‘Fuck, no. I wouldn’t have fed one to my dog. His dinner looks more appetising than they did, and it comes out of a tin.’
His answer didn’t go quite in the direction I was hoping for. I suppose now would be the time to laugh along with him, to agree they looked worse than his dog’s dinner, to deny creative ownership and make this weird littletête-à-têteeasier on both of us. But that would require decent acting skills. And for me to give a stuff, I think, as I feel my expression settling into what my mother calls,murder she smote.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ He presses his hand briefly across his mouth, hiding that beautiful mouth of his, his eyes glittering mischievously above. ‘They were yours, weren’t they?’
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as he suddenly frowns down at me like I’m the one in the wrong.
‘Fuck, Heather, I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth just runs away from me.’
‘That’s fine.’ You can’t help being pretty on the outside yet rotten to your stinking core. I try for a smile, hoping I’m not baring my teeth at him.
‘Seriously, I’m sorry.’ I instinctively stiffen as his hand touches my elbow again, but then he shoves both hands into the pockets of his pants, his shoulders pushed almost to his ears. When I look back at this later, I’ll probably credit it as him looking genuinely remorseful, possibly even a little confused, but I can’t think about that right now. I can only think about fighting the fresh sting of tears.Ugh. I hate how difficult it is to control them.Using my usual tactic, I jab my nails into the meat of my palm and inhale.And exhale.
‘I only mentioned them to illustrate why I’m on the other side of London at—’ I turn my wrist and glance down at my watch ‘—the tail end of happy hour.’ With a brittle flourish of both hands, I indicate my version of office wear to cement the point. If I were a different girl, I might’ve tugged on his tie flirtatiously instead.
‘Again, sorry, but you’ve lost me,’ he replies, his gaze rising to mine.
Was he just checking me out?
‘I’m here,’ I say, pointing at the floor, ‘for the same reason I took cupcakes to the office, cupcakes I dropped, by the way. Because it’s my birthday?’
‘But shouldn’t it be the other way around? If it’s your birthday, shouldn’t you be provided with cupcakes?’
‘You know that’s not how it works,’ I say, my frustration beginning to rise. I feel oddly slighted, as though I’m not good enough for birthday cupcakes so I had to provide my own. This conversation is veering off course. ‘Why or how do you think cupcakes appear so regularly in the kitchen?’
‘I can’t say I really considered it, but I am now. And I have to tell you, it seems like a pretty piss-poor attempt by someone in the office to scam staff out of cake.’
I open my mouth and close it again with a snap. Fuck him and fuck his inability to play by the rules. And fuck the fact that he seems to regard his dick as some kind of community tool.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Look, let’s just get this over with, shall we? I’m here because it was the most convenient place for my friends and I to meet after work. And you’re here, all the way on the other side of the river, because you’re with the boss’s daughter. Also straight from work.’ I stab my finger in the direction of his table. ‘So, busted. But I’m sure you’ll get over it.’
As I turn, he reaches out, his fingers curling briefly around my wrist, loosening just as quick. I stare at the spot, not because I’m incensed that he’d do such a thing but because of my skin’s electric-like response to his touch.What the hell was that?
‘It isn’t what it looks like.’
‘Really?’ It’s not just my tone that’s hostile as I look up again.
‘Okay, so you’re partly right. It’s true I chose this place because it’s out of the way but only to avoid people jumping to the wrong conclusion.’Just like you have, he means but doesn’t say.
‘I have no interest in where you are, why, and with who. And I don’t keep up with office gossip.’ Mostly. I suppose I like to know what’s going on as much as the next person, but I don’t use it as currency. ‘So you and your public penis can now return to your companion safe in the knowledge that I certainly won’t be recounting this meeting toanyone.’ I flounce off in the direction of my friends.
‘Public penis?’ he calls after me, and I cringe, my steps faltering. Not because the words are heavy with laughter but because of my outburst and the attention we’re drawing.
‘Yes, like the library.’ I throw the drawling retort over my shoulder. ‘Free for anyone to borrow.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t listen to office gossip!’ he calls happily back.
I feel a giddy sense of satisfaction as I flip him the bird without turning.
‘I’ll catch up with you later, right?’
‘Your dreams, Archer Powell. Or maybe in mine.’ Of course, by this point he can’t hear me.
When I get back to the girls, I find I’m still smiling, the contents of the table providing a perfect cover for my delight.
‘Wow, this looks great.’ Along with a bowl of golden fried potatoes covered in that deliciously fiery tomato sauce, there’s also a delicious-looking charcuterie tray filled with cheese, pate, olives, serrano ham, tapenade, figs, bread—all the yummy things!
