Paige Nick - Wrong Knickers for a Wednesday - A funny novel about learning to love yourself

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016 as Like a Virgin

This edition published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016

Copyright © Paige Nick 2016

Paige Nick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008160845

Version: 2016-07-21

For Sarah Lotz, for so many reasons

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Cape Town International Airport – 10:23pm

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Acknowledgements

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> Boarding in 5 mins. Natalie, I don’t think I can do this.

> u can Grace!!!! stop freaking out

> What if I get caught?

> U cant think like that they will pick up on it!!!! People can smell fear. chill

> Easy for you to say. Your butt isn’t on the line.

> Srsly???? U know I wd have been there in a heartbeat if I cudve

> I know I know, Nat. I’m just scared.

> I’m counting on u Grace dnt fck it up. U kno how important this is

> I’m trying OK!

> You have to try harder. You can’t be such a wuss your whole life!

> I told you, Nat, I’m trying.

> u think Lucas suspects nything?

> No I don’t think so. He trusts me. But I hate lying to him. Maybe we should just tell him the truth?

> NO! Jezuz Grace! u swore u wldn’t tell him. He’ll neva understand. Plus u kno he hates my guts, he’d go ballistic if he knew you were doing this for me

> I’m sure he would understand if we explained it.

> Y can’t u just b ur own person 4 once? U promised u wldnt tell him. I need u to do this for me. & u owe me this at least

> OK, I'm doing it! I’m at the airport, I’m flying to Amsterdam, aren’t I? Look I have to go. We’re boarding now and Lucas just WhatsApped me. I’d better message him back before I have to turn off. Text when I land … if I land!

> Dnt tell him! U can do this, Grace

*

> Hey wife to be. I’m missing u already. X What’s happening?

… Grace??? U there??

> Hi husband to be They just called my section. I’m in line, getting ready to board.

> Can’t believe ur going away for so long XX

> Time will fly. Better go, I don’t want to miss my flight.

> I do want u to miss ur flight Grace, I miss u 2 much already!

> I’ll be home before you know it, and then we can plan our wedding.

> U not scared? First time overseas by yrself is a big thing, babes XXX

> I’m cool. But if anything happens to me, know I love you.

> Lol nothing’s going to happen to u. Just drink lots of water on the plane and WhatsApp me the second you find wifi when you land. I want all the details! XXX

> Kay! Gotta go.

> I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with u, babes! I love you.

> Me too. Love you. xxx

I stare at the back of the woman in the EU passport queue in front of me and concentrate on the list of Jay-Z World Tour dates printed on her hoodie.

Despite the fact that it’s winter in Amsterdam, I’m sweating like crazy in my fleece-lined coat. But at least it’s concealing my sweaty armpits from the eyes of all the immigration officers, cameras and highly trained security personnel dotted around the terminal. All on the lookout for the scared, the nervous and the idiots with heroin shoved up their backsides.

Jay-Z lady nudges her bag forward with her foot and rolls a shoulder. I fix my eyes on the words on the back of her hoodie (‘Atlanta Stadium, July 25’) and steady myself. I’m close enough in the queue now to check out the impassive faces of the men in the immigration booths. This could go really well or phenomenally badly, depending on whether the immigration officer I get is having a good day or a bad day, how naturally suspicious he is, if he needs the bathroom or is in a hurry to get to a tea break, and if he’s sharp-eyed enough to notice that I’m nowhere near the mirror image of the woman in my passport photo.

I shuffle forward again, eyes glued to ‘Yankee Stadium, NYC, June 30’, my heart spiking in my chest, waiting for the sirens to shriek, or a hand to clamp down on my shoulder.

*

I made it.

I can’t believe I flippin’ made it!

Mouth dry, heart thudding, I focus on walking like a normal person (as opposed to someone who’s just committed a felony) towards Baggage Claim. Sweat trickles down my sides under my jacket. The airline’s rubbery breakfast omelette is repeating on me, but I don’t care. I made it.

A weird sense of elation washes over me. I love the sad empty carousel going around and around. I love my exhausted, smelly fellow passengers, jostling to be the closest to the front, despite the fact that their suitcases will come when they come. I love the cleaner with the veined nose, sweeping up invisible dust bunnies. I move in beside Jay-Z lady and grin at her widely. She half-smiles back, returns to her phone, then glances at me again.

I start to relax a little, but I’m not free yet, there’s still customs to go through. They could just as easily catch me there. I picture the whole scene unfolding in vicious clarity: the hand on my shoulder, the ‘come with me, please, ma’am’, the bite of the handcuffs, the click of the camera phone as Jay-Z lady takes a shot for her Instagram. Then the cold room, the even colder strip search, complete with the snap of latex gloves. The single tearful telephone call I’ll get, which I’ll use to call Lucas, who won’t understand anything I’m saying. And when I explain, he’ll dump me on the spot and leave me to rot in a Dutch prison forever. I’ll have to swap sexual favours and cigarettes for loo paper and wear sanitary towels as shoes in the shower, because I don’t have money in my commissary for flip-flops. I wonder if Dutch women’s prisons are anything like Orange Is the New Black .