[kiasusam]

Bank Holiday Monday couldn't have started worse. I woke to the sound of the Dr Who theme tune and Dave cursing as she emptied her travel bag onto the carpet.

Still bleary with sleep, I struggled to work out what was going on. We had agreed over Friday lunchtime pints that mobiles were a no-no this weekend. Mine had only been on for a matter of minutes while I booked the BB. And Dave's state-of-the-art contraption had I Only Want To Be With You as its ringtone.

As I watched she snatched up another phone and barked into it: 'What?'

Her expression went from anger to despair and then rueful acceptance.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' she said after ringing off. 'Oh Mikki, I'm so sorry.'

'What is it?' I asked, alarmed.

Sitting on the bed, holding my hand, she explained. IT techies have a rota which puts them "on call" out of working hours. "On call" meant they could be summoned by work at any time. Nine times out of ten the call never came, and it was extra money for old rope. And they had Dial cards, because the call could come from anywhere in the UK ("I'm taxed to Hell and back on it, but I get free private mileage, so it's cheaper than paying for petrol").

Bank Holiday Monday was Dave's turn to be on call. Other techies had covered Saturday and Sunday. She'd forgotten all about work when she suggested an extra day.

And now the worst had happened.

'No getting out of it?' I ventured.

'No. I took their blood money, now I have to deliver.'

'Where's the call out? Back at base?'

'No such luck. It's the new mega store in Bristol. The one near Temple Meads. You know, the one that opens tomorrow.'

'Can't they sort it out remotely?'

'They've been trying all weekend. It needs a woman on the ground.'

'Fuck,' I observed.

(By the way, I've just realised my language so far has not been ideal. Please accept this as a "sweep-up" apology. I'll try to say sorry each time I lapse from hereon in).

Trying to look on the bright side, I squeezed her hand. 'Less than twenty-four hours to save the Earth. Flash had best get in gear.'

'I hope I'm more like Dale Arden than Flash.' Dave held up a hand. 'Don't answer that. Look, it's almost seven. Let's get breakfast then get out of here.'

The drive back to West Yorkshire was, to say the least, sombre. At one point I wondered when Dave would make it to Bristol.

'I need to go home and change,' she replied. 'Pack a new overnight bag . . . but traffic shouldn't be too bad. Three o'clock, say.'

With my dad behind the wheel I'd done the trip to Cornwall lots of times. Lots and lots of times. We'd once done Bingley to Padstow in five hours. There again, at the height of the season, we'd once done Bingley to Penzance in fifteen hours. Bristol is about halfway and, I reckoned, Dave was right: she'd have as clear a run as she'd ever get. If there was any Bank Holiday traffic it would be headed north, not south west.

'I can't tell you how bad I feel,' Dave said as she pulled up outside my poky flat.

'So don't tell me,' I told her. 'I've had a longer, even more wonderful weekend than I ever expected. And we can see each other again, can't we?'

'Of course we can,' she said quickly, before my unformed fears could become apprehension. 'We can go away again as often as you like. And, in the meantime, we've got our own pads, haven't we?'

'My pad tomorrow night?' I wondered.

'Assuming I've saved the Earth and we're all still here.' She smiled at me. 'I do believe I love you, Mikela.'

I returned her smile. 'Me too you.'