Stop. Talking. Zoë.
‘Am I what? A virgin or a born-again Christian?’ He paused. ‘Is this something you ask all your prospective boyfriends?’
He was enjoying this.
I rolled my eyes. ‘No, just the fake ones.’
‘Lapsed Catholic, if you must know. And very few of us are virgins when we get married.’
This discussion was featuring far too many sexual terms for comfort. ‘So, it’s settled – drinks tonight?’
‘I’ve got a meeting beforehand in London Bridge – if we could meet on that side of London that would be really helpful.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ I replied, relieved to have got the evening plans firmed up.
‘I know a nice place. I’ll send you the details.’
‘You owe me the Marcie interview after this. It’s the only reason I’m going through with all this fakery.’
‘Noted: you don’t like to fake it.’
He hung up, no doubt congratulating himself on getting in one last pun.
I had a busy morning ahead of me. Once a month on a Sunday, I invited the team over for brunch, and today was one such Sunday. It was nothing particularly fancy – but I’d got quite adept at frying sausages and eggs for half a dozen people at a time. And I only burnt the toastsomeof the time.
I set off for the supermarket to get bacon and eggs and tins of baked beans, and when I got back to the flat I started sorting out the kitchen. I cleared the table because our get-together was usually an excuse for us to play board games – they sure weren’t coming to sample my culinary skills. The oven was on the blink. Again.
Gavin and Lucy arrived first. He’d brought along a new game called Risk. Well, new to us, but it was a classic, he assured us. Rob arrived next, bringing with him a jar of artisanal honey.
‘Got this at Borough Market earlier.’
Bless Rob – he never arrived empty-handed. Last to arrive were Ayisha and Jody, who looked like she’d got less sleep than I had.
I was halfway through the first fry-up when the doorbell rang again. When I went to answer it, it was Mike. I took a step back. He was always invited to these mornings, but he rarely came. And by the look on his face, I could tell that he had news to impart. And not the fun kind.
‘Everything okay, Mike?’
‘Of course,’ he said, but he didn’t fool me.
‘Spill it.’
‘It’s nothing urgent. My more pressing question is: do you know how to make French toast?’
The answer to that was an unsurprising ‘no’, but Mike had suspected as much. He’d brought his own bread, eggs, flour and cinnamon, guessing rightly that my own spice rack would be lacking somewhat.
After we’d eaten and had our mugs refilled with tea, Gavin painstakingly explained the rules of Risk.
I tried to pay attention, but my mind kept snagging on why Mike was here. What worried him enough to warrant a trip from Berkshire to Shepherd’s Bush on a Sunday that couldn’t wait twenty-four hours?
We played in three teams, and enjoyed – I use the term lightly – a fiery few hours playing Risk. Sadly, I wasn’t a natural. Rob, Ayisha and I came last, our poor little green soldiers getting their butts kicked wherever they went. But at least we didn’t get into a nuclear showdown with anyone, unlike Jody and Lucy, who waged a fierce and expletive-filled campaign for Kamchatka against Gavin and Mike.
Lucy claimed that Mike’s military background gave him an unfair advantage. He didn’t usually talk much about his time in the army, but as we played he casually divulged that he’d once been on a mission in Kamchatka.
‘How canthatbe fair?’ asked Lucy.
Gavin tried to cool heads by reminding them that success in the game largely depended on the roll of a dice, rather than whether or not a player had seen action in the region they were trying to conquer. And he was proven right by the fact that he and Mike came second, crushed by Jody and Lucy’s victorious yellow plastic troops.
‘Beginners’ luck,’ Gavin muttered, who was unlucky enough to roll three ones, which resulted in losing Western Europe to Lucy and Jody. It was a catastrophic retreat that he never quite recovered from.
