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that his gentleman persona was the
mask he hid behind. I was wrong – he had no American relatives – but back when
we first met he oddly reminded me of a pervy uncle at a family party. One who
you just can’t help but be amused by, despite the true nature of his lewd
comments. But, he kept my mind off my plight – the mortifying fact that I was
lying on a cold pavement, feeling numb, being mistaken for a piece of human
interactive artwork – and he kept me company. He also had my bag and, I
confess, he wasn’t displeasing on the eye either.
    ‘One, two, three, lift.’
    I was popped onto a stretcher.
    ‘Looks broken.’ One of the paramedics grimaced.
    I panicked at the word broken but what did they know? Surely
I would have known if my bone was broken? I watched ER .
    ‘Any wonder with shoes like those?’ the other muttered.
    ‘Leave them alone. I like them,’ I tartly replied. I wasn’t
deaf. I could hear their comments, and I would not accept fashion criticism
from anyone but Karl Lagerfeld himself. As far as I was aware, Karl hadn’t
jacked in the fashion world to become a London paramedic so their comments were
unfounded.
    ‘So do I, love, but there’s a time and a place for
everything.’
    What was that supposed to mean? Before I could retort to
this, the first paramedic turned to Piers and asked him if he was taking a ride
with us. He was. The door slammed shut and we were on our own way to whatever
London hospital was closest.
    The paramedic, the one who had chastised my choice of
footwear, was fussing over me, doing whatever it is they do in the back of
ambulances. I left him to it without much cause for concern. Since I couldn’t
hear the sirens wailing I assumed I wasn’t going to croak it. Anyway, my foot
felt fine. It all seemed a little excessive but no one cared about my
weakly-protested opinion. The paramedic chose to direct his questions to an
excited Piers instead – the same Piers who wildly declared as the ambulance
pulled out that he’d never been in an ambulance before, conscious anyway.
    There had been the
time he’d had twenty-five Jaeger-bombs, predictably on his twenty-fifth
birthday, having downed beforehand a bottle of Bolly and several pints of
Guinness. He’d woken up two days later feeling like death but that was nothing
compared to the pain of missing out on the ambulance ride. I didn’t get it
either – must have been a rugger thing – and I assumed he must play something
because that would explain his manly bulk. And boy, he was a man . I’d
experienced that first-hand when he knocked me over. Nice . The bulk part, that is. Not the subsequent mortifying
knicker-flashing – yes, I was wearing them – and intimate pavement time.
    ‘Her name?’ the paramedic asked, jerking his head at me.
    ‘Arielle.’
    ‘Ariel what?’
    ‘No, Arielle ,’ he
corrected.
    Oh my – he’d remembered how to pronounce my first name
properly, a rarity amongst the human race, and then he’d corrected the paramedic for me. My hero!
    ‘Fine. Ariel, what?’
    I sighed. ‘Lockley,’ I answered, before Piers could profess
his ignorance.
    ‘You just lie there, love.’ The paramedic turned to me. ‘And
let your boyfriend answer the questions.’
    ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I said quickly, before Piers could
open his mouth, my face turning red at their error.
    ‘Yet,’ Piers answered wickedly.
    ‘Piers!’ I blushed even more. I barely knew this man, but
that didn’t mean I didn’t want to – far from it.
    The paramedic sighed this time. ‘If you two could please
stop flirting for a second so one of
you can answer these questions,’ he snapped.
    Yikes. I preferred him when he was chastising my footwear.
    ‘Better be, Miss Lockley.’ Piers winked at me.
    ‘Could be Mrs.’
    ‘No ring,’ he answered cheekily. ‘Besides, I had a squiz
through your wallet and looked at your driving licence. I like your wallet by
the way.’
    That season’s Gucci, if you’re interested.