Page 78 of Deliah

“I can be.”

“Deliah, you once turned up to a brunch at 2 p.m. with your knickers in your handbag.”

“Okay, first of all, it was a bottomless brunch. And second, I was still early compared to the state you were in.”

We both collapsed into laughter, the kind of deep belly-laughing that made tears prick the corners of our eyes. It felt like the old us again. Like we were about to go dance on a bar, drink tequila out of a stranger’s navel, and not worry about whether the rent was due or if the guy you were sleeping with actually loved you back.

We spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled across the sofa, chatting about old times at the club—horrific costumes, nightmare customers, that one workers’ party where Cherry ended up handcuffed to the DJ booth wearing a penis hat and one shoe.

It felt good. Familiar. Like no matter how much things had changed—new lovers, new countries, new levels of luxury—we were still us.

And tomorrow, we’d start a new little chapter together.

Chapter 26 –

Hostess with the Mostess

9a.m. sharp turned into 10:07. Standard. I pulled up outside Cherry’s place with half a croissant in my mouth and a coffee balanced dangerously in the cup holder. She was already waiting on the kerb, arms crossed, looking like she’d been ready since sunrise.

“You’re late,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“I brought caffeine.”

She snatched the coffee without a second thought. “Fine. You’re forgiven. Just.”

We were dressed to the nines—heels, blazers, sleek hair, just the right balance between sexy and sophisticated. Not slutty, butdefinitely enough to turn heads. We looked like we were about to sell million-pound properties or steal someone’s husband. Maybe both.

“So,” Cherry said as I pulled onto the main road, “what’s the plan, boss?”

“We head to the port. Start with the high-end stores. Prada, Gucci, maybe Louis Vuitton if they don’t throw us out first.”

She laughed. “Can’t wait to get judged for sport.”

By the time we stepped out onto the promenade in Puerto Banús, the sun was shining and the port glittered like it knew it was expensive. Yachts bobbed lazily in the water, and the air smelled like sea salt and money. First stop: Prada. We strutted in like we owned the place, heels clicking, heads high. A perfectly polished sales assistant clocked us the moment we entered, eyes scanning us from head to toe with that tight, silent judgement that only women in head-to-toe beige can manage.

I smiled sweetly and approached the counter. “Hi, I was just wondering if you’re hiring?”

The woman didn’t even blink. “What languages do you speak?”

“English,” I said brightly.

She raised one overplucked brow. “Only English?”

“Well, I know how to order tequila in Spanish?”

“Russian? French?”

I hesitated. Cherry burst out laughing behind me. “She’s lucky she can spell her own name some days.”

I nudged her in the ribs, but even I had to laugh. The woman clearly wasn’t impressed. Her lips pressed together like she was holding back a complaint to management just by being near us.

“Right. Okay. Thank you anyway,” I said quickly, grabbing Cherry’s arm and dragging her towards the door.

The second we stepped outside, she howled. “Deliah! The way she looked at you like you’d just walked in with a missing leg and a fake Gucci belt.”

“That was a disaster.”

“You were a disaster. ‘I can order tequila in Spanish’—are you mad?”