“It’s not Simon Huxton, is it?” She frowned, her nose crinkling. “Please tell me it’s not him.”
“What’s so bad about Simon?” It was totally Simon.
Genny frowned. “He’s been on dates with at least two of the girls in the ticket office, and Michelle from HR. And by dates, one date. With each. No one’s done a second.” She gave me a wary look. “I know you’re really keen to meet the one, but it’s not Simon.”
“He’s a nice guy. He opens doors. He has a nice smile. He dresses smartly.” I knew my defence was about to be torn apart by Genny’s little finger.
“He lives with his mother and he’s nearly forty. He’s never lived anywhere else. He wears a sweater vest - ”
“Tank top. It’s a tank top, Genevieve.”
“Whatever, it looks like something from nineteen seventy-two.” She shrugged and shook her head. “He expects his date to pay all the bill and he chooses the most expensive places. He then takes a selfie and sends it to his mother to prove he’s on a date.”
“Why does he need to prove he’s on a date?” Fair enough, a few alarm bells were ringing here.
“Because his mother is desperate for him to have a wife. But Simon isn’t interested in a wife. He thinks his plushies would be jealous.” She started to laugh, trying to hold it in and failing.
Amber, the usual third in our witches’ coven, walked over to us frowning. “What’ve you done to Genny?” She sat down on the other side of me, putting down a jug of sangria on the table.
“I told her I was going on a lunch date with Simon from SFMG.” I waited for Amber’s reaction.
She kept her expression entirely neutral.
“You do that, Neva. You do that.” Then she poured herself a glass of sangria. “Make sure you tell us everything afterwards.”
Amber looked at Genny, who’d just about recovered. The two of them dissolved into fits of laughter again.
I stood up, topped up my glass with more sangria and walked off, leaving them to their little laughing fit and went to sit at a table near the barbecue, more ribs and steaks being added to the grill.
I didn’t flinch when Jude sat down with me, a plate full of meat in his hand. He’d clearly just topped it up.
“Mind if I sit with you while I get through this?”
The man had always had a healthy appetite – in areas other than food. “Not at all. I hear you’re coming to France with us?”
He nodded, stripping a rib. “I am. I need a change of scenery and by the time I’m back, the boot will be off and I’ll be able to focus on rehab.”
“Good plan.” It was. I got that.
“You don’t mind, do you?” He looked worried for a second. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”
I shook my head and felt slightly bad. “No, not at all. These are your friends too.” That had been my main reason for keeping what we’d been up to secret. If our friends had found out, they’d have gossiped – in front of our faces, most likely – and when it ended, as it inevitably would’ve done, they’d have gotten too involved.
“Cool.” He swallowed, then stared at his plate. “You okay? I haven’t really seen you for ages.”
Great, we were making small talk.
“I’m good. How’s everything else – apart from the injury, I mean?” This was really awkward.
Jude nodded, having the grace to not look awkward himself. “It’s boring, not going to lie. My diet hasn’t been great and I know I need to sort it out. I’ve been hanging out at the kids’ football camp.”
“Which is full of chocolate and sweets.” I nodded, knowing exactly how my team used it as a great excuse to eat shit that they were going to pay for later. “It’s too nice a day to lecture you now. I’ll save it for later.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.” His grin was cheeky, full of fun, and that dimple still made my heart race a little.
Jude had been cute. He’d been the player the younger girls had gone crazy for when he was nineteen, twenty. Almost prettily good looking, with the charisma usually reserved for boy band members, Jude happened to be one of the most naturally talented players in his age group. He’d debuted for the national team when he was just eighteen and had been in every squad since, as long as he hadn’t been injured, which had been rare. For the last couple of years, since nothing was happening between us any more, I’d waited to see if he’d hook up with a member of a girl group, like David Beckham did with Posh, or a model like so many footballers had, but he’d stayed single. There was gossip and I knew he’d had plenty of opportunities. I didn’t think about the ones he’d taken.
It had been my choice to end things. Not Jude’s.
