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Vod’s halfway to being wasted, not far enough to be dealing with this but enough she has to be careful. Oregon looks up at her, all big pleading kohl eyes and snowy white cleavage.
‘This guy,’ she asks. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Oh um,’ Oregon looks startled. ‘Why?’
‘So I can keep a look out for him,’ Vod clarifies.
‘Well he’s,’ Oregon rallies. ‘Just normal looking really. Brown hair, bit of stubble, polo-neck.’
‘Tall?’ Vod suggests, casually.
‘Um yeah,’ Oregon jumps on the description like it’s a life raft. ‘Really tall. Well, moderately.’
‘Oregon,’ Vod says. She takes a perverse delight in using the same voice Oregon does on her just because she’s mixed up Jane Austen with Jane Eyre. ‘You do realise you’ve just described J.P.?’
‘Um.’
‘There isn’t a guy, is there?’
‘No.’
You made him up didn’t you?’
‘A little bit. Yes.’
‘You in fact just wanted some drunken sexual experimentation on the pretence of getting rid of some pervert, didn’t you?’
‘Maybe,’ Oregon admits.
Vod leans in, grinning dangerously.
‘You could have just asked.’