It was the oddest thing. Possibly the physically overloaded condition of Sofia and the new-found bounciness of Carmen was levelling the playing field. Or perhaps they were both tired of the enmity, the competition. Or perhaps, Carmen thought, it was like that World War One Christmas truce, because it was snowy.
‘I couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked in the front room,’ she said now truthfully. ‘You looked like you were going to an amazing fancy ball.’
‘All I did was dance with boring Duncan to Daniel bloody Bedingfield songs. God, it was boring. Not like your prom.’
‘Could we not talk about my prom?’
‘Oh, come on, it was hilarious!’
‘You did not think so at the time! You looked just as disapproving as Mum and Dad! And Mrs Leckie! Oh God.’
‘You climbed up on the roof of the school rollicking drunk and threw tangerines at people.’
‘Only terrible people. And it wasn’t my idea.’
They both laughed.
‘Okay then. Tell me about the mystery texter.’
They both stared at the phone.
‘So Duncan MacInlay really is dull?’ mused Carmen. ‘I mean, is he free now?’
‘You’re getting off the point.’
‘I’m just saying, he was hot.’
‘You’re very welcome to him,’ said Sofia. ‘He’s working at a car showroom in Musselburgh. He sends me updates every time they get a new Ford in.’
‘Not even, like, a Tesla showroom?’
‘Not even, like, a Tesla showroom.’
‘The thing is … ’
Of course Carmen wanted to tell Sofia that Blair was texting her. She wanted to tell everyone, to shout it from the rooftops. Well, almost everyone, she thought. She hadn’t introduced him to Oke when they’d all been in the café. Almost as if he could see through Blair as well as she could.
Anyway. This was silly: she’d be swanking, one, and also it wasn’t like he was actually chatting her up. She was literally the only person he knew when he was trapped in the city. It was tech support, if anything.
But he was now sending her funny little pictures of his new wellingtons, and cute messages and, well, it gave her a little warm feeling inside. That was all. The attention was nice.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just a work thing.’
‘Is it Mr McCredie?’ said Sofia. ‘I didn’t even know he had a phone.’
‘Your client/lawyer confidentiality is rubbish,’ said Carmen. ‘And no, I don’t think he does.’
‘So who can it … ?’
She sat bolt upright, her huge breasts bouncing off the top of her bump.
‘That’s like a party trick,’ observed Carmen.
‘It’s not that writer?’
Carmen couldn’t help it. She pursed her lips.
‘No way. No way. You’re being texted by Blair Pfenning. You’re not. You’re not.’
‘Oh, it’s just work stuff,’ said Carmen, her face completely giving her away.
‘No, it isn’t!’ said Sofia. ‘His talk was yesterday!’ She pulled out her phone.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m looking on Mail Online to see if you’re mentioned.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. They cancelled his flight and he had no suitable clothing: I was just helping him out, that’s all. With flights and stuff. His publicist got stuck on the way back to London.’