Shaking my head, I laugh. ‘I give in. Let’s go.’
He smiles, closes the door behind me and sits into the driver seat.
I tap the visor that compartmentalises us and Jackson winds it down.
‘Where are we headed?’ he asks.
‘Canary Wharf. One Canada Square, please.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘I hear you’re helping Sandy move today.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I like you, Jackson, I really do.’
‘But?’
‘But if you ever hurt her, I will cut off your balls, fry them in sweet chili sauce and feed them to urban foxes. Understand?’
‘I think I’ve got that,’ he says, his nearest cheek rising towards his eye. ‘I have no intention of hurting her, Scarlett.’
‘Well, okay then. But I hear urban foxes really like sweet chili. Just saying.’
Turning on my phone for the first time in days, the unread email count in my inbox rises until it shows two hundred and sixteen. A quick check of my calendar tells me Margaret has rearranged almost everything for this week. I quickly fire off an email to warn her that I’ll be in the office by ten-thirty.
‘I’ll get the Tube back to the office when I’m done, Jackson, so you don’t need to wait and take me.’
He leans his head to one side in the rear-view mirror as if to say, Think again.
I flip an exasperated hand through the air. ‘Or do. Whatever.’
When I leave the car, in spite of myself, I can’t help but feel sorry for Jackson, always under orders, always having to find somewhere to park in impossible places. I button up my coat and tie the waistband, then walk into a coffee shop as fast as my stilettos will allow. A croissant somehow worms its way into my order with a latte for me and a black Americano for Luke.
‘Come here, you,’ Luke says, grabbing me around the waist and turning me into a cuddle. He leans back and tucks one loose strand of hair that’s fallen from my French roll behind my ear in an overly familiar way. ‘You look a million dollars.’
‘You always know how to make me feel good. Look at you in your three-piece suit. Very handsome. And when did you start combing your hair to the side like this?’
‘It’s new for winter.’
I laugh genuinely, sincerely.
‘Your latte,’ says the plump man in a burgundy apron behind the counter. ‘And the Americano must be for you, sir.’
‘You always remember how I like things, Scar.’
‘I don’t forget miniscule but important details like how my friends take their coffee. There’s a little pocket of my brain marked, Things Luke Likes.’
‘Ah, yes, I forget how similar we are. I too like to hoard meaningless info so I can’t fit anything important in.’
With a grin, I let Luke lead us to a table for two in the corner of the café. When we sit, he leans forwards and tears at my croissant, leaving half on my plate and taking half for himself.
‘I’m doing it for your hips,’ he says as I pout. ‘We wouldn’t want you to fatten up that ballerina frame now, would we?’
‘Not much chance of that with you stealing my food.’
‘So listen, Scar, before we start chatting, I don’t want to bum you out so I’ll say it now. I’m really sorry about your pops. I was at the church.’
