.08.

Adam's cell phone rang at 11:30am, waking us both. I rolled over and stuffed my face into my pillow. A loud, very amused laugh from the other room cackled forth, followed by a pause and a clearing of the throat. And then...

"'Ello, love." He spoke while I did my best to yank myself out of bed. "Do we still want to do lunch? No, that was just something we told you at the time hopin' you'd never call us again."

He allowed her to respond to his sarcasm while I made my way to the kitchen tap, along the way laughing hysterically at the situation and gesturing at Adam that he was a wanker who was going to hell. He carried on with her while I guzzled down half of New York's water supply.

"Course we'd love to go to lunch. But we'll have to do... um... One o'clock. Olive Garden. That work for you? Give us time to shower up and all that." A pause. "Yeah, of course we just got up. We were out till god awful hours of the morning, being held captive by two saucy minxes... from Georgia."

He said "Georgia" with a heavy southern American drawl. It was almost too good. I was worried. But then, I was no stranger to the sound of his real accent. "Why worry now?" I told myself.

By now the tap was running dry, so I made my way back to where Adam was and threw a dishrag at his face.

"Alright," he said, "we'll see you there."

Alright, I thought, just one more hour or so of this. Over a meal. Should be easy.

"Oh, hold on," Adam blurted out, "someone wants to say ''ello.'"

And with that, he held out the phone to me.

I could've killed him. But I didn't know the city well enough to know where to hide a body. I could've spoken in my regular voice and totally blown his cover. But I was hung over, and pasta from the Olive Garden sounded very good right about then. I grabbed the phone.

"'Ello," says I, "we doin' lunch, then?"
"Oy believe we ah." Again, with the accent. "Is that all-roit wiff you?"
"Totally." I'm glaring at Adam this entire time. "Alright, well we'll be seein' you in a tick, eh?"
"A tick it is."
"Alright, laters."
"Lay-uhs."
Click.
"Bastard." I throw the phone at him.
"What? This is as much you fault as it is mine," he shoots back, laughingly.
I laugh back. "You gave them your New York cell phone number, you idiot!"
"Don't worry, I've already thought that through."

His face bore that smirk of someone who thinks they are immensely clever. It's the smirk of the brave soul who decides to step forward and courageously lead the team through the jungle. The smirk that is the last thing you see on that person's face before he disappears into the tiger trap.

"I figure, if they ask," he continued, "I just tell them it's a phone one of my mates over here is letting me borrow for the duration of the shoot.""Oh," I said, a little stunned that for once he actually had a plan, "then I'm sure you've thought to take your name and lack of British accent off of your voice mail."
The smirk faded. Quickly.
"Shit."

As he dug around for his cell phone in a panic, I selected what I would wear to the OG that afternoon and marveled at the idea of Adam trying to pull off this stunt alone.

I chuckled.