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The Butler did it	By : RattieRampage Category: Individual Celebrities > Gerard Butler Views: 4481 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Gerard Butler. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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PART SIX -ice cream and panic

It turned out your mother’s ‘urgent’ call was merely a request for your company the following week. You mull over what just happened and feel giddy with confusion. Perhaps it’s better she did call...oh, I have to clear the floor again. Damn.
You shuffle dazedly into the office and grin. The desk is once again full of your rubbish, instead of the floor. The roses are in a jug of water on the windowsill, with a scribbled note:

I’m sorry, I tried to file some of the stuff but it’s too complicated.
Gerry xx

You shake your head affectionately and settle down to work again, fairly sure you’ll never look at your desk in the same way.
It should be put in a museum...or sold on E-bay, ‘only £100, the desk on which Gerard butler officially nearly got his leg over’...maybe not.

“Is everything alright?”
You turn to look at your secretary. “Yeah, why?”
“I heard some banging and swearing...like someone was annoyed.”
You know the bang was probably the desk being ‘cleaned’ but the swearing...?
“Did you hear the words?”
She blushes as she recites them, and a slow grin spreads over your face.
“Yes miss... ‘Bloody hell, there’s so much shite on this desk...’ and then a pause, and then ‘Oh, money off at McDonalds...’ and ‘Why the hell do you have to do stuff like this, Gerry? Where’s the paper...oh fuck, stupid roses, stupid thorns...”
You laugh. “Yes, it’s alright, that was just...a friend.”
She nods suspiciously and leaves as you rummage around and find the coupon booklet for money off Big Macs. One sheet is torn out, and a piece of paper is in its place.

I was hungry. Need a snack. Cheers xx

“The cheek of it,” you sigh with a grin. “He can owe me for that.”
You finish work (finally), get home and head straight for the shower. And then it hits you. “Where did he get my work address?”
You ponder this for a bit and then towel off your hair and wrap a dressing gown around you. TV time. With a big tub of cookie dough ice cream.
Three hours and two scary movies later, you’re relaxed. Nothing like slobbing to relieve the tension of an...eventful...day.
You’re debating on whether to go to bed or to stick another video on, when your mobile phone rings.
“Yeah,” you answer without even glancing at the screen.
“Uh...can I come over?”
The phone slips from your suddenly shaky grasp and you dive to pick it up. “Gerry?”
“Yeah. Hey babe. Uhm, can I then?”
“Uh...yes....” you glance wildly around the house. A tip. Shit.
“Right.”
“Where are you?”
“At the end of your street.”
“HUH?!”
He hangs up with a chuckle.
“Alright, how the hell does he do that?” you mutter, and leap to your feet. Casting around for a bin-bag or something, to hide all your crap in, your eyes wander to the closet. With a quick assessment of storage space, you pick up everything and throw it inside, including towels, clothes, extra cushions, sketches you’ve been working on, your cat...(you rescue her with an apology) and other random items that litter the living room. You whip around with an air freshener and have barely enough time to hide your Gerry videos behind the sofa before there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in...” you pant, sounding (you suspect) like a bad extra from a porn movie.
He opens the door just as you remember you’re only wearing a dressing gown, a big fluffy one with teddies on it, for that matter. “Won’t be a minute,” you call as you throw yourself into the bedroom with a final burst of energy.
“Alright,” he replies, sounding amused. "Can I use the bathroom?”
“YES!” you yell, pulling a jumper over your head and searching for a pair of jeans that don’t make you look three stone overweight.
“Where is-AARGH!”
Huh?
You pull on the jeans and glance into the living room, almost dying in mortification as you see Gerry lying on the floor covered in your clothes and towels.
“That’s the closet.”
“That’s the closet,” he repeats, getting to his feet. There’s a bra on his head, and you snatch it off quickly, stuffing your stuff back into the closet with an embarrassed grin. “Sorry.”
He looks at you, then at the closet. And suddenly he bursts into laughter.
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The Butler did it