‘This really is delicious,’ Joe said as he dipped back into the kulfi. ‘What is it, pistachio?’
The waiter nodded.
‘Yes, sir. We make it ourselves, my grandmother’s recipe.’
‘Incredible. Malcolm, you really should try it before you rush off to your busy afternoon.’
‘Thanks but I’ll pass,’ Mal replied, shoving his credit card and the receipt back in his wallet with no small degree of irritation. ‘Sophie, shall I call you a car to the station?’
I waved off his kind offer as I stood and slung my tote bag over my shoulder, shooting daggers at his co-worker. ‘Don’t worry about it. My train isn’t until six, I’ve got ages.’
‘Plenty of time to sit down and eat dessert with me then,’ Joe piped up.
There are roughly one million things a person can do in London on an average Thursday afternoon. Even when I factored in my little wheelie suitcase, heavy tote bag and the sultry late August heat there were still endless ways for me to entertain myself until it was time to catch the train. Museums, cinemas, art galleries, an infinite number of coffee shops where I could hole up with my latest draft and try to work out what was missing from my book. I could go to the zoo. I could take an open-top bus ride around the city. London was mine for the taking.
But when Joe Walsh stood up, pulled out my chair and patted the seat, something inside me clicked. Not in a good way, like a puzzle piece slotting into place. More like someone taking the safety catch off a gun.
‘You know how the trains are,’ Mal said, speaking far more loudly than necessary. ‘Maybe you ought to get to St Pancras nice and early.’
‘St Pancras?’ Joe echoed. ‘I live right by there. Don’t worry yourself, I’ll make sure she gets to the station in plenty of time.’
‘I’m a big girl, no one needs to get me to the station,’ I said when Mal opened his mouth to argue. ‘Thank you for lunch, Malcolm. I’m going to stay and finish my tea.’
It was very obvious he wasn’t happy but he could read my expression just as well as I could read his. I wasn’t going anywhere. As far as I was concerned, the only thing more irritating than the kind of man who went out of his way to get a rise out of you, was letting said man know he’d got under your skin. Joe Walsh clearly thought he was the cleverest person at the table.
Joe Walsh was about to find out otherwise.
Mal fought his way into his suit jacket, aggressively tightening his tie as Joe hopped back into his empty seat. ‘Text me when you get home,’ he instructed gruffly. ‘And don’t forget what we agreed about the other thing.’
‘Other thing?’ Joe leaned forward with his chin in his hands. ‘That sounds interesting.’
‘It is,’ I replied, meeting his intrigue with steely resolve. ‘But it’s also nothing to do with you so maybe you should mind your own business.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ Mal sighed, shaking his head as he gave my shoulder a warning squeeze. ‘I’ll see you at the weekend. Behave yourself.’
‘I always do?!’ I replied, genuinely offended by the implication.
‘Bye, Malcolm! See you Monday!’ Joe called cheerily as Mal stalked off towards the door, still chuntering under his breath.
When the door was closed and we’d both watched Mal storm away down the street, Joe looked at me and smiled. In no rush at all, I reached for my cup of still-steaming tea and stirred, searching for the chink in his arsehole armour.
‘Why Monday?’ I asked as he claimed Mal’s tea as his own. ‘Don’t you work on Fridays?’
‘Most Fridays I do,’ he answered. ‘I’m off tomorrow.’
‘Doing anything fun?’
‘Could be.’ He picked up his cup and blew. ‘But it’s nothing to do with you so maybe you should mind your own business.’
So it was going to be like that, was it? Let the games begin.
‘Mal says you’re the creative director,’ I repliedpolitely. With a man like Joe, you couldn’t play your cards too early otherwise they flounced off in a huff and where was the fun in that? ‘That sounds so interesting. What does it entail exactly?’
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed his tea before responding. ‘Anything and everything. I don’t edit but I’m involved in every other aspect of a book’s publishing journey. This one, for example.’ He picked up the copy ofButterfliesagain, the book practically purring when he brushed the pad of his thumb against every single soft page. ‘Malcolm brought it in, Sera on his team did the edit, but after that, it’s all me.’
I nodded slowly with a thoughtful expression, taking my time as I considered his statement.
‘So you’re a cover designer with a fancy title?’
