I shake my head, unsure how to answer that.
“But you’re okay now?”
“It’s taken some processing, but yeah. I’m fine. I’m just grateful you were there. That I had friends looking out for me.”
We each watch as a server passes by with a tray of bottles, each stuffed with an indoor firework, the golden sparks turning Tamsin’s red hair gold.
“He deserves stringing up,” she mutters, not quite done with the topic. “Like he wouldn’t be frightened out of his wits if it had happened to him, waking and not being able to piece the evening together.”
I frown down at my drink, stirring it with my straw. It still makes me feel ill when I think about what might’ve happened, but for the grace of God. Well, the vigilance of Van. “The email did say he was going away so I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him again.”
Tamsin snorts. “More like he was worried someone might catch up with him with something worse than a broomstick.”
Something cold passes over me. A similar thought had occurred to me after reading his email. Not that he was worried it might happen but more like it already had. I’d said as much to Sandy, but it had only set him off on another rant. He swore he hadn’t seen him, and in the same breath swore to do him bodily harm when he finally does. Maybe Giles has gone overseas or is just lying really, really low.
“You do have quite a powerful protector.” Tamsin shoots me a look that’s not hard to interpret.
“Sandy’s not the violent type. The angry type, yes.” Sandy also knows better than to refer to himself as my protector. I’d kick him in his shins if I caught him saying such a thing.
“I was thinking of the delicious blond,” Tamsin says with a sly glance.
I paint on a bland expression but don’t answer, even if my heart beats hard at the mention of Van. How do I like my men? Infuriatingly contrary.
“Don’t play coy with me. You know who I mean. Razor-sharp cheekbones and expensive tailoring. I hope you took his jacket to a decent dry cleaner,” she adds, making me laugh. “Hotter than Satan’s scrotum. Ring any bells?”
Just once, I almost answer, and just from dry humping. Because self-service orgasms while thinking about him don’t really count.