I laugh too, and glance across at him. “Sorry! Of course. Thought I already said that.”
He’s smiling, but I detect the faintest shade of bemusement in his eyes. “No... you definitely didn’t.”
“Of courseI’m pleased I stayed in Shoreley. That I get to be with you,” I say, squeezing his hand.
“Moment’s gone, Lambert,” he teases, whispering now because we’re joining the queue for the restaurant. The thought that I might have hurt his feelings is suddenly so alarming it’s all I can do not to pull him into the nearest alleyway so I can smother him with kisses, and tell him over and over again just how happy I am that I made the choice I did, on that day three months ago.
—
The restaurant is small and unfussy, with hard seats and tiny tables, so popular we had to queue for our own reservation. It’s just two small rooms connected by a narrow corridor passing the serving area, and the space is packed, so we have to raise our voices to be heard.
Our table is crammed with plates and dishes—grilled fish and charcoaled chicken, flaky pastries and yellow rice, bowls of creamy hummus and the fluffiest of flatbreads, all adorned with fresh herbs and golden splashes of oil, plump pomegranate seeds, shards of lemon.
Jools is asking Caleb how long he’s been a swimmer.
“Definitely wouldn’t call myself a swimmer,” Caleb says with a laugh. He looks so lovely tonight—perfectly disheveled in his checked shirt, jeans, and trainers. “I just bob about, really. Only because I read cold water’s supposed to be good for your circulation and immune system and mental clarity and all that stuff.”
Jools nods thoughtfully. “We swim in the lido sometimes. Not quite the sea, but close enough.”
“It’s ascoldas the sea,” Nigel chips in. He’s holding Jools’s hand between refilling her wineglass and intermittently offering the different dishes to her, and I’m struggling to remember a time when I’ve seen her so happy.
They ask Caleb about his photography, and he’s too modest, so I have to keep interjecting with examples of his talent—the awards and grants he’s won, the numerous accolades and endorsements to hisname, that time he got to shoot a famous influencer’s thirtieth birthday party after someone recommended him on Instagram. “I almost didn’t take the job,” he says, laughing, “because it was so ridiculous. I mean, she was nice enough, but she’d hiredzebrasbecause they fitted in with the color theme.”
Nigel smiles. “A photographer’s dream, no?”
“I mean, kind of. But she wanted everything to look very staged and dramatic. Which was easy, obviously, with all the animals and the fire-eaters and the dry ice. But I just prefer taking pictures of stuff that’s real, you know?”
“Bet the fee was out of this world,” says Jools, with a smile.
“Oh, yeah, don’t get me wrong—that party paid my bills for a whole year. But the big-ticket stuff really isn’t my bag. Her PR people wouldn’t let me out of their sight. Every single shot was signed off. Postproduction was ridiculous, bordering on unethical. I prefer low-key gigs. Jobs where I can actually see the impact of my work.”
I ask Nigel how he got into financial auditing. I sense he’s the kind of person whose appearance rarely alters between the office, the pub, and his living room. He’s delicately featured and exceedingly well groomed in a collared shirt and chinos, his dark hair neatly side-parted and weighted down with product.
He turns to Jools, poker-faced. “You were supposed to tell them I’m a stuntman.”
I laugh. My taste buds are dancing from the warm spices and mint, the soft cheese, pickled vegetables. “She wouldn’t date you if you were a stuntman.”
“No? How come?”
“Risk-averse,” Jools says, winking at me.
Nigel looks pleased. “Then we’redefinitelythe perfect match.”
Caleb leans forward. “What is it you audit, exactly? Sorry to be dense.”
I love this about Caleb—how interested he is in other people, how attentive. How little time he’d actually spend talking about himself, if it were left up to him.
“Well, essentially, I review company accounts. Check everything’s in order, and aboveboard.”
Nodding earnestly, Caleb starts asking more, even though I know Nigel’s job is about as far as it can be from the stuff Caleb finds inspiring.
Eventually, Nigel smiles, meeting Caleb’s eye. I can only hope a bromance is brewing. “At the end of the day, it’s not mypassion, but... I couldn’t turn my passion into a long-term thing, so this is my backup plan.” He shrugs, takes a sip of wine. “I mean, it’s not bad. I like the company I work for, the people I work with.”
Caleb tears off a piece of flatbread and dabs it in hummus, the elbow of his shirt dangling dangerously close to a bowl of yogurt dip. “So, whatisyour passion?”
“Nigel was going to be a professional pianist,” Jools says, as though she can’t hold back any longer.
“Wow, seriously?”
