The dinner was on Saturday.
Andre spent the afternoon cooking — the ratatouille, a green salad with Pierre’s vinaigrette, a baguette from the bakery downstairs, and a tarte tatinthat Claire had helped him assemble that morning, standing in the bakery kitchen in her apron, guiding his hands with patient, practiced authority.
Blake set the table, opened the wine, and changed his shirt before Andre told him the first one was fine.
“You’re fussing,” Andre observed, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.
“I’m not fussing. I’m being a good host.”
“You’re fussing. You never fuss. You’ve been making small talk at charity galas since you were twelve.”
Blake shrugged, smoothing the front of his shirt. “Those are strangers. These are your people. I want them to like me.”
“And Doug.”
“Doug is a coach.”
“And Pierre.”
“Pierre is your father. That’s different.”
“And Claire.”
“Andre.”
“I’m just saying. You know people.”
“I know tennis people. That’s not the same as knowing people who do… other things.”
The buzzer rang at seven-thirty. Andre pressed the intercom, and a minute later, Liam and Talia appeared at the door.
Talia was carrying a bottle of wine and wearing a green dress that made her dark eyes look almost black. Liam was wearing a blazer over a t-shirt, his ginger hair slightly damp, his green eyes bright with the particular energy of someone who had just finished a matinee performance.
“Blake Harlan,” Liam said, extending his hand with a wide, genuine smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Andre says you’re the best tennis player in the world.”
“Fourth best,” Blake corrected, shaking his hand. “And Andre is biased.”
“Andre says you’re modest. I can see he wasn’t lying.”
Liam Calloway was tall, broad-shouldered, and radiated the kind of easy warmth that made strangers feel like old friends.
Talia kissed Andre on both cheeks, then turned to Blake, studying him with the frank, assessing gaze that Andre had come to recognize as her default setting.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.
“Thank you?” Blake said, uncertain.
“It’s an observation, not a compliment. Come on, let’s eat. I’m famished. Two shows today and all I’ve had is a sandwich from Pret.”
The dinner was a success.
The food was good — Andre had inherited enough of Pierre’s instincts to produce a meal that was simple, honest, and satisfying. The wine flowed freely. And the conversation, after a few minutes of polite small talk, opened up into something warm and genuine.
Liam, it turned out, was from a small town in Shropshire, the son of a schoolteacher and a postman. He had discovered acting at fourteen, when a drama teacher had cast him as Puck in a school production ofA Midsummer Night’s Dream, and he had never looked back. He had trained at RADA — the same Royal Academy of Dramatic Art where he and Talia had met — on a full scholarship, graduated with distinction, and immediately taken a position in the Old Vic’s repertory company, where the pay was modest and the work was relentless.
“It’s not glamorous,” Liam said, refilling his wine glass. “People think acting is red carpets and champagne. It’s actually cold dressing rooms and instant noodles.”
“Sounds like the junior tennis circuit,” Blake said, and Liam laughed — a loud, bright sound that filled the room.
