My friend Poppy Rainsworth could talk the hind legs off a donkey. She’s flashy, spiky as a thistle, and sharp as a tack—but sometimes she turns on this angelic act, all wide-eyed and sweet, and you just want to scoop her up and cuddle her. She’s good at that.
I remember this coach trip we took once. Packed to the rafters with tourists, it was. The driver, a gruff bloke named Big Dave, had a long overnight drive ahead with no relief in sight. He glanced at our rowdy lot and sighed:
“Got a fair stretch ahead, and I don’t fancy nodding off at the wheel. Any of you ladies fancy keeping me company? Bit of a chinwag, eh? I’ll owe you one.”
Cue a sea of sour faces—everyone felt bad for him, but no one fancied sacrificing their kip. The dream was to zonk out and wake up at the seaside.
Enter Rainsworth. She volunteered to entertain Big Dave while the rest of us dozed. Slid into the front seat, tucked her skirt demurely, batted her lashes—picture-perfect innocence.
“I’m ever so shy, really,” she lied. “But I’ll give it a go.”
The coach rumbled on, headlights slicing through the dark. Poppy sighed dreamily.
“So, skipper… Fancy a story? How about my first love? Happened when I was nineteen—or was it twenty? Or the third love? Fourth? Let’s say somewhere in the top ten. We’ll call him… Bubbles.”
Big Dave chuckled, white-knuckling the wheel. Poppy spun her tale of how she and Bubbles had collided in a whirlwind of passion—right on the high street at closing time!
“We just *knew*, Dave! Like destiny had finally caught up with us! There we were, under the first few stars, while the pubs spilled their first round of drunks onto the pavement—”
“That’s the spirit!” Dave cheered. “So, did you—y’know—seal the deal?”
Poppy sighed. “Ah, well… Bit of a snag. Nowhere to *go*. My place was out, his was out. All our mates’ flats were occupied, and we couldn’t spare the quid for a room.”
“Bloody typical!” Dave groaned. “I remember those days. Hormones raging, girl willing, and nowhere to put her down except across the bonnet of a Cortina!”
“Exactly! We hunted for a quiet spot—nothing. Even tried the park benches under the oak, but *those* were taken too. Who knew romance was so popular?” Poppy sighed. “So Bubbles says, *Alright, love—maybe next time?*”
Dave nearly swerved off the M1.
“*Next time?!* What sort of wet lettuce *was* this bloke? If it were me—!”
Poppy laughed like a mischievous siren. “Only joking, Dave! Clever Bubbles found us a skylight to a rooftop. Very *Romeo and Juliet*—if Juliet fancied a kebab after.”
“Now we’re talking!” Dave wheezed, relieved. “Roof’s romantic! Stars, breeze, all that… Reminds me of this one time in a storage loft at the depot—but never mind. Crack on, Poppet.”
When Poppy’s in full flow, she could out-talk a Parliament debate. She breathlessly described the velvet sky, how tiny they felt up there—just two specks under the cosmos!
“…so there I was, peeling off my polka-dot bodice—*devilish* little hooks down the back—”
Dave grunted, gripping the wheel like it might bolt.
“—skirt floating away like thistledown, bare skin glowing under the streetlights… Oh, and my *hair* back then? Like I’d borrowed it from a Pre-Raphaelite painting!”
The whole coach was listening now, wide awake.
“And just as I shimmied out of my last scrap of lace, drunk on passion… Bubbles says—”
“*Yes?!*” Dave rasped.
“—*Cor, Poppy—fancy doing that again?*”
Dave nearly mounted a roundabout. “*Again?!* Was he thick as a plank? I’d have—! Christ, you’re a menace. Ever thought of working for one of those late-night chat lines?”
As the coach barrelled on, Poppy spun the next chapter—how their bodies tangled like headphone wires, hearts pounding like a drum ‘n’ bass track, until—
“And then Bubbles goes… *Missed!*”
Poppy cackled. Dave howled, thumping the dashboard. Needless to say, not a soul slept that night. Later, the little minx smirked at me:
“Serves ‘em right. Thought they’d nap while *I* did the work? Not on my watch. If I’m not sleeping, *no one* is.”
