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r_scribblesLots more fluffy comfort here, albeit with a brief moment of dubcon in a dream sequence. But mostly tea, sympathy & Colin Firth! Huzzah!
Part 6
Seven
-x-
’I guess now it’s time for me to give up.’
He was tied to the chair again, naked and shivering, the bag over his head.
’Got a picture of you beside me, got your lipstick mark still on your coffee cup.’
Something on his nipples. Something in his lap. Soft flesh, naked against his skin. He was hard. He was having sex! Oh God, how had that happened?
’Got a fist of pure emotion, got a head of shattered dreams…’
A woman’s legs wrapped around his helpless frame as he was ridden. It felt good, but it felt bad that it felt good. He recognised the little gasps and sighs coming from the female figure on top of him.
Molly.
Yes, this was his big date with Molly, wasn’t it? He’d been hoping for this, after all. So he was tied up – whatever floated her boat. It had been so long since he’d been with anyone, and he really liked Molly – he really did. So why did this feel so wrong?
’Got to leave it, got to leave it all behind now.’
On top of him, Molly shuddered and moaned her way up to an orgasm. She gripped his arms and ground into his lap, crying out as she came.
‘Sherlock!’
’Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it…’
‘No,’ he tried to protest, but his voice was so small that nobody could hear it.
‘Sherlock,’ Molly cooed over and over and over again. ‘Sherlock, Sherlock!’
’I just want you back for good…’
-x-
‘Martin?’
Martin woke with a start. He was in Molly’s bed, unbound and untampered.
‘Sorry to wake you, Martin.’ Molly was in the doorway in her pyjamas, her mobile in her hand. ‘Douglas Richardson is on the phone for you.’
Martin blinked groggily, still trying to shake the horrible dream out of his mind. What was Douglas doing phoning at… he glanced at the clock on Molly’s bedside table. Half past six. He blinked, looked at the clock again and then shot out of bed with a word that he presumed was meant to be either “bugger” or “fuck” but ended up sounding more like “buggleflump”. He’d only forgotten to set the wretched alarm, hadn’t he? And now he had to be at an airport an hour away in 30 minutes and he hadn’t shaved or eaten and was wearing a Take That TShirt and women’s jogging bottoms and didn’t know where his uniform was.
He took Molly’s phone. ‘Douglas, I’m sorry, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Only I had a bit of bad luck last night and…’
‘Calling getting kidnapped by hardened criminals “a bit of bad luck”, Martin?’ Douglas replied, dryly. ‘Are you in training for Olympic level Understatement Making?’
Martin’s heart sank even further, if that were possible. ‘You know?’
‘When a person is reported as missing, the police do normally check with those who saw that individual last,’ Douglas reminded him, ‘in this case, us. We were kept up to date about the developments.’ Douglas’ tone softened a little; lost its seemingly permanent edge of sarcasm. ‘Gave us all rather a fright. How are you feeling now?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Martin replied, searching for his shoes and then remembering that those too had been taken from him. ‘I’d feel better if I had my uniform back – could you see if there’s a spare one I can use at the airport?’
‘There’s not really much point, Martin…’
‘Or just a plain suit, or a shirt and trousers, or anything…’
‘I just said – there’s no point. As much as I’d like to say I was calling at the crack of dawn just to ask how your nerves have held up, I do have a bit of bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘More bad news? How could there possibly be more bad news?!?’
‘There is always a window for things to get even worse,’ Douglas told him. ‘You really should know that, by now.’ Douglas paused. ‘I’m afraid Gertie’s a little… grounded.’
‘What?!?’
‘It’s not time to call the Aeroplane Priest to give her her little aeroplaney Last Rites quite yet,’ Douglas soothed, ‘but she’s sufficiently under the weather to be unfit to fly. Problem with the fuel control valve.’
‘What sort of problem? How long before we’re airworthy again?’
‘Calm yourself, Oh Captain, my Captain. She’s in safe hands, but they doubt she’ll be out of Plane Hospital before tomorrow. Carolyn’s just making alternative arrangements for the Etajima lot to get to Dublin, now, and I am about to turn around and return to the boudoir from whence I came for an unscheduled day of R&R. Which is precisely what I advise that you do, too.’
‘No… no. I should come in, and…’
‘There’s no point. We can’t fly, you’re clearly in shock – so much is evident just from your voice – and you don’t have any clothes. If you don’t rest properly, then we may as well not fix Gertie – we wouldn’t be able to fly. Or worse – we would be able to, only not for terribly long.’
‘But I’m the…’
‘Do I have to get Carolyn on the phone to order you, Captain?’
Martin sighed, defeated. ‘Fine’.
‘Enjoy London,’ Douglas advised him with a lewd air, and then hung up.
‘Everything all right?’ Molly asked him.
‘Well,’ Martin sighed, ‘the good news is, it doesn’t matter that I overslept and don’t have anything to wear. The bad news is, that I’m stuck here for the next 24 hours.’ He caught sight of Molly’s hurt expression. ‘I mean… not that this isn’t a very nice place to be stuck… not even “stuck”, as such, just… unable to leave. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, not really, although yes I suppose I would rather be able to fly than not, it’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘I think I need to go back to bed. If that’s OK. I could always take the couch instead, or…’
‘It’s fine. Get some more sleep.’ She shot him an impish glance ‘Since you’re “stuck” here, I may as well keep you in my bed.’ She paused. ‘Not in a rapey, way, or… Kathy Bates or anything, I’m not going to, you know, tie you to it or anything.’
‘You never know, I might like it… I mean, I didn’t like being tied to that chair, but the bed’s more comfortable, and you’re much nicer than they were…’ Martin trailed off. ‘Why am I even joking about that? That was in very poor taste. I do apologise.’
‘You’re the one it happened to,’ Molly reminded him. She glanced down at the floor. ‘When I found out about Jim, I made little jokes about it all the time. People thought I’d gone a bit weird, but it was just a way of dealing with it.’
Martin was hit with a sudden urge to kiss her. He’d say that it was an uncontrollable urge, but it clearly wasn’t uncontrollable, since he was able to control it. This wasn’t the right time. This was really quite far from the right time, and he wanted things to be right.
Somebody probably should have told Molly this, because that was when she looked up, met his gaze, reached out, slid a hand through the hair and the side of his head, and kissed him. And even though he was tired and frustrated and ridiculously dressed, and hadn’t shaved or brushed his teeth, it was good. Suddenly aware that standing with arms still folded from before the kiss commenced wasn’t exactly the most inviting of stances, he uncrossed them, tried resting his hands on her shoulders, decided that was too aggressive and finally settled on playing with her hair. He still wasn’t sure what the best thing was to do with his tongue. Before Luton, it had been a while since he’d kissed anybody, and he’d never been all that good at it in the first place. Instead, he just tried to do the best job that he could of incorporating her tongue, and generally making it welcome to his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured once she pulled away.
‘No! No, it was… I enjoyed it. I just…’
He tried for another kiss, but a couple of seconds in decided he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression – he was still far too tired to properly enjoy much more than just kissing. He pulled back.
‘Get some rest,’ she told him.
Again, he wanted to ask her to stay, but didn’t know if that was a good idea.
‘I had a Gary Barlow Nightmare,’ he blurted before he’d had chance to check himself.
‘Oh.’ She smoothed down his hair. ‘You know Gary Barlow can’t really get you, Martin.’
Martin snorted a little laugh to himself. ‘I know. And if I ever did run into Gary Barlow, he’d be more afraid of me than I would be of him.’
‘It’s OK to get nightmares,’ she told him.
‘All the same, I’d rather not.’
She sat down on one side of the bed and patted the other side.
He drew a breath to try to clarify matters, but thought better of it. He was tired, and he wanted to lie down next to her. The last thing he needed was to start tying himself up in knots again. Maybe he should just take it as read that Molly understood unless proven otherwise. Without another word, he lay down next to her, and closed his eyes. At one point, just before he drifted off, he was aware of her arm loosely lying over his body. He thought vaguely to himself that he liked the weight of it, found it comforting. Then, he fell into a sleep that was mercifully free from ropes and chairs and Take That's Greatest Hits.
-x-
He woke a little after 10, to find the other side of the bed empty.
‘Molly?’ he called, wondering what he was supposed to do next if she’d gone out to work.
Molly appeared in the doorway, again. ‘Oh good, you’re awake. They found your uniform. Just got off the phone.’
It was as if Martin was suddenly able to release a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. ‘Oh, thank God.’
‘And your overnight bag,’ Molly added. ‘They’re even going to deliver it to us, once your uniform’s been dry cleaned.’
‘That’s… surprisingly courteous of the police,’ noted Martin.
Molly shrugged. ‘The Sherlock Holmes effect. When he tells them to get your things, they do it properly.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Martin. Of course, it would be down to Sherlock Holmes.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Molly added, ‘and there’s toast with honey, if you’re hungry.’
Martin was suddenly reminded that the last thing he’d eaten had been a vegetarian lasagne that Arthur had managed to microwave to a frazzle at the edges, almost 24 hours earlier.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’
‘So,’ she said as she rattled around the small flat’s kitchen area, ‘what did you want to do today? It’s the weekend, we’re young-ish and free, London is our oyster.’
‘Right now,’ Martin sighed, ‘I really just want to sit down and have some tea and toast.’
‘We’ve still got The King’s Speech,’ Molly suggested. ‘Is 10 in the morning too early for a movie? I don’t know.’
Martin looked at the DVD cover. ‘It doesn’t look like the sort of film that would be unsuitable for before the watershed.’
‘There’s a swear in it, apparently.’
‘It should be all right,’ Martin replied. ‘We can cover our ears when it comes on.’
-x-
It had been a long, long time since Molly had found herself curled up on the sofa with somebody, the dregs of their tea going cold as they watched a movie together. Well… there had been Jim, a couple of times, but she decided not to count that because the bastard hadn’t meant a single second of it. Martin seemed fairly content, watching the film with an arm around her, albeit rather fidgety.
‘Enjoying it?’ she asked.
Martin nodded. ‘You?’
‘It’s Colin Firth. Of course I like it.’
‘Hmm. I quite like Helena Bonham Carter, which is rather awkward, since she’s playing the Queen Mum. I can’t fancy the Queen Mum – it just isn’t right. There should be a law against that sort of thing.’
She wriggled a little closer. ‘Should I be jealous?’ she teased.
‘Of the successful, married film star or the dead Queen?’
Molly giggled.
Martin fidgeted again. ‘Should I be jealous?’
‘Of Colin Firth?’
‘Of Sherlock Holmes.’
She blinked at him. ‘Oh, Martin…’
‘I did notice, you know – how much I look like him.’
‘I did tell you it was uncanny…’
‘Only,’ continued Martin, over her, ‘tall, and confident, and successful and well dressed… doesn’t go bright red at the slightest provocation, doesn’t have this ridiculous hair…’
‘Martin.’ She paused the DVD and shuffled closer to him still. ‘I fancied him. Past tense. He’s striking, and brilliant… he’s also, you may have spotted, an arrogant bastard. People like that are nice enough to admire from afar, but get them into real life, and they’re rubbish. You’re not rubbish. You’re a very long way from rubbish. You’re the right height to kiss without getting a crick in the neck, you’re funny, you’re decent and – added bonus – you’re gorgeous.’
‘I’m not gorgeous. He’s gorgeous.’
‘He is. And so are you. And his hair is much more ridiculous than yours, come on.’
‘Yes, but… the ginger. I know it’s offputting.’
Molly held out a lock of her own hair. ‘Mousey brown, drab, dull. We can’t all look like Lord Byron, the way some people do.’
‘Your hair’s lovely.’
‘So’s yours.’
‘We sound like two teenaged girls at a sleepover, now.’
‘You know…’ Molly ran a hand up Martin’s arm. ‘I had my first sexual experience at a sleepover.’
A flush started on either sides of Martin’s nose, and swiftly began to spread. ‘Really?!? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong… I mean, it’s actually quite good, really good that… not in a seedy way, but, I mean… really?’
‘No,’ sighed Molly, ‘not really. They were always quite boring – we just talked about New Kids on the Block and ate biscuits, generally. But I thought you’d enjoy the mental image.’
Martin laughed, the flush showing no signs of dissipating. ‘It’s quite nice. Rude, for half past ten on a Saturday morning.’
‘I know,’ smiled Molly, ‘we haven’t even got to the sweary bit in this film, yet.’
‘Would you… um.’ Martin took a deep breath. ‘What are your thoughts on doing some other things that are a bit rude? For this sort of time in the morning, that is?’
Molly’s smile widened. ‘I hope you don’t just mean “watching Mock The Week”.’
Part 8
Part 6
Seven
-x-
’I guess now it’s time for me to give up.’
He was tied to the chair again, naked and shivering, the bag over his head.
’Got a picture of you beside me, got your lipstick mark still on your coffee cup.’
Something on his nipples. Something in his lap. Soft flesh, naked against his skin. He was hard. He was having sex! Oh God, how had that happened?
’Got a fist of pure emotion, got a head of shattered dreams…’
A woman’s legs wrapped around his helpless frame as he was ridden. It felt good, but it felt bad that it felt good. He recognised the little gasps and sighs coming from the female figure on top of him.
Molly.
Yes, this was his big date with Molly, wasn’t it? He’d been hoping for this, after all. So he was tied up – whatever floated her boat. It had been so long since he’d been with anyone, and he really liked Molly – he really did. So why did this feel so wrong?
’Got to leave it, got to leave it all behind now.’
On top of him, Molly shuddered and moaned her way up to an orgasm. She gripped his arms and ground into his lap, crying out as she came.
‘Sherlock!’
’Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it…’
‘No,’ he tried to protest, but his voice was so small that nobody could hear it.
‘Sherlock,’ Molly cooed over and over and over again. ‘Sherlock, Sherlock!’
’I just want you back for good…’
-x-
‘Martin?’
Martin woke with a start. He was in Molly’s bed, unbound and untampered.
‘Sorry to wake you, Martin.’ Molly was in the doorway in her pyjamas, her mobile in her hand. ‘Douglas Richardson is on the phone for you.’
Martin blinked groggily, still trying to shake the horrible dream out of his mind. What was Douglas doing phoning at… he glanced at the clock on Molly’s bedside table. Half past six. He blinked, looked at the clock again and then shot out of bed with a word that he presumed was meant to be either “bugger” or “fuck” but ended up sounding more like “buggleflump”. He’d only forgotten to set the wretched alarm, hadn’t he? And now he had to be at an airport an hour away in 30 minutes and he hadn’t shaved or eaten and was wearing a Take That TShirt and women’s jogging bottoms and didn’t know where his uniform was.
He took Molly’s phone. ‘Douglas, I’m sorry, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Only I had a bit of bad luck last night and…’
‘Calling getting kidnapped by hardened criminals “a bit of bad luck”, Martin?’ Douglas replied, dryly. ‘Are you in training for Olympic level Understatement Making?’
Martin’s heart sank even further, if that were possible. ‘You know?’
‘When a person is reported as missing, the police do normally check with those who saw that individual last,’ Douglas reminded him, ‘in this case, us. We were kept up to date about the developments.’ Douglas’ tone softened a little; lost its seemingly permanent edge of sarcasm. ‘Gave us all rather a fright. How are you feeling now?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Martin replied, searching for his shoes and then remembering that those too had been taken from him. ‘I’d feel better if I had my uniform back – could you see if there’s a spare one I can use at the airport?’
‘There’s not really much point, Martin…’
‘Or just a plain suit, or a shirt and trousers, or anything…’
‘I just said – there’s no point. As much as I’d like to say I was calling at the crack of dawn just to ask how your nerves have held up, I do have a bit of bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘More bad news? How could there possibly be more bad news?!?’
‘There is always a window for things to get even worse,’ Douglas told him. ‘You really should know that, by now.’ Douglas paused. ‘I’m afraid Gertie’s a little… grounded.’
‘What?!?’
‘It’s not time to call the Aeroplane Priest to give her her little aeroplaney Last Rites quite yet,’ Douglas soothed, ‘but she’s sufficiently under the weather to be unfit to fly. Problem with the fuel control valve.’
‘What sort of problem? How long before we’re airworthy again?’
‘Calm yourself, Oh Captain, my Captain. She’s in safe hands, but they doubt she’ll be out of Plane Hospital before tomorrow. Carolyn’s just making alternative arrangements for the Etajima lot to get to Dublin, now, and I am about to turn around and return to the boudoir from whence I came for an unscheduled day of R&R. Which is precisely what I advise that you do, too.’
‘No… no. I should come in, and…’
‘There’s no point. We can’t fly, you’re clearly in shock – so much is evident just from your voice – and you don’t have any clothes. If you don’t rest properly, then we may as well not fix Gertie – we wouldn’t be able to fly. Or worse – we would be able to, only not for terribly long.’
‘But I’m the…’
‘Do I have to get Carolyn on the phone to order you, Captain?’
Martin sighed, defeated. ‘Fine’.
‘Enjoy London,’ Douglas advised him with a lewd air, and then hung up.
‘Everything all right?’ Molly asked him.
‘Well,’ Martin sighed, ‘the good news is, it doesn’t matter that I overslept and don’t have anything to wear. The bad news is, that I’m stuck here for the next 24 hours.’ He caught sight of Molly’s hurt expression. ‘I mean… not that this isn’t a very nice place to be stuck… not even “stuck”, as such, just… unable to leave. Even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, not really, although yes I suppose I would rather be able to fly than not, it’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘I think I need to go back to bed. If that’s OK. I could always take the couch instead, or…’
‘It’s fine. Get some more sleep.’ She shot him an impish glance ‘Since you’re “stuck” here, I may as well keep you in my bed.’ She paused. ‘Not in a rapey, way, or… Kathy Bates or anything, I’m not going to, you know, tie you to it or anything.’
‘You never know, I might like it… I mean, I didn’t like being tied to that chair, but the bed’s more comfortable, and you’re much nicer than they were…’ Martin trailed off. ‘Why am I even joking about that? That was in very poor taste. I do apologise.’
‘You’re the one it happened to,’ Molly reminded him. She glanced down at the floor. ‘When I found out about Jim, I made little jokes about it all the time. People thought I’d gone a bit weird, but it was just a way of dealing with it.’
Martin was hit with a sudden urge to kiss her. He’d say that it was an uncontrollable urge, but it clearly wasn’t uncontrollable, since he was able to control it. This wasn’t the right time. This was really quite far from the right time, and he wanted things to be right.
Somebody probably should have told Molly this, because that was when she looked up, met his gaze, reached out, slid a hand through the hair and the side of his head, and kissed him. And even though he was tired and frustrated and ridiculously dressed, and hadn’t shaved or brushed his teeth, it was good. Suddenly aware that standing with arms still folded from before the kiss commenced wasn’t exactly the most inviting of stances, he uncrossed them, tried resting his hands on her shoulders, decided that was too aggressive and finally settled on playing with her hair. He still wasn’t sure what the best thing was to do with his tongue. Before Luton, it had been a while since he’d kissed anybody, and he’d never been all that good at it in the first place. Instead, he just tried to do the best job that he could of incorporating her tongue, and generally making it welcome to his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured once she pulled away.
‘No! No, it was… I enjoyed it. I just…’
He tried for another kiss, but a couple of seconds in decided he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression – he was still far too tired to properly enjoy much more than just kissing. He pulled back.
‘Get some rest,’ she told him.
Again, he wanted to ask her to stay, but didn’t know if that was a good idea.
‘I had a Gary Barlow Nightmare,’ he blurted before he’d had chance to check himself.
‘Oh.’ She smoothed down his hair. ‘You know Gary Barlow can’t really get you, Martin.’
Martin snorted a little laugh to himself. ‘I know. And if I ever did run into Gary Barlow, he’d be more afraid of me than I would be of him.’
‘It’s OK to get nightmares,’ she told him.
‘All the same, I’d rather not.’
She sat down on one side of the bed and patted the other side.
He drew a breath to try to clarify matters, but thought better of it. He was tired, and he wanted to lie down next to her. The last thing he needed was to start tying himself up in knots again. Maybe he should just take it as read that Molly understood unless proven otherwise. Without another word, he lay down next to her, and closed his eyes. At one point, just before he drifted off, he was aware of her arm loosely lying over his body. He thought vaguely to himself that he liked the weight of it, found it comforting. Then, he fell into a sleep that was mercifully free from ropes and chairs and Take That's Greatest Hits.
-x-
He woke a little after 10, to find the other side of the bed empty.
‘Molly?’ he called, wondering what he was supposed to do next if she’d gone out to work.
Molly appeared in the doorway, again. ‘Oh good, you’re awake. They found your uniform. Just got off the phone.’
It was as if Martin was suddenly able to release a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. ‘Oh, thank God.’
‘And your overnight bag,’ Molly added. ‘They’re even going to deliver it to us, once your uniform’s been dry cleaned.’
‘That’s… surprisingly courteous of the police,’ noted Martin.
Molly shrugged. ‘The Sherlock Holmes effect. When he tells them to get your things, they do it properly.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Martin. Of course, it would be down to Sherlock Holmes.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Molly added, ‘and there’s toast with honey, if you’re hungry.’
Martin was suddenly reminded that the last thing he’d eaten had been a vegetarian lasagne that Arthur had managed to microwave to a frazzle at the edges, almost 24 hours earlier.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That would be great.’
‘So,’ she said as she rattled around the small flat’s kitchen area, ‘what did you want to do today? It’s the weekend, we’re young-ish and free, London is our oyster.’
‘Right now,’ Martin sighed, ‘I really just want to sit down and have some tea and toast.’
‘We’ve still got The King’s Speech,’ Molly suggested. ‘Is 10 in the morning too early for a movie? I don’t know.’
Martin looked at the DVD cover. ‘It doesn’t look like the sort of film that would be unsuitable for before the watershed.’
‘There’s a swear in it, apparently.’
‘It should be all right,’ Martin replied. ‘We can cover our ears when it comes on.’
-x-
It had been a long, long time since Molly had found herself curled up on the sofa with somebody, the dregs of their tea going cold as they watched a movie together. Well… there had been Jim, a couple of times, but she decided not to count that because the bastard hadn’t meant a single second of it. Martin seemed fairly content, watching the film with an arm around her, albeit rather fidgety.
‘Enjoying it?’ she asked.
Martin nodded. ‘You?’
‘It’s Colin Firth. Of course I like it.’
‘Hmm. I quite like Helena Bonham Carter, which is rather awkward, since she’s playing the Queen Mum. I can’t fancy the Queen Mum – it just isn’t right. There should be a law against that sort of thing.’
She wriggled a little closer. ‘Should I be jealous?’ she teased.
‘Of the successful, married film star or the dead Queen?’
Molly giggled.
Martin fidgeted again. ‘Should I be jealous?’
‘Of Colin Firth?’
‘Of Sherlock Holmes.’
She blinked at him. ‘Oh, Martin…’
‘I did notice, you know – how much I look like him.’
‘I did tell you it was uncanny…’
‘Only,’ continued Martin, over her, ‘tall, and confident, and successful and well dressed… doesn’t go bright red at the slightest provocation, doesn’t have this ridiculous hair…’
‘Martin.’ She paused the DVD and shuffled closer to him still. ‘I fancied him. Past tense. He’s striking, and brilliant… he’s also, you may have spotted, an arrogant bastard. People like that are nice enough to admire from afar, but get them into real life, and they’re rubbish. You’re not rubbish. You’re a very long way from rubbish. You’re the right height to kiss without getting a crick in the neck, you’re funny, you’re decent and – added bonus – you’re gorgeous.’
‘I’m not gorgeous. He’s gorgeous.’
‘He is. And so are you. And his hair is much more ridiculous than yours, come on.’
‘Yes, but… the ginger. I know it’s offputting.’
Molly held out a lock of her own hair. ‘Mousey brown, drab, dull. We can’t all look like Lord Byron, the way some people do.’
‘Your hair’s lovely.’
‘So’s yours.’
‘We sound like two teenaged girls at a sleepover, now.’
‘You know…’ Molly ran a hand up Martin’s arm. ‘I had my first sexual experience at a sleepover.’
A flush started on either sides of Martin’s nose, and swiftly began to spread. ‘Really?!? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong… I mean, it’s actually quite good, really good that… not in a seedy way, but, I mean… really?’
‘No,’ sighed Molly, ‘not really. They were always quite boring – we just talked about New Kids on the Block and ate biscuits, generally. But I thought you’d enjoy the mental image.’
Martin laughed, the flush showing no signs of dissipating. ‘It’s quite nice. Rude, for half past ten on a Saturday morning.’
‘I know,’ smiled Molly, ‘we haven’t even got to the sweary bit in this film, yet.’
‘Would you… um.’ Martin took a deep breath. ‘What are your thoughts on doing some other things that are a bit rude? For this sort of time in the morning, that is?’
Molly’s smile widened. ‘I hope you don’t just mean “watching Mock The Week”.’
Part 8
