“Ditto.”
His phone buzzed in his hand. “Eleven!”
“Fuck!” Oliver laughed.
“Yes, I don’t know how you’re going to have morefunthan that,” Charlotte said, straight-faced.
Oliver furrowed his brow, snuffed out his cigarette, and then pulled her onto his lap. “Charlotte, you know me. Models are like toffee. They often seem like a great idea, especially on holiday. But once you get them in your mouth, you remember that they’re cloyingly sweet and they stick to your teeth. Plus they’ve no nutritional value whatsoever… But they’re certainly very pretty in the window.”
It is likely I had never heard anything more perfect.
We laughed for a long time.
Hayes excused himself at some point and went inside, and when he reemerged five minutes later he had a bottle of Scotch in one hand and two glasses in the other. He was laughing to himself as he traipsed across the patio.
“What?” Oliver asked.
“Simon sent another text. He said, ‘We had eleven models and seven of them just left with Rory.’”
“Ha!”
“Wait, I have to read it to you,” he snorted, placing down the Scotch and pulling out his phone. “‘Liam was totally gutted and I had to remind him that he only has one dick… He thinks it might be Rory’s tattoos and now he’s considering getting one.’”
“Tell Liam he mustn’t forget where he comes from.” Ol smiled. “And to not fret if his type is not appreciated in South Beach, because it still has value in Courchevel.”
“‘We are this close to becoming a joke.’”
“How old is Liam?” I asked.
“Nineteen. God, that’s priceless.”
“Only two glasses?” Oliver sat up and began pouring the drinks with Charlotte still on his knee. Laphroaig 10. Neat.
“My hands are only so big, and I didn’t want to break Mrs. D’Amato’s crystal. Just double pour it and we’ll share.”
“Mrs. D’Amato?” Oliver mocked him. “She’s like in her forties, mate.”
“Great,” I said.
“Sorry,” Oliver said.
“But she looks like a Mrs. D’Amato. You don’t look like a Mrs. D’Amato,” Hayes explained.
“What exactly does a Mrs. D’Amato look like?”
“Like she’s done stuff to her face.” He gesticulated. “She’s like frozen things and puffed things up. Your face isn’t anything like that. Your face—”
“Your face is perfect,” Oliver interjected.
It was more than a little awkward.
“Thank you.”
Hayes spun to look at him. “Yes, Oliver. Thank you… And your face is perfect as well, Charlotte,” he added, pointedly.
Charlotte smiled, trying to make the best of the situation. “Thank you, Hayes. For noticing.”
“Bloody hell, I was just paying a compliment,” Oliver laughed.
