“Yes, that’s right. And I make surfboards.”
“Surfboards?” Warren says with surprise. “How does one make a surfboard?”
I’m sure the pompous arse couldn’t be less interested in how they’re made, but Ant takes his question at face value and gives him a brief explanation.
“Well, you take what we call a blank—an unshaped piece of very fine foam—and cut and sand it until it’s the shape and size you want. Next, you decorate it, usually with spray paint, then you put in the fin, or fins, cover it with fibreglass, then resin. Once that’s all done, you polish and buff it, and you have a surfboard.”
“Well, that sounds very … interesting.” Mum smiles bravely.
“And all this is done by hand?” Warren asks, clearly having assumed Ant worked on some kind of production line.
“Plenty of boards are made in factories. But I only do handmade ones.”
“And you make money from producing these boards? That seems like a very labour-intensive process.” Warren looks sceptical.
“It is, yes. But a handmade board is worth much more than a factory-made board, obviously.”
“And what university did you attend?” Warren asks in a voice so pointed it could pierce armour. I’m mortified by his rudeness, but not surprised. I open my mouth to interrupt, but a raised eyebrow from Warren has me closing it again. I’ve learnt from bitter experience not to interfere.
“I didn’t go to university,” Ant responds placidly, giving no explanation or excuse, ignoring the obvious trap and refusing to be intimidated.
“And what do your parents do?” Mum drops into the disapproving silence.
I can’t keep quiet any longer. At least interrupting Mum is far less fraught with danger.
“Can we not do the inquisition, please?” I ask as quietly as I can, shifting uncomfortably.
“We’re just trying to get to know Ant.” Mum shushes me with a hand wave.
I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. “You don’t need to answer any of this, Ant.”
“That’s okay. My parents are retired. They moved to Tasmania a couple of years ago. My mum plans to raise Highland cows. They love bushwalking, and the colder climate suits them.”
Thankfully, the conversation is interrupted by the faint sound of the oven timer going off.
Mum immediately pops up from her seat like the good Stepford wife she is. “Oh, that’s the dinner. Lili, would you help me? Warren, perhaps you could show Ant to the dining room?”
I’m frozen in my chair, but Ant stands, holds out his hand to help me up, and, with his back turned to my parents, gives mea grin and a wink. The tension that has twisted my gut since we arrived eases, and a smile of relief blooms.
Unbelievably, I think he’s enjoying himself. There’s no accounting for some people. I don’t understand this man at all. But it does relax me a little to know he’s not lost his sense of humour.
Chapter Ten
Ant
Fuck a duck. The house. Lili’s parents. I feel like I’m in a Noël Coward play. Without the humour.
This place takes restrained opulence to a new level. Like Lilavati’s place, there’s no sign of it being lived in. But unlike Lili’s, there are ornaments and artwork, rugs and lamps, coffee table books and throw pillows. All carefully chosen to create anatmosphere. Or maybe the word isambiance. If you told me I was in Buckingham Palace, I wouldn’t argue with you. All that’s missing are the corgis, and I can’t imagine anything that might smell or shed hair being allowed in this space.
After a brief and excruciatingly polite grilling over scotch—which I hate—Marion leaps into action and serves us a three-course dinner. It’s delicious, and unsurprisingly, plated with the precision you might expect onMasterChef. Wines are paired with each course, although there’s never enough in your glass to get you drunk.
The table is set so precisely that I wouldn’t be surprised if Marion had used a ruler to lay out the cutlery and plates. I can’timagine Warren deigning to help by setting the table, although he does lift an eyebrow at her when he notices a petal has fallen off one of the clearly homegrown roses in the centre of the table. Marion snatches it up and whisks it off to the kitchen before a word is even spoken, while Warren settles in the carver chair at the head of the table.
Over entrees, talk turns from me—thank Christ—to the wedding of Lilavati’s cousin.
“It will be such a wonderful event,” Marion gushes, straightening her plate with a nervous twitch. “We’re all staying at a beautiful resort on Maui, that’s one of the more exclusive islands in Hawaii,” she adds, clearly for my benefit, as though perhaps I have no idea about the Hawaiian islands, or the world at large, probably. “Emily has organised events for everyone for the whole week.”
“Have you ever played golf?” Warren asks. It’s clear these guys think I grew up in a cave, but at least they’re being polite, if we ignore the deliberate attempt to humiliate me with the question about university. I don’t tell them Long Reef Golf Course is a three-minute walk from my house. Or that I’ve been a member since I was sixteen.
