Page 49 of Read My Lips

Under his gaze, my whole face itched hot. He was watching me too closely, full of all this interest I didn’t know what to do with, and I wanted him to stop. “I thought Matt said⁠—”

I scoffed. “Matt thinks he knows everything.” Come on smile. Extra brightness. “He’s met Gran twice...”

“Oh. I see.”

Except I really don’t think he did. Because I wasn’t as good at spinning versions of the truth as he was. And it felt like he could see right through me.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

With a well-deserved flourish, Simon whipped the oven cloth onto his shoulder.

“Rougaille Saucisse,” he announced, accent tone-perfect, even through the usual fuzzy thickness of his voice.

“And he speaks French as well.”

“Creole, actually.” Simon’s eyes danced bright in my direction. “But I do speak both. And a little Swedish.”

“Of course you do.”

“From my mother.” He flashed a wink at me, already ladling up. “Told you. I am exceptionally interesting.”

The lime-waxed dining table looked like it had been set for a magazine shoot. Along the length of the table stretched a spotless pale grey runner. Instagram-perfect flowers sat in an oversized glass vase right in the middle, flounced by a pair of white-wicked, unlit candles. Very soft-tone. Farmhouse chic, or French Chateau, or everything’s-off-white-because-I’m-loaded.

The chairs were padded fabric and cream, and no way had anyone ever gone near them with a plate of anything tomato-based.

Simon remorselessly uncorked a bottle of red that probably did not come from the middle shelf at Tesco’s. As he glugged wine into a pair of thin stemmed glasses, I pictured myself spontaneously chucking it all over the furniture.

“You know, I think I’m going to sit on the floor?”

His eyes darted from me, to the table and back again, laughter lines creasing in at the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t worry. If you get the chair dirty, they’ll buy a new one.”

“They would not!”

Simon twinkled at me, shrugging slyly. “Only people I’ve ever met to have a strictly ornamental kitchen table as well as a formal dining room.”

Maybe he didn’t think so much of this place after all.

“Don’t you ever get tired of making problems go away for the rich and famous?”

Handing me a wine glass, Simon set the plates down in front of the bar stools tucked under the overhang of the island.

“Never a dull day. Why? You think I should be doing something more worthy than protecting the careers of marginalized actors and celebrities?”

“Oh come on, you can’t call the Richard Whittakers of the world marginalised.”

Simon shrugged. “All the rest of my clients are queer too.”

“I didn’t realise that.” Perched side by side, we’d pivoted in towards each other to keep talking. Being stuck in Richard’s castle didn’t matter so much when Simon was looking at me like I was the only one he’d want to be stranded anywhere with.

“Their sexuality is none of your business, unless they want it to be. And I am pretty good at my job, so...” Simon set his foot on the lower bar of my stool. “I don’t really want to talk about Richard all night, do you? Dig in before it gets cold.”

Halfway through the first mouthful, all the flavours came alive.

“Oh my god this is good.”