Page 61 of Pretender

He groans again, sinking into his seat.

“Don’t stress, you won’t have to lie to your mum too much longer.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, glancing sideways at me.

“Was she yelling at you earlier, by the way? Or was that just a normal conversation?”

“In the kitchen? Oh, she was telling me off for drinking too fast. Said I should focus and stop worrying.”

“Is there more than this arrangement that bothers you?”

He turns towards the window again, grasping the jacket in his fists. “No.”

Not sure what to say, but anxious to fill the heavy silence, I say the first thing that comes to mind, talking to the seat in front of me. “Although I’m terrible at following this advice, my grandfather always told me not to worry if I can’t do anything about it, and if I can do something, then I shouldn’t worry either, and instead just go and do it.”

Aiden inhales sharply and I turn to him again. His steel-blue eyes are on me, that piercing stare he does sometimes. I’m stuck in it, but now it seems to lift the weight from my chest. Only a few weeks ago these eyes made me uncomfortable.

“Wise man,” Aiden whispers, and I can’t help feeling he’s saying something else.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

live a little

AIDEN

“This place gives me Wes Anderson vibes,” Linnea says.

She’s across from me in the banquette section of a Mediterranean slash Middle-Eastern restaurant by Kensington Gardens, eyes darting around at the interior while cradling her goblet of gin.

“Wes goes Turkish?” I ask.

“Yes. The pistachio walls, these lilac pillows, the wood tables, and that side with all the kitsch details on the wall.”

The only thing I’d noticed in this room until she started pointing it all out was her. Linnea with her flowing waves, spilling over her sun-kissed shoulders. How stunning she is in that green summer dress. But I have to drag my gaze away from her and follow where she’s gesturing.

The wall is covered in things: from soup cans a la Andy Warhol to traditionally painted ceramic plates to⁠—

“Is that a flamingo?” I ask, squinting.

“Yes. There are more over there.” She points to the far side where birds of various colours and shapes cover the wall.

Linnea treating me more as a friend than a client is quite something. She’s so vibrant. Constantly smiling, talking, observing the places around us and pointing things out to me, musing about what she sees.

And it’s even clearer to me.

I’m entirely fucked.

It’s been a week since I saw her. Her team is running the show at Grafton Street and she’s been with Venetia every day.

In a moment of weakness after the brunch last Sunday, I went back to Le Lounge. I’d promised Linnea not to be with anyone else, but fuck I needed a release.

It’s rare that I bump into the same people but the blond woman was there again.

That hair and those hips.

But this time I couldn’t even stand close to her. Her scent was wrong, her posture too stiff, her arms not Linnea’s lean, silky arms.

So, I sat there, sulked into a glass of whiskey, ignored anyone who tried to talk to me, and went home and beat off in the shower so hard I thought I would blister.