He laid back down as instructed, pulling me over him, leaving me sprawled across his sculpted bare chest. I grazed a kiss over his heart, closed my eyes and giggled.

I was in love with a big, muscled slice of Canadian Cheddar cheese and it felt freakin’ amazing!

Chapter 27

The sun will always rise tomorrow

"Tink! Hurry up, man!" I bellowed as I thumped on his door for the umpteenth time. It swung open with force, and I cracked a smirk at Tink’s outfit.

"Don't start!" he warned as he brushed past me, grimacing as he saw his reflection in the full-length mirror.

"I didn't say anything, did I?" I replied, holding back the spurt of laughter that was creeping its way up my throat.

'The Incident', as it was now known, was a few days behind us, and Boleyn had been released from hospital earlier that day, so we were headed for our first 'family' dinner at the Norths’ as a welcome-home gesture.

The local press had gotten wind of the incident and had reported that a domestic dispute had occurred in the well-to-do area, but thanks to a well-paid publicist, an even better-paid lawyer and a seven-foot perimeter fence, the neighbours and, well, the world had no idea of Tudor's involvement.

There would be a trial, of course, and Tudor had already decided that when that day arrived he would release a statement explaining his personal involvement, alongside a substantial donation to a local women’s charity. The silver lining in this whole affair was that perhaps his candid openness would help other people in similar situations by raising awareness of domestic abuse.

His “people” were still desperately working on concealing from the press his relationship to Boleyn, for her sake at school. Thankfully, due to her age, Boleyn would be hidden behind a screen when the case came to trial and would give her statements via video link. Everyone hoped that, if nothing else, we could keep her identity secret.

I was a bit worried about seeing Boleyn that night – the last time we had talked, she had told me in fairly strong terms that I was the reason her child-molesting father had returned to harm her. Not the best way to start a relationship with your boyfriend’s family. But Tudor had reassured me that she didn’t really mean it. We would have to see – a teenage grudge can be enduring, we’ve all seen Mean Girls. I wasn’t looking forward to living with that crap, given that Tudor and I were very much back on, in a very honest, very open and very touchy-feely relationship.

So there we were, the night we officially 'met the parent' as the newbie significant others, ready to be grilled by the brood North. Tink clearly wanted to make a good impression and had dressed to impress. He was decked out in a pair of brown, shapeless corduroy trousers with a white cotton shirt and his hair combed over to the side, Tink looked positively… normal. The things you do for love, eh?

He saw me muffling my giggle in the mirror and whipped around to face me. "Toss off, porky. I'm trying to impress Tate's second mam."

He looked down at himself, slumped forward, pulled a disgusted face and sighed. "I look like an ageing closeted reject from the seventies, don't I?"

The dam broke and the laughter rushed out of me. I trotted forward to cuddle my dowdily dressed partner in crime. "It's not too bad of an outfit really, but it's not you, my fabulously fay friend – you just don’t do Gap. Pamela wants to get to know you, not Norman the pot-bellied tax accountant who lives on microwavable meals for one. Go and get changed into something legendary, something that makes her believe in fairies."

He eyes widened in horror, and he bolted back into his room. "You've just saved my life, Bratwurst. You know, every time someone loses their belief in fairies, one of us dies. I could have caused mass fairy-cide! I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail."

Ten minutes later, Tink strutted out into the living room in black leather trousers, a black muscle tee top, Italian leather loafers and a Karl Lagerfeld leopard-print blazer with matching 1940's vintage trilby. His eyes were heavily coated in guy-liner, and he was clutching a Prada man-purse which held his essentials – God only knows what they were – but I had to admit, he looked amazing. Not a thread of polyester in sight!

He reached the couch where I had been impatiently waiting for him, and vogued in front of me, hands framing his face, frozen in position. "Well?" he asked, pouting his lips.

I clapped my hands in applause and stood to strike a pose too, one hand on my head, the other out to the side, cutting an odd angle. "Well?" I asked in return.

He walked around me slowly, tutting and mmm-hmming, channeling his inner Anna Wintour.