‘Cheers.’
‘I mean it. You look like someone who's been sleeping badly and eating sandwiches at his desk and running too many miles and pretending everything's fine.’
‘I have been doing all of those things. But not because of…’
‘Neil.’
‘What.’
‘Love. Your left eye twitches when you lie. It's twitching.’
‘It's September. Everyone's left eye twitches in September.’
Freddie tore past them with his overnight bag, shouting about Owen's PlayStation. Gemma watched him go, already rationing her patience for the next forty-eight hours. Then she turned back to Neil.
‘What's going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Neil.’
When he looked at her, she looked back. Unsurprised. The same steady eyes that had looked at him when she'd said the word and waited for the answer she already knew. The safest eyes in the world.
‘There's a new art teacher.’
‘And?’
‘And he buys very good coffee.’
A beat. ‘How good?’
‘Italian. Stovetop. Proper beans.’
‘Oh, Neil.’
‘It's not… it's coffee. I'm talking about coffee.’
‘You're talking about a man who makes you drink something besides Yorkshire Gold. In six years of marriage I never managed that.’
‘That's not what this is.’
She leaned against the doorframe. ‘Is he fit?’
‘He's an art teacher.’
‘Is. He. Fit.’
‘He's got a lip ring and paint on his hands and hair that should be illegal in a professional setting.’
‘Oh, one of those.’ She waved a hand. ‘Tortured artist type. Paints in a garret. Wears a beret.’
‘He doesn't wear a beret, more like… he had his hair tied up in a bun. He's not… it's not like that. He's good with the kids. Properly good. He's…’ Neil stopped. He'd corrected her too fast. Too much detail. Gemma's eyebrow climbed steadily upward.
‘So yes,’ she said. ‘Fit. And not what I assumed.’
‘I'm not discussing this.’
‘You are discussing this. You're discussing it badly, which is how you discuss everything that matters.’ She folded her arms. ‘Neil. It's been… what, six months since you stopped going to that place? The bar?’
