Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 25 - if uninvited guests do get in, hide the wine.

'Layla!'

'Charlie?'

'What are you doing here?'

'I could ask you the same thing.'

Brutus appears from behind the door, blood oozing out of his nose. He looks down bemused at the red pattern sloping down his jersey, wipes his hand across his nostrils and reality hits home.

'Aaaaaahhh!! It's blood.'

There's a sickening thud as he crashes to the floor.

'Leave him alone and he'll come around.' Pippa helps herself to glass number three. 'Anyone want any more – there's another few bottles in the kitchen.' She staggers to her feet and sways out.

Layla's copper wire hair is sticking out as if she's been plugged into the mains. Her skin, the colour of uncooked porridge, is starting to take on a pinkish tinge.

'It's so nice and warm in here – it's blowing a gale outside and bloody freezing. Any chance of a drink?'

'Since when were you invited to join us?' I can't have this woman gate crashing an intimate dinner party for...four, going on five. 'What do you want here and- anyway, how did you know where I live? It's an infringement of my human rights to have my address bandied around.'

You've got to give it to her, Layla isn't fazed by the cold shoulder, cold air or a cold front. She pulls up the chair next to Charlie and unwinds a ten-metre scarf from her neck.

'Euphemia.'

'Excuse me!' I pull myself up as tall as the stilettos will allow, arms folded rigidly, 'Who are you calling a feemia?' (What is a feemia anyway? Is it rude?)

'No...no,' Charlie interrupts, looking from me to Layla and back, 'Euphemia Moon is the technician.'

'Miss Moon!' Unfortunately I seject the words with a great deal of spittle, some of which I notice has landed on Charlie's shirt only he's too polite even to look down, let alone wipe it off. 'What does she know about my private life – or where I live?'

'Staff addresses are printed up in the school office.' Charlie adds faintly, surreptitiously wiping his chin and moving the napkin slowly down towards the offending saliva stain. 'So how do you know Camilla?'

Layla picks up a wineglass and, without so much as a by your leave, pours herself a generous glass of Chateau Blanc de Blanc.

'We met last week and we have unfinished business.'

'What business?' I pull up the chair the other side of Charlie, closer to his oozy body and pour myself a healthy slug of liver rot.

Layla leans across towards me.

'The lottery ticket. I want to know all about it.'

'What lottery ticket?' Charlie moves in closer to Layla so, not to be outdone, I shove my forehead so far in I can feel the heat from Charlie's brow.

'The one Anneliese found – the one Derek hid.'

We are millimetres away from touching and I am in danger of breathing in a nostril full of Layla's fluffy locks.

'Perhaps you would like to tell us everything Layla?' Charlie moves away a touch so we can breathe in some freshly circulated air instead of each other's carbon dioxide.

'Perhaps Camilla would like to do that?' Layla turns her evil green orbs on me. 'Then we can decide what to do next.'

So I do.

And when Brutus has had his face washed and changed into a pair of dinosaur pyjamas, he fills in the bits I have missed.

'So – let's get this straight,' Charlie has listened carefully. 'You bought a winning lottery ticket which went missing in strange circumstances.'