Page 30 of Read My Lips

“We’d better get creating some proof then, hadn’t we?”

If he thought I was backing out of my piss poor decision that easily, he really didn’t know how stubborn I could be.

CHAPTER

NINE

Four houses down, Sev loitered up against an all black souped-up VW Polo with tinted rear windows. Waiting for us. Not exactly patiently.

“Every second you two stand there not moving, is one second of weekend I am never getting back.”

Like I was the one who desperately wanted to be zooming off to Richard’s country pile to film a dodgy video with the guy I was in lust with, to get him off the hook for screwing someone else. In fact, that sounded exactly like my perfect weekend. How foolishly I had been wasting my life.

Simon yanked open the passenger door, tilting the front seat forward and gesturing at it with a pointed nod. Of course I got to go in the back like the child. I was sweet, wasn’t I?

Strapping into the middle seat, one hand on each headrest, seemed like the best option, except Sev fed her car rocket fuel. I wouldn’t like to say she took the corner too fast or anything, but I definitely centrifuged back against the seat. G-forces came into play. Quite a few of them.

The engine roared like a fighter jet, and I swear flames shot from the exhaust as she gunned us down the road.

Simon took his life into his own hands, tugging slack into his seat belt and twisting around to peer back at me. He was probably into extreme sports too.

“Sev had plans this weekend. She’s being incredibly gallant.”

Why did she get gallant?

“Don’t butter me up, Simon.” She darted a look, turning to him so her face was visible, and I cringed as the traffic lights ahead turned red and she slammed on the brakes. “I am not even close to approaching happiness and light about this situation.”

“She’s meant to be helping choose wedding flowers.”

“Oh. Nice.” I forced enthusiasm. “Who’s getting married?”

In the rearview mirror, Sev Medusaed me. Funeral flowers, I would definitely go to her for.

“I am. Remember? Why do you sound so surprised?”

“What? No. I’m not – I wasn’t.” Shit. “Congratulations. Again. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Really great.”

“Is it? Wonderful?”

My mouth hinged open. This was one of those traps. Anything I said would be the wrong thing. If I wasn’t careful, this whole conversation would rearrange itself until I was inadvertently mansplaining menstruation with no idea how I got there. And it would absolutely be my fault. “You’re… not all that sold on it then?”

Clearly amused, Simon glanced between us like he was spectating at Wimbledon.

“Oh, I’m over the fucking moon. But I don’t need congratulating for enshrining a perfectly good relationship in a misogynistic, outdated cage with thirteen dozen pastel pink roses and a whole bunch of gender-conforming hoo-ha. It’s not a wedding; it’s a civil partnership. We’re not doing the Big Fat Turkish Wedding bollocks.” Sev floored the accelerator. “And I fucking hate roses. They’re not going to change anything other than that when she divorces me, she can get a lawyer to chainsaw my camera equipment in half, are they?”

“Do lawyers actually chop⁠—?”

“Sev,” Simon soothed, “if Jo wanted to chainsaw your camera in half, she wouldn’t wait for a lawyer to do it.”

“She definitely won’t if I keep trashing our weekend plans to sort out your cock-ups. Can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Simon’s grin spread wider, showing his teeth. “It’ll be good for your CV.”

“Funnily enough”—Sev shot him the most withering look I’d ever seen in my life, changing gears with a skilful wrist snap—“my aspirations to be a soft-porn producer are entirely non-existent.”

Changing lanes so sharply the wheels screeched, Sev darted in and out of the traffic like we were in a high-speed chase and I white knuckled the seat because I didn’t want to die.

We hit a tail-back ten minutes onto the M25. Like every time I’d ever been on it. The three of us stared at the sat-nav as it recalculated the journey time. And recalculated it again, and the road ahead on the map turned red.