“First thing you think of. I’ll let you take as many selfies as you want and you can tag me in them,” he said, still watching me.
“You have an Instagram account? Is this so you can creep me?”
“I’ve always had one. Well, not always, but for a couple of years. It’s helpful for finding bands and singers to play at Cases, especially early on. Now they contact us to see if they can perform there.”
My phone was out already. “What’s your name on there?”
“Owen Anders with an underscore at the end.”
I searched quickly and found his account, grinning victoriously. “You liar,” I said. “You use this as much as me. You’re just more discreet at putting up pictures.” There were some from today: me and him taking a selfie with a suit of armour; the view from Tower Bridge and one of me looking over the side of the bridge at the Thames. He’d altered the filter to give the photo a soft tone and had caught the moment when the wind had blown my hair. His caption was simple: beautiful woman.
I clicked follow and set it so I would have a notification whenever he posted. No more stealth photos.
“Are you mad?” he said quietly.
“No.”
“Are you freaked out?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Kind of. But not because you’re a creeper.”
“Why?”
“Because of how I think you see me.”
“That picture shows how I see you.”
“I’m still not—”
“Dating,” he interrupted. “I know.”
“Your mother. Tell me about her date.”
Our drinks arrived and Owen took a good gulp before he explained. “He’s called Trey Buchanan and he owns an accountants three doors down from the Covent Garden store. He buys a lot of books and has chatted to Mum loads which I don’t have a problem with. My issue is that I know he’s demanding of his dates. He had a short relationship with the aunt of a girl I dated for a few months and at first he was charming, really full on but smarmy with it. After a few weeks he became possessive and started to be controlling: she didn’t get to choose where they went out to eat or even what she wore. When she ended it, he kept turning up at her place at all hours, making threats and such. It didn’t last very long; I think he’d already picked his next victim but he wasn’t pleasant.”
“Have you told your mum this?”
“Of course. She’s not denied it, but she said she’s going to see what he’s like for herself. Which I suppose is fair enough, but I feel she’s a bit vulnerable at the moment,” he said, looking preoccupied.
“Why do you think she ended it with Dave?”
“I think the grass looked greener. They’ve never lived together and I think he suggested that they finally moved in. She’s never lived with another man, apart from me obviously, so I think she panicked.” His drink was nearly empty. I gestured to the waiter to bring two more.
“Where are they eating?”
“The Oystermen. We have a reservation at eight and it’s definitely my treat. You do like seafood, don’t you?” He sat slightly forward, clearly worried that he’d made a faux pas.
“I hate it. Can’t stand oysters or especially lobster.”
His face dropped. “Shit…”
“I’m kidding. I love seafood. Not sure either of us should have oysters though.”
* * *
