Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 24 - if uninvited guests turn up for dinner; don't answer the door.

Charlie is coming.

Here!

Tonight!

And so far, everything is going completely wrong.

I got home from work late after running into Lorcan who needed to discuss Schrodinger's equation and the Gas Laws and then the road was blocked with major gas -pipe-laying- workages so I had to make a fifty minute detour and ended up following the dustbin lorry as the bastard blocked the narrow passage between rows of parked cars and leisurely emptied every wheelie bin down the long terraced street.

Top priority now is me.

I crash through the front door straight into the bathroom to find...

Bloody Brutus lying in a scummy liquor of deflated bubble bath and curly wurly wrappers.

'Brutus! We've got a dinner party! Tonight! I warned you about it last night!'

Brutus must have nodded off because he leaps out of the water like a dolphin after a fish cascading water all over the new top I am holding.

'Ahhhh! Cammie! I'm so sorry. I completely forgot.' he's wrapping himself up in the towel and sliding out of the bathroom. 'I'll go and lay the table while the water heats up again!'

Bastard! Double bumming bastard!

Now I can't even have a bath and - dare I look at my watch – Hell! There's only two hours to go.

I rip my clothes off, put on the bathrobe hanging behind the bedroom door and go into the kitchen. At least I can boil up some kettle water and fill the tub manually.

Lets get the chicken in the oven and maybe that useless little bum chum of mine can use his artistic temperament to get the table looking lovely.

I'm on kettle number three when I hear a very strange noise.

It sounds like muted crying or laughing or maybe it's the sound of an animal suffering. Can't waste good water so I wait till the kettle's done and tip the boiling liquid into what is now looking like a very inviting bath before I go to investigate. Perhaps I was too harsh with Brutus and he's having a bit of an upset. He can be quite sensitive at times – particularly when there's a tragedy on the telly. Bambi's mother dying had him off work for two days and when he went back he pretended it was the aftermath of conjunctivitis.

Brutus's bedroom is empty, so is the kitchen and there's no sign of him in the living room so I presume he's popped out for something. But, what's going on behind the sofa? There's a mysterious scrabbling mixed with mousey squeaking noises.

This is scary.

I'm not over keen on confronting rodents of any dimension and this sounds as if it could be a big beast scraping and squeaking making the sofa cover move of its own accord. Perhaps it's stuck in the material or trapped underneath the zips that hold everything in place?

I haven't time to faff around like this. My important – hugely important- guest will be arriving soon and I need to look more than my best. I still have to undergo a complete metamorphosis with the assistance of a variety of potions, make-up, facial serums, dermal plumping creams, hair mousse with highlight enhancing properties and conditioner to make my locks shine like sunbeams.

I grit my teeth, grab the edge of the sofa and wrench it away from the wall.

As my scream hits the fifth floor of the neighbouring tower block, Brutus dashes in, his arms full of wineglasses and table mats.

'Camilla! What on earth...?'

I point - it's all I can do. The adrenaline rush has completely cut my voice box off from circulation. Brutus and I stare down at the headless chimera scrabbling around under the radiator wrapping the spiders webs around it's grotesquely swollen body, half naked flesh, half brown stubbly hair.