“Honeymoons are athletic,” Rafael said, dropping into the seat beside her and draping an arm around her shoulders.
Selene lifted her glass. “To newlyweds.”
Bea dissolved into laughter, but could not for the life of her make eye contact.
There were only two reasons Bea had agreed to this café at eight thirty in the morning in winter. One was the twenty-three-dollar truffle butter croissant. The other was Georgina Ashcroft, who was in Northgate for twelve hours between a sunrise photoshoot and a midday flight to Madrid. Lillian had taken two tram lines for this. Everyone had earned carbs.
The wind knifed straight down the boulevard, turning designer coats into capes and mascara into a gamble. Bea ducked inside, nose thawing as the door shut out traffic and cold.
Espresso hissed. Milk frothed. Wood polish and sugar hung in the air. Bea placed her order, then joined her friends in the booth by the palm fronds.
Georgina rose, every blonde strand in place despite the illusion of spontaneity, makeup still flawless from whatever lens had just adored her. “You look…wholesome.”
Bea pulled back, unwinding her scarf. “You sound surprised.”
“That Rafael Griffin’s wife came back from a month alone at sea lookingrested?” Georgina grinned as they sat. “Of course. I expected ruined. Minimum, limping.”
“We weren’t aloneeverynight.”
Lillian’s water was halfway to her mouth.
“Only the nights he cleared the crew.”
Lils inhaled at the wrong time and coughed into her sleeve. “He what?”
Bea leaned over to thump her between the shoulder blades. Best not to let that line of questioning gain traction. “How’s Penny?”
“She’s lovely,” Lillian said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Just not an ideal housemate.”
“Examples, Lils,” Georgie demanded, tapping the table with her vibrant red nails.
“Okay so, this morning she came home at four and reheated a fish curry on the stove so long it set off the fire alarm,” Lillian said with a sigh. “And last week she hosted impromptu yoga in our living room. With loose glitter.”
“Why glitter?"
“I have no idea.” Lillian shook her head. “There were three of them. Adam vacuumed around them.”
“That man would stay calm during an exorcism,” Georgie said.
“I’m considering booking one,” Lillian replied, deadpan.
“Maybe you can move in with Claire,” Bea said, already leaning forward like she was pitching an acquisition.
“She’s moving to the UR?” Georgie asked.
“Marco’s out. Westhaven’s in.” Bea’s grin went feral. “Once her visa’s issued, she’ll resign and start job-hunting in Northgate. Christmas target.”
“That explains the wedding week mystery,” Lillian murmured, as though replaying said week. “I thought she was being vague on Marco.”
“If she’d stayed with us, you of all people could’ve extracted the full breakup transcript,” Bea said. “But Rafael was covering hotels, so she chose buffet breakfasts over group therapy.”
Georgie lifted her cup. “Strategic.”
“Extremely,” Lillian agreed. “I, too, have been swayed by unlimited hollandaise.”
Bea tapped her fingers against the table instead. “She’s actually coming,” she said, softer now. “Not just visiting.Staying. The Republic is not prepared.”
Lillian smiled. “Especially if she packs the laser measurer.”
