Are you this person?

Lillian held off getting in touch with Richie until Thursday. Sunday night was too keen, Monday too. Tuesday too calculated and Wednesday fell under that category too.

Thursday—I'm too popular and busy! I've only just remembered that you and I spent (the best weekend of my life) time together the other week. Now, I suddenly remember, pick up my mobile and fire off a hasty text.

It took her ages to pick the words for her text; something that sounded keen (not too keen) and yet elusive. Torturous too. Every tiny second of the weekend stayed with her, particularly the way he'd looked at her and what he'd said. It felt like a lovely luxury she'd tucked away in a safe, only to take out now and then.

"Hey! How are you?" Lillian found text speech unbearable, preferring to type words in full and add proper punctuation. "Been a busy week for me. What about you?"

Of course, the real Lillian wanted to say, why haven't you been in touch? You might have phoned me by now or sent me a bloody text. And I want to plan. I've left the weekend clear, especially.

An hour later—the phone perched in front of her and checked every few minutes in case some other noise cancelled out the buzz and vibrate of text—he replied. "Hey yourself! Doing anything Saturday!"

Her heart did that bouncy thing, pinging its exalted way to the top of her body and pinging back to her chest. If he replied an hour later, what should she do? It didn't matter, anyway. Another text came in. "Want to go for dinner?"

Gareth clasped his hands together delightedly when she told him her news. Lillian had vowed to keep more things to herself, post the Girona weekend. Her resolution lasted two days.

"Out for dinner! Honestly, I was convinced your eating habits would have sent him scuttling for cover by now," he said. "Well, that's something, isn't it? I might call Lorraine and ask her what she thinks—"

Lillian hit the hook buttons, cutting off the call. Gareth pulled his hand back, exaggerating the movement and sticking out his tongue. Again, in The Big Book of Bosses, Lillian thought this was a no-no. Should your personal assistant be using the office phone to call his girlfriend and discuss his boss's love life?

Gareth thought this was the norm. He liked to run all kinds of things past Lorraine. A phone call to her could last forty plus minutes. At the end of it, Lillian would ask, "Well, what did Lorraine say?", by which time, Gareth had forgotten why he called her in the first place, too taken up with dissecting the implications of the latest, 'Babe, you'll never GUESS what he said to me', issue Lorraine loved to discuss in detail.

This time, Gareth pouted and told Lillian not to bother asking for his advice again. A silence that wouldn't outlast the next coffee run. At some point, she'd need to cave in and ask Gareth's opinion once more.

The Gareth diversion meant she hadn't yet replied. Dinner, or what about if she invited him to her place (after a lot of tidying up) and they skipped the polite preliminaries. No. Reactive, not proactive, remember? All the arrangements should be left to him.

"Lovely!" she typed back, and he suggested Saturday at seven o'clock. Now, the important business began—another rifle through Glitz's end-of-the-year stock to find the perfect outfit.

In the end, she chose a silk dress, accessorising it with a chunky buckle belt Gareth described as having a whiff of S&M to it. That was the point, sort of. Take something pretty and toughen it up. Lillian didn't like her clothes to hint at vulnerability. She'd planned to wear her silver Converse high tops with the dress until a supplier sent her shoes they wanted paired with her summer collection.

Gareth took them out of the box, his expression reverential. "If you don't wear these on Saturday, I'll resign! Look at them." He'd recovered from his earlier huffy fit, too desperate to give an opinion on Lillian's outfit choice.

By a happy coincidence, they were a seven—Lillian's shoe size. Lillian didn't get the shoe thing women were supposed to fall for. Clothes were much more powerful, beliefs that befitted the owner of a fashion business. But Gareth was right. Oh, these shoes! Sandals, rather than shoes, they fastened with ribbon laces that went right up the calf. Buttery-soft leather uppers in mauve and cork wedge heels completed the look.

"Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!" She put on the dress, belt and shoes and twirled for Gareth, who cooed and clapped obligingly. She told him he ought to do some work. While it was nice to have your assistant offer life advice, it wasn't what she paid him for.

Gareth gave an exaggerated sigh and turned back to his computer. Seconds later, there was a gasp and Gareth's glass of water went flying, water flying everywhere.

"Anything wrong?"

He spun on his seat, the wheels of it grinding into the floor. "No, no. Just need to check something. I'll clear the water up when I get back." With that, he leapt up, grabbing his notepad and the office diary, and bolted out the door. Theirs was a basement office, and she listened to his footsteps clattering up the stairs. He'd taken his mobile too and the sound of a muffled phone call filtered down the hallway.

It was twenty minutes before he returned, by which time Lillian had cleaned the water up herself and imagined all kinds of ills. From Lorraine dying, to Gareth's favourite bakery chain (the one beginning with G) going bankrupt. Neither justified him taking the diary with him.

The Gareth who opened the door to the office shook. The plastic bag he carried rustled and clinked. A bottle?

"Lillian...I, ah, don't know how to tell you this, but."

He dumped the bag on his desk. Out came a bottle of Courvoisier and a box of chocolates that wouldn't have given change from a twenty-pound note.

"Spit it out, Gareth."

The fashion awards event they both thought took place next month was, in fact, this Saturday. "Saturday?" Lillian echoed him, taking the brandy glass he gave her. "But awards are never held on a Saturday."

This one was. Scotland's Finest, Saturday 6th May at the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre. They'd booked to attend months ago, seduced by the vague promise that there might be an award at the end of it, then forgotten all about it.

These things were ten-a-penny, filled with same faces. The invitees who mattered—big fashion houses, Vogue editors or even seriously wealthy women—never attended. Still, you had to go. If you didn't, people speculated your business wasn't doing well. Or you didn't have the money to afford the exorbitant tables.

A table for ten. Invited, exalted guests who also thought the event took place in June, not this Saturday. And Gareth had muddled the dates. The first email invite clearly said the date. He hadn't marked it in the paper diary.

Gareth stayed where he was. He'd pressed himself up against the wall next to the door, ready to escape if Lillian turned violent. The rage rose and departed. No wonder he'd bought brandy, the warmth of it spread bone-meltingly through her body.

Glass drained, she stood up. "Ach, these things happen. Which doesn't mean to say I forgive you. You're going to spend this afternoon, all tomorrow and all Saturday rearranging everything and getting in touch with my guests. If they can't come, find me others. I can't have a table that's not filled.

"Ask Kippy and John. They'll jump at a freebie."

Gareth nodded fervently, sliding away from the wall and towards his desk. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

It could be for the best, Lillian reflected. A penitent Gareth might do some work for a change.

The itch of laces tied to her calves reminded her. Aw, shit. Richie and their Saturday date—she'd have to cancel it. He wouldn't want to go to a fashion thing, would he?

Or would he? Now, there was a test. Welcome to my world, Richie. If you're serious about me, you might as well get used to it...