“Same. Now”—Jennifer had spotted something through a small forest of sunshades—“do you fancy a taco?”
“What?”
“There’s a place over there called Sexy Tacos. Don’t make me not eat at a place called Sexy Tacos.”
“Are you seriously basing our dinner plans on the name of the restaurant?”
“No, I’m basing it on my detailed knowledge of Monte Carlo’s dining scene. It’s here, it’s on a beach, it sells tacos—what more do you want?”
Put like that, Audrey couldn’t name a single thing. And fifteen minutes later they were sitting on the sand, in the part not taken over by the militarised battery of sun loungers, Jennifer wolfing down a taco de cochinita pibil while Audrey tried to subtly check that she hadn’t dropped guacamole down her bra.
“See something you like?” asked Jennifer.
“They’re my own breasts, Jennifer. I see them every day.”
“It’s a topless beach, you know. You can whap them out if you want.”
“I’m more concerned about spilling taco down myself.”
“Let me check that for you.” Before Audrey could stop her—not that she would have—Jennifer leaned over and made a brief performance of inspecting’s Audrey’s person for stray crumbs and dollops of sour cream. Finding none, she danced the tip of her tongue up Audrey’s cleavage and across her collarbone. “Seems fine to me.”
“Smooth moves,” Audrey told her.
And Jennifer Hallet laughed.
“I suppose,” she remarked, after a minute or two, “I could have taken you to some fancy restaurant.”
Finishing the last of her taco, Audrey balled up the wrapping and popped it in her bag. “No, this is perfect.”
“Never really liked restaurants. Full of sneering fuckers who judge you.”
“I think, being a TV producer, you might be a sneering fucker yourself these days.”
“Thanks. I’ve worked hard to get there. Still doesn’t mean I want to pay two hundred and fifty quid for whatever Alain Ducasse deigns to serve up to me while the pricks at the next table try to earwig whatever the fuck I’m talking about.”
There was a touch of…well, Jennifer didn’t get vulnerable and didn’t do uncertain. But, reading between the lines, Audrey almost felt like she was being asked a question. “I mean, I like the occasional restaurant. But it’s not a deal-breaker.”
“Didn’t say I thought it was,” said Jennifer, confirming she’d definitely thought it might be.
Audrey lay back on the oddly glinting sand and stared up at the cartoonishly blue sky. Beside her, Jennifer did the same, turning so she could rest her head against Audrey’s side. Given the three-hour flight and the unsatisfying conversation with a disdainful lesbian, they were both hovering on the edge of exhausted. But with the heat mellowing as the sun dipped lower, and the contented feeling that arose from having had some really good tacos, it wasn’t a bad exhaustion. It just turned the world a little hazy and swept its everyday concerns out to sea. Which was, perhaps, rare for both of them.
“How are the talks going?” asked Audrey.
Jennifer made a drowsy noise. “What talks?”
“Selling the show.”
“Oh, those talks. All talks are the same. They want this, we want that. Grace’ll probably go if it moves. She’s BBC to the core.”
“Will it still beBake Expectationswithout her?”
“Some people will say it is, some people will say it isn’t. But they’ll carry on watching anyway.”
“And what about you?”
“I probably won’t. I think it went downhill after season three.”
Lifting an indolent hand, Audrey batted in Jennifer’s general direction. “I meant what will you do, like, career wise?”
