Chapter 28 #2
Simon plucked up his napkin unfurling the fan shape before he’d even sat down. The waiter whipped mine off the table, and I nearly lamped him when he lunged towards my lap with it.
“Do you mind?” He did not need to go investigating my enthusiasm to be here. “What are you—?”
“Your napkin, sir?”
“Oh.”
Simon glittered amusement at me. Clearly the dick had known about this little dance in advance.
“Right. Thanks.” Hands held up at eye level, I leaned back in my chair to let the waiter drape it down. Halfway between the awkwardness of a lap dance you didn’t want, and being stopped by the police in countries where they actually carried guns. Semi: officially deflated.
Napkin drapery accomplished, the waiter portalled off again.
“Bit flash, isn’t it?” I prodded at the orchid arching elegantly out of the vase in the middle of the table and still couldn’t tell whether it was real or not. “What was all that about?” I gestured in the vague direction of my lap.
“They’re Michelin starred.”
“I feel like you think that answers my question.”
Simon laughed. “It is a little weird, I agree.”
Bread arrived. I tore hunks off my roll and mashed the middle into little balls between my thumb and forefinger while Simon neatly buttered his.
“They’re not going to cut my dinner up too are they?”
Simon’s foot nudged against my leg under the table. Neither of us pulled back.
“Ben, it’s just a restaurant. They do good food. We’re here to eat it.”
And the rest.
“Don’t forget about the Couple Goals.” Out of the window, I half expected a crowd to have assembled the way Simon had been going on about this date.
But no one had their noses pressed up against the glass.
Across the street, someone could have been taking a picture with their phone, but really, it was too far away to tell.
“Shouldn’t we be signing so anyone watching can eavesdrop more effectively? ”
Simon’s expression shuttered for a bare second, and the blankness sucked the air out of my lungs. But then it was gone, replaced with another layer of polish. “Excellent idea.”
It wasn’t. I wanted to take it back. No one was watching. No one cared. It could just be us without his showmanship. In this stupid-posh place with too much cutlery. On a date, like the ones he’d go on when he found someone he’d tolerate them for. In between all the casual sex and playing thirds.
He reached across the table top, smoothing his thumb over my knuckles, batting his eyes with ridiculous theatricality. Because we were supposed to be enjoying this place. All its opulence perfectly lit for glamorous lifestyle shots.
“Darling Ben, I can’t keep my hands off you,” he signed, one-handed, fully deadpan. “After this? Home, and I’ll file you like a tax receipt.” One eyebrow arched up. “Might need to revisit my non-business vocabulary.”
As if his workplace vocabulary didn’t frequently consist of things more explicit than that. I scoffed, despite myself. “I don’t think so.”
“Too much?” he asked, smile quirking.
My lizard brain flashed me an out of body drone-shot of myself grabbing Simon’s tie across the perfectly set table – white cloth, sparkling glasses – and crushing our mouths together, swiping crockery to the floor like we were starring in a badly acted, mildly pornographic soap from the 1990’s.
Fantasy Simon would split the buttons of his shirt and rip it right off with a double-fisted grab, and I would clamber over the table, just to get my hands on him.
I knew where we were when it was sex. Even if it would be all for the bloody cameras.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I flushed. He was aiming his phone at me, looking a lot like he was taking pictures.
“No way.”
Leaning in, he folded his arms onto the edge of the table. “Can’t stop thinking about yesterday, you say?”
Smart arse. “I did not say that.”
“Oh, didn’t you? Must be having trouble reading your lips.” He tilted his head, frown fully exaggerated. “Could have sworn you said something about what an outstanding gentleman I was, turning up in your hour of need...?”
“You wish.”
“Do I have to?”
I hid behind my menu, reading it through a hundred-and-one times.
We could have had breakfast here, that night he’d picked me up.
We’d have sat in starchy silence and I wouldn’t have blurted out anything about Mam, and Simon would never have broken out his rusty signing with me.
We’d have got to the office and I’d have let him go right under the bus when everything unravelled in that meeting.
Because I’d have known there was no way I’d ever make sense in this bubble he liked, where all that mattered was what you could convince everybody else to believe.
And what if that was Simon when his life wasn’t about to fall apart? What if everything else was just a massive off-day for him?
Simon pushed my menu down. And I felt properly guilty when he cleared his throat, smiling like this was more awkward than he’d been expecting.
“I like the look of the duck, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
Oh god. Get a grip. This was a restaurant. I could eat food – I managed it every day of my life.
I got my phone out, flipping to the camera.
“Come on then. Let’s get a photo to commemorate this lapse in judgement.”
Simon leaned in, slinging his arm around my shoulders, and my heart flip-flopped. On screen, mirrored at us, we looked like we made sense. Simon smiled, looking every inch like he adored me. Master showmanship, that was. He knew how to make the camera lie.
Simon was caviar and champagne, and I was baked beans and builders’ tea, and when we were done saving his arse, when he called time on our sex holiday, there was no reason he’d ever want me for real. Not when he’d built his whole life circled around this kind of luxury.
Simon ordered wine from the multi-page menu like he actually knew what he was going on about, and the waiter made a show of opening it in front of us, like he thought we might accuse him of subbing it out for a bottle he’d picked up from the bottom shelf at the local off-license on his cigarette break.
Eighty-five percent probability Simon would actually notice.
Swirling and sniffing and tasting ensued before Simon gave a nod – he’d ascertained it was Good. The shadow-master of a waiter poured out glasses, and re-vanished himself.
“Cheers.” We clinked.
“To our first official date.”
“Should you be saying that out loud?” Bloody hell. Never mind failed continuity for eavesdroppers who were supposed to believe we’d been at it for months. First implied second, and maybe even third. He can’t have meant it.
“No one’s listening apart from you.”
The wine stained his lower lip a tone darker.
I wanted to kiss him. Why were we even in this place with not enough soul, acting out all the parts of being together for god knows who, when we could have had a few more hours holed up in my bedroom?
Why had I ever thought getting with Luke was what I wanted?
“And here I was thinking there was a reason we’re sat right in the window.”
But the street was clear. The pedestrian on the other side of the road had moved on. None of the cars were lingering. Simon had wanted to bring me to a fancy place for a posh lunch before we had to deal with Luke. Probably because it photographed well. He had no secret agenda.
“So,” I said, forcing myself to settle in. “We’re not about to get stalked by journalists?”
“You’re the only one getting stalked. And Luke’s not here yet. Neither’s Richard.”
“Richard?”
All bets off. Should have trusted my gut.
“It seemed sensible to make a unified stand.” He angled his wrist, reading his watch. “He’ll be here any minute.”
I didn’t need to look at the time to tell that. Outside, a motorbike pulled up and a guy who was either a journalist or a very serious nature-photographer got off the back. His camera lens was longer than my arm, fatter than my bicep. My gut knotted tighter than a wet shoelace.
Our waiter reappeared in a twinkle, holding out a slab of wood covered in tiny plates.
“Antipasti, on the house.”
Another bike buzzed up outside as he set down olives and artichoke hearts and roasted peppers stuffed with cheese. Olive oil glistened in little dishes, specked through with dark balsamic.
“Unified stand?”
Simon’s face fell. He almost looked guilty. “I told you this would be a good media opportunity. Fastest way to land something is to do it in front of the press.”