“Yeah. You can.”
He looked down at his knees, then lifted his head and looked away again. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to be.”
“It’s okay. That was nice of you to do that. For me.”
The kitchen felt very quiet. Even his fridge was apparently too posh to hum. I should probably “add my touch” to it with a few well-placed fridge magnets and a shopping list for Tesco.
“Can I offer you some mineral water?” he asked. “I’ve ordered some drinks anyway. They’re on the way up.”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
He pressed a button on the tap and dispensed fizzy water into a glass. “Here.”
I took a swig. “So, Liam.”
“Yes?” He sat next to me on one of the high stools at his kitchen island.
“How’s your CV addendum coming along? I was hoping your apartment would give me some clues to prepare me for the Hugo-Miranda interrogation, but I’m not getting a lot ofpersonality.”
“Like I said, I’m not here a lot.” He rubbed the top of his head and looked down again.
“I get it. It’s just. You know. You’re still really—” Oh dear. Now I’d opened a can of worms.
“I’m what?”
“You’re kind of… private.” That sounded better thanclosed off.I knew there was more to him behind that wall.Would he ever show me?“I don’t know who you are, Liam. Not really.”
It was like I kept seeing two very different people. I preferred the sweeter one that he kept mostly hidden. “I thought, for the wedding thing, that would help.”
“Yes. Of course. Actually, I’ve given that some thought.”
“You have?”
“Well, yeah, I thought it might be easiest for you to just ask what you’d like to know. To make this thing”—he waved his hand toward the gap between us—“more believable.”
He shrugged his jacket off and placed it on a chair. His T-shirt was tight across his shoulders, and his neck looked wider now, without the coat framing it. He folded his arms on the countertop, the veins just visible beneath his light tan.
“So. What’ve you got?” he asked.
Wow, okay.What I’d like to know. Lots of things. Way too many. I should probably start off light.
“You said you like eighties movies. That your mum was into them.”
“I do. She was.”
“Me too, actually. But it doesn’t really fit with your… energy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not? Is there something about my energy… that’s specifically anti-eighties?”
“Hmm.” Hard to explain. Probably shouldn’t mention he was leaning a bitAmerican Psychoat times. Eighties films were so innocent. It was what made them so adorable. Liam—or at least, Wilhelm von Roth—didn’t feel like that. At all.Did he just like them because he missed hismum?
“What’s your favorite?” There. A much safer place to start.
He slid a bowl of poncy-looking crisps toward me. “Say Anything,” he said, without hesitation.
