Chapter 9 #2
Speaking of hand baggage, he fished an immaculate wheelie-case out of the boot.
It actually colour-coordinated with his suit.
I stood there clutching a rumpled Bag For Life.
Like a pillock. I hadn’t had a list of items required for impersonating a minor celebrity in a fake sex tape to hand.
The three pairs of boxers I’d grabbed (in case the colour mattered), and my toothbrush (because fake kissing was going to be involved) hadn’t felt like they merited a rucksack.
So now I had to walk up to Richard Whittaker’s mega mansion holding a plastic bag with a hole in it.
“You reckon country estates are like sports cars?” Sev shouldered a padded camera bag.
“You what?”
Pebbles scattered as she turned around, walking backwards so Simon could lip read. “Gratuitous wankery to make up for penis size.” Her eyes flashed with mischief. “Simon could tell us.”
He cleared his throat, all haughty disapproval. Which I might have believed, except for his smirk. “As a lesbian with an over-tuned hatchback, I’m surprised that’s a stereotype you’re comfortable leaning into.”
Sev rolled her eyes. “Oh shut your face, I will give you penis envy.”
Snorting a laugh, Simon shook his head, already scuffing up the sweeping steps in a casual not-quite-jog, and pressing the bell like it was any old suburban semi.
The tendons in my shoulders went tight. Richard’s estate stretched in all directions – perfectly landscaped fields as far as the eye could see, with strategically deployed deer for maximum bucol-points.
Bet he wasn’t compensating for anything, was he?
His dick probably had its own stall in the stable right next to the Grand National winning progeny of the moustache-bearing stallion in his precious painting.
Bet he never got performance anxiety either.
We waited for someone to answer the door. And waited some more.
Silence fell.
Birds tweeted in the trees down the other end of the drive by the gate we’d entered through. About twelve miles away.
Sev’s shoulders sagged, and she set one of her bags down.
“Are you sure they’re in?”
With a groaning creak, the heavy wood door hinged inwards right on cue, and the upturned nose of Phoebe Huntley-Templeton peeked out.
“Oh, you made it. Good job!” Her voice was polo on the weekends and summers in Cannes and three dozen cashmere cardigans with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front.
“Excuse the scaffolding. We’re in chaos, as per usual.
” And Christ, she was approximately the size of one of the wings of the house.
Which was probably what happened when you let an ex-rugby-playing giant impregnate you.
“One of the gargoyles fell off.” Hashtag First World Problems. “Utter nightmare.”
She stepped out, leaning back with a hand over her eyes to peer up at the roof line. Dutifully, we all looked up at the roof line too. Presumably at the gargoyle that wasn’t there.
“Very inconvenient.” Simon had practice being sympathetic to people whose families owned entire counties.
“Yes, it is rather. Sort of throws things out a bit. We’re terribly unbalanced without him. He really was my favourite.”
Phoebe clasped her hands together above her stomach and sighed so deeply I almost asked if anybody wanted to say a few words.
“Okay.” Sev’s give-a-shit for stone carvery must not have made it past the M25. “I’m going to go set up. Don’t worry, I know my way around.”
“Oh hullo Sev! How is the wedding planning going, darling? It’s terribly overwhelming, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” Sev leaned very heavily into that full-stop. “It’s fine.” Conversation closed. She ducked inside faster than I could try clicking my heels together and wishing for home.
Simon cleared his throat.
“Thanks ever so for letting us come up today, Temp.” He pulled a beatific smile out of the bag to go with her dead posh nickname. “Don’t mind Sev. Very kind to offer them the orangery, but they’re going much more low-key.”
Phoebe sighed. “You know, I can see the appeal.” She squinted up at the roof again as she spoke and I nudged Simon’s shoulder, slipping into interpreter mode. “Beau Monde wanted another article last week. You’d have thought they’d be bored of it all by now.”
She frowned across at me like my signing was distracting her. Simon closed a hand over my wrist, and my whole body froze.
“Ben, you’re not working today.” He patted my arm, scoffing a laugh, looking at her, not me. “It’s complete habit with him. He’s so sweet. But I can’t take him anywhere – acts like it’s business meeting after business meeting.”
Fuck him. I tugged my arm back. Message received. No need to bother making sure he was keeping up. Fine. Just fine. His call to make, wasn’t it?
“Oh, that’s right!” Phoebe’s frown lightened as she led us into the gleaming entrance hall. There was so much marble on the walls, Greece should contact the British Embassy to get it sent back. “Ben’s your interpreter. I wondered where I’d seen him before. Quite the face you’ve got.”
“It’s all mine,” I shot back, ignoring the heat seeping up the back of my neck. The only way I fitted in with all the beautiful people was on the roof with the bloody gargoyles.
And now she was studying me like a Magic Eye picture, waiting for the image to resolve. Good luck with that. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, wishing I’d gone in to set up with Sev, because I didn’t fit in here.