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bathroom and deduced, super sleuth that I am, that Xander was in the shower. Great. I wasn’t sure if I could face all that water without accidentally drowning, so I hung up the beautiful, but somewhat wrecked dress that I’d thrown on the floor last night and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming that men made great pets. I guzzled all the water that was left, along with some ibuprofen and Resolve left over from Fuerteventura—was that only two days ago?—and flopped back on the bed, waiting for Xander to come out.
    We’d sat up drinking and trying to get answers out of each other until about three in the morning, when the vodka had run out and we were both too drunk to get any more. Xander had asked me all about Luke, and I’d got drunkenly tearful about missing him and sobbed in Xander’s arms and I must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember is the phone ringing.
    Xander wandered out, wearing only a rather small towel, and I felt my mouth go dry. I really need to get close to Luke, and soon.
    “Does this place have a laundry?”
    I shook my head, trying to find my voice. It couldn’t have gone far. “I don’t think so,” I croaked.
    “Damn. Okay. Want to go shopping?”
    I stared.
    “You seemed to find the Y.E.S floor in Bloomies all by yourself,” Xander went on, scratching the back of his neck, “but did you find Saks?”
    I shook my head.
    “Or Barney’s?”
    “No.”
    “Boy, we have some educating to do.”
    He bullied me into taking a shower, telling me Saks would chuck me out if I was too scruffy, and when I emerged, feeling slightly more human, he threw some prettier clothes at me.
    “Get dressed and put on your makeup. And do something about your nails.”
    Bloody cheeky. I spent hours clipping and shaping and buffing each talon to perfection, messing about with my cuticles, painting them in a pretty shade of pink, then daubing on makeup very carefully. I hung the dress in the bathroom with me to steam out the wrinkles, spritzed it with perfume, and it looked respectable enough to wear again.
    When I emerged, I looked a hell of a lot better. Xander looked me over and shrugged. “You’ll do,” he said.
    “You’re still a mess.”
    “Honey, I’m with you. No one will care.”
    Was that a compliment, or not?
    I repackaged my feet and gingerly put on a pair of soft mules. I took a few cautious steps. Yeah. Didn’t seem like my feet were going to fall off.
    Of course, this lasted until we got outside and it was still raining. Xander sprinted for the subway, while I fumbled with my umbrella and all my careful plasters peeled away. Damn.
    On the train, while Xander laughed at me, I sat and showed the world my knickers as I tried to wrap some more tape about my poor raw feet. By the time I was done there was hardly a toe unwrapped, my feet were bound like a little geisha’s, but I felt a bit better, so long as I didn’t flex my foot too much and break the bindings.
    “That’s gonna be great for trying on shoes,” Xander said, and I scowled at him.
    “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
    He shrugged, his eyes on a subway poem. “Nothing to do there until I get my money.”
    Anyone else think he’s lying?
    We wandered up to Bloomingdales and went around picking out clothes for each other. Then shoes—on a mission to find the silliest pair we could. The mens’ shoes were boring—how do they cope?—but there were lots of silly things in the women’s department. Pink and yellow slippers, polka-dotted wedges, fat Spice Girl trainers with neon laces, heeled hiking boots. Xander tried to persuade me to get the Spice Girl trainers, but I wasn’t biting. What was this, 1996?
    At Sephora we had a lipstick fight. He sprayed me with CK1, which I hate, so I grabbed his hand and painted three of his nails pink.
    “Not my colour,” he said, eyeing them critically.
    I painted the other two blue.
    “Now you’re just taking the piss.”
    I grinned. He might be