“Totally. You sure you don’t fancy one last album.?”
“Positive.”
“One last gig?”
“Maybe in another few years.”
Adam shook his head. “How was writing songs for the schoolgirl?”
“Exactly as you thought it would be. Want a coffee?”
He nodded and picked up a magazine that was on my coffee table, ignoring me as I went to wait on him. I muttered an insult under my breath which he chose to ignore because I knew damn well he’d have heard me.
When I returned five minutes later with two coffees a barista would’ve been proud of, he was looking through my phone, or to be accurate, staying at a photo of Sophie that had somehow been taken.
“Who’s this fine piece?”
The coffee was too good to waste by pouring it over his head.
“My fiancée.”
“Fuck.”
The tool dropped my phone. Luckily it was onto carpet rather than tiles.
“You’re getting married?”
“Yep.”
There was silence. I had no doubt that various explanations were ticking round in Adam’s head; he was just working out which one was going to piss me off the most.
“She’s called Sophie. She owns half a dozen high end spas in London and one in New York.” I offered him the tit-bit of information to hopefully put him off from re-enacting the Spanish Inquisition.
“And you’re in love?”
That was not what I expected his first question to be.
Could I lie to the person who was probably my best friend and the closest thing I’d ever had to a brother?
“No.”
“You fucked her?”
“Yes.”
“She pregnant?”
“No.”
“She blackmailing you?”
“More likely to be the other way round.”
“Last name?”
“Slater.”
He used my phone to Google her.
