Chapter 23
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
If I’d forgotten someone was coming to lunch, they’d be lucky if I had the makings of a ham sandwich to throw together.
Simon had tossed a bagged salad and a punnet of cherry tomatoes into a bowl, drizzled it with dressing, and magicked out a pack of flatbreads from one of his cupboards to go with the homemade houmous.
And the fish. There were olives, and shiny hot peppers stuffed with cheese, and an array of sliced cured meats and melon sliced into orange cubes, because fresh fruit, posh Italian ham and emergency antipasti was what he’d had languishing at the back of his fridge.
No shrink-wrapped slowly liquifying lettuce in this house. Heaven forbid.
“Grub’s up,” Simon announced.
Sev shifted Jo’s feet off her lap as we crossed the grass towards them, moving her laptop to make space. “This is such a good table. We need one like this.”
Ice cubes tinkled in the tall water jug on the tray I carried, lemon slices bobbing about with every step I took, and the stack of glasses rattled as I set it down.
Shielding her face from the sun, Jo squinted up the sky and vacated her seat, moving to the other side of the table.
“How about Simon where I was, and then you go on the other side of Sev, Ben. And then we can all talk.”
“Or, I could put the other umbrella up,” Simon suggested, affectionate as much as amused. “So no one’s squinting. Calm down. Ben knows the ropes.”
They unloaded the trays, and started dishing up in a mostly amicable tussle for control. Sev and I sat back and watched.
“They always like this?”
My co-worker shrugged. “Both of them know best, you see.”
“What’s that Sev?” Simon handed her a fully loaded plate with a beautifully arched eyebrow.
Jo nudged his arm, chin tipped up in overacted protest. “She’s being rude.”
Sev shrugged smugly, smearing up houmous with a hunk of flatbread. She popped it into her mouth, still holding Jo’s eye contact. I swear the air crackled. “Am I though?”
“Stop talking with your mouth full,” Simon scolded. “I can still tell you’re flirting with my sister.” Sitting down, he slid her laptop back towards her, and skewered a forkful of leafy greens from his plate. “What have you got for us to stick up on social, then?”
“We’re not doing new pictures?” I asked, tearing a hunk off my own bread.
“Babes.” Sev scooped more houmous as the laptop whirred to life. “I’ve got better things to do than Photoshop you into exotic locations and bad dates because you don’t have any pictures together.”
“God no.” Simon looked as horrified as I felt. “We’ll say we’re very private. We took a few yesterday and this morning.”
Sev hummed triumphantly. “So those are still the clothes you were wearing on Saturday, Ben?”
I nearly choked. “No comment.”
Jo giggled, practically kicking her feet. “Oh I am glad I came over.”
“Erm. So. What is it you do again, Jo? For work?” Subtlety of conversation topic change? Minus twenty points.
“I’m a designer.”
“Actually, Jo, Ben found himself rather taken with your Leopard and the Fox,” Simon put in. “And the peacock feathers.”
I goggled at him. Had he really just told his sister I’d nearly imploded all over him because I liked her clothes that much?
“You made those?” Hello choir-boy voice. Even I couldn’t tell if I sounded outraged or impressed three octaves higher. Jo laughed like she’d banked it as a compliment anyway.
“Hand drawn patterns.” Sev’s words were thick with pride, despite her continued rapid click through of screens.
Jo made a bashful sort of gesture, but she was glowing. “I work with companies who do the making up. It’s not like I’m personally inking every meter and stitching all the garments.”
Sev folded her arms. “Only designing the clothes, and the patterns and the colour combinations. Ignore the downplaying. She’s a creative powerhouse.”
“Sev’s biased, obviously.” Jo smiled fondly.
“The whole clothing range was meant to be wax-printed onto cotton – Ankara type stuff. I started tracking back Creole origins in Mauritius to West Africa via the slave trade, and fell in love with all the patterns and use of colour. They resonated with me.” She leaned in, no hint of assumption that a bloke like me wouldn’t be interested in her creative process.
“I wanted to incorporate the fluidity and romance of the Sega costumes Dad always told us about – and Simon said why not try modal silk—?”
“He likes a bit of luxury,” added Sev. “You may have noticed.”
“—And I said sometimes luxury isn’t what you’re missing in life, darling brother.” Laughter sparked in Jo’s warm eyes. “But they do drape beautifully, don’t they? And then—”
“Because she’s a terrible overachiever,” Sev interjected smoothly.
“I had to get in a little nod to Scandi folk design in the detail too.”
I nodded, smiling at the pair of them. “Because your mam’s Swedish, right?”
“Exactly!” She beamed at me. No wonder Sev fell for Jo. All that passion and enthusiasm made everything sound fascinating. Both of them were mile-a-minute. Keeping up was exhausting.
“Bet they’d be dead good in cotton too.”
Jo’s eyes lit up. “Would you like some? You can have a pair.” She fished for her phone out of a deep pocket in the folds of her skirt. “What size are you?”
“Oh. No – I mean. They wouldn’t look good on me, would they? Simon’s all...”
Right when I thought he’d checked out, his eyebrows hitched up in perfect amusement. “...All?”
No. I was not about to gush over how gorgeous Simon was to his face. I’d never live that down.
“He’s- uh. Got long legs, hasn’t he? I’m a short arse, me.”
Jo tilted her head, clever eyes narrowing as she engaged with the problem that wasn’t even a problem. It was just me.
“I’ve got tortoises too,” she said at length. “Would you feel more comfortable with tortoises?”
Simon snorted lemon water out of his nose.
Fuck my life. He was giving big-cat energy, and I was a step above an animate rock.
“I thought this was supposed to be a working lunch,” I snapped. Fed up with embarrassing myself in front of his family.
Simon sobered instantly.
“You’re right. We should focus. We can do a few more close ups together and add them to the mix for texture. What do you think Sev?”
Texture. Bloody hell. In my world that did not mean what he made it sound like it meant. Then again, my social media presence consisted of biannual photo updates and me liking the occasional weightlifting video.
Plucking up a cherry tomato to chomp, Sev clattered keys. “Wouldn’t hurt. I’m logging onto the corporate events section of the intranet. There’s got to be loads of official snaps of you two suited up for launches.”
I tried to peer around the edge of her laptop to get a glimpse at the screen, and she shuffled closer to Simon, making room for me next to her.
“Lean in, here we go. How good are you at Where’s Wally?”
“Oh god they’re all thumbnails.” The screen was a patchwork of tiny little squares, full of matchstick people and pin-head smiling faces. Simon’s usual colourful clothing didn’t stand out so much with everyone dressed up. Sorting through them all would take forever.
Simon groaned. “Have I mentioned recently how much I hate our company intranet?”
“Chin up. It’s only a case of sifting through approximately five-hundred unindexed pages of every media event the firm’s ever covered in random order.”
The page count in the bottom corner confirmed Sev was not exaggerating. We’d be here all year squinting through that lot.
“Does it really matter so much?” Jo asked, perching on the arm next to Simon, putting my thoughts into words. “All this digital footprint stuff seems a bit overkill?”
Simon blinked at his sister like she’d suggested oxygen was optional. “It’s not.”
Simon’s online presence was a carefully curated marketing exercise.
Every event he handled got an artful picture of him, or one of his clients, or an interesting view, or the food on his plate.
Posted with efficient cross-promotion hashtags.
Vintage fashion featured heavily on a near daily basis.
Family photos were not unheard of, even if he didn’t tag names.
He was right about us needing this to be credible. If he’d been dating anyone seriously, they’d have been documented somehow. Everyone who followed him knew that. Me included.
“Well that’s my cue to leave then.” Jo patted Simon’s shoulder, standing to slip her discarded sandals back on. “The lot of you are deranged masochists, by the way.”
“I’ll get my laptop,” Simon said. “It’ll be faster if we split the pages up.”
Even with two screens this was going to take all day. And the pictures would be all starched and distant and posed, the way they always were with media shots. They weren’t going to do what we needed them to.
“Actually—”my voice choked me, shrivelling down to a dried up nothing in my throat, and I had to clear it. “We do have some pictures up on social already.”
Both Jo and Simon paused.
“Darling,” Simon drawled. “You never said.”
“Shut up. It’s only a few.”
“Oh go on, show us,” Jo encouraged, settling back on the arm of the chair.
Wriggling to dig my phone out of my pocket, I swiped to get the first one up on the screen. “This is the—”
“Christmas party, at the pub.” Simon’s eyebrows notched up in surprise.
Oh. He recognised it then.
“It’s just a couple of snaps me and Tracy took.” My throat knotted as I scrolled. “You know. Everyone together at the table.”
Technically true. His whole immediate team was in the shot.
But I was close up next to Simon, and he’d slung his arm around my shoulders to make sure we all squeezed in for the picture, and we were in the foreground, and maybe I’d tilted the angle on the screen when I was taking it, selfie-style, so the others were a little blurred.
And I was looking at him like there was no one else in the room. What a total psycho.
Sinking back into his seat, the wariness in Simon’s eyes appeared again. The same as when I’d messed it up about the coffee at Richard’s place. And when he was on the riverbank talking to me about cannibals. He’d never wanted me imprinting on him like a day-old chick.
“Oh, use that one. It’s really sweet,” Jo crooned, leaning in over Simon’s shoulder. “Are there any more?”
At the end of my arms, my hands didn’t quite feel like mine. My numb fingers found the next batch.
“From that conference in that place outside of Leeds? With the champagne reception in that lobby with the big staircase?”
Simon didn’t look so happy in those. All day he wouldn’t tell me why. But the tux made up for it, and he’d still turned on his smile even if it didn’t make it to his eyes.
Now he wasn’t smiling though.
“And the Team Away Day,” I murmured. “And at the annual business dinner.” Each new location made the cumulative effect so much worse, but I couldn’t shut up. “And that Fun Run.” I clicked the screen black. “Anyway. It’s just a few pictures. Of us. Together. On my feed.”
Simon stared at me, and I stared right back, all but hearing a train horn blaring, while I was stuck on the level crossing of my shitty life decisions.
“You should bring Ben to the wedding.” Jo said brightly, nudging Simon’ shoulder.
He spun his head, too late to catch her words on her lips. “What?”
Calmly, Jo repeated herself. “Only if you want to Simon.”
A gap of silence hollowed in between us. I really didn’t think he wanted to at all.
“Um.” Simon frowned. For once in his life he didn’t have the perfectly diplomatic, problem-solving, genius-level response all cued up. “Not sure this’ll still be all over the internet by then.”
Ouch.
Sev leaned back into the depths of the sofa cushions, lowering the lid of her laptop and slumping down in slow motion, like she’d rather melt into the seat than stay wedged between us.
“You know, I think we should leave you two to it. Don’t you, Jo?”
“No, you’re alright.” I forced a laugh. We were nothing close to dating. Why should Simon want me at his sister’s wedding? “I need to head home anyway. Matt’s going to think I moved out when Cathy did at this rate. He’ll be fuming.”
My stomach rolled. All the rubbish I’d been feeding Simon about not wanting more than he wanted to give had come right to the surface now.
What had I been thinking, showing Simon those photos?
Every single one was prime stalker diaries.
I’d been obsessed with the version of himself he brought to work.
Slick and smooth and fashionable – everything I wasn’t.
Everything I thought I wanted. I’d ballsed-up no strings sex before we even got into bed together. And now he knew I couldn’t be trusted.
Just like I knew there was so much more to him than any of my photos showed. Screw-up of a lifetime. Well done Ben Cooper.
Somehow I managed goodbyes to Sev and Jo, avoiding looking at Simon at all. Ignoring him was the least natural thing I’d ever done. One foot in front of the other, I paced back to the house, forcing myself not to run.
Simon caught up with me in the hall while I was lacing up my trainers.
“Ben, wait.”
“Look, no drama. I’ve gotta go home, is all. Haven’t been there in three days, so—”
“Ok.” Simon stepped in front of me, ducking into my eyeline. Hands by his shoulders, he showed me his palms, watching me wairily. A creep like me might do something regrettable if he made any sudden movements. “Okay. Go home. We’ll regroup tomorrow.”
I nodded shortly. Somehow regrouping sounded like a threat. “Great flat. Thanks for… Everything.” After this, I’d never ever get to kiss him again. Holiday aborted. “Which way’s the bus stop?”
Simon wasn’t going to force me to stay and have it out. Simon didn’t force anyone to do anything. He didn’t even argue. I was the only shithead here. Even if I wanted him to rage at me.
The handle of my Bag for Life tangled on his swooping coat hook and I couldn’t get it off any more than I could deal with him saying my name again so horribly softly.
“Ben.” Simon squared in front of me, blocking the path to his front door. “Those pictures..?”
“Piss off Simon. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He frowned at me. I couldn’t believe how wrong I’d got it either, but there we were. He wasn’t ever supposed to know how obsessed with him I’d been. Everything was ruined now.
“You should know,” he said, and I braced myself for the weight of his judgement. “I love the tortoises. The tortoises have always been my favourite.”
All the air rushed out of my lungs in a startled laugh.
“Bullshit,” I signed, already stumbling across his hall towards the street. There was no way he was alright with any of this. I didn’t want to hear him pretending to be okay with my lies.