My phone buzzes on the table.
Luke.
Priya glances at the screen and lifts an eyebrow. “Ah. Secret lover?”
I nearly inhale a grain of rice.
“It’s an author.”
“Even worse.”
I answer. “You are interrupting my lunch.”
“It’s six o’clock,” Luke says.
“In England.”
“Yes. The centre of civilisation.”
“That is a generous interpretation.”
He ignores that.
“I’ve looked at your notes.”
“And?”
“You’re irritating.”
“Thank you.”
“You wrote, and I quote, this chapter loses all narrative tension in the middle.”
“It does.”
“It does not.”
“Luke, six pages of your detective staring moodily out of a window is not tension. It’s weather.”
Across from me, Priya bites down on a laugh.
Luke sighs like a man carrying the burden of genius among fools.
“It’s character reflection.”
“It’s a sulk with scenery.”
“That is unnecessarily cruel.”
“That is why you pay me.”
There is a pause.
Then, grudgingly, “I cut three pages.”
“Good.”
“Don’t sound pleased.”
