Page 10 of Read My Lips

Simon hovered – probably checking for pigeon poo – then settled himself next to me on the bum-shelf of a bench. Crossing one leg over the other, he swivelled. The toe of his shoe aimed at my shin.

One hundred signs he likes you. Well, that was a crock of shit, wasn’t it, Cosmo?

“Are you sure you don’t want one?”

I snarled at the little stripy packet. “Do I look like a fisherman, or his friend?”

He tipped his head, opened his mouth.

“Don’t answer that.”

“Menthol’s very invigorating. And they’re sugar free.”

“Simon!”

He wasn’t wearing any socks. The pattern of little holes in the leather I didn’t see the point of swirled across the top of the shiny, tan shoe. I counted them, all the way up to fifteen.

“Look, you said yourself – there are no faces. Richard isn’t identifiable. If it wasn’t for the tie, you wouldn’t have known it was me either.”

“Oh, and you trust the guy who cheated on his fiancée not to dump you in it, do you? Why does this even exist?”

“I don’t know. The camera must have been left running after the interview.”

Simon looked so exhausted by it all, I gave in and went for a passive-aggressive double-fingered rummage in the stupid-tiny bag resting in his palm. Right in his lap. Only, my gorilla fingers failed to chopstick onto anything in the narrow packet.

He stared at me. And I chopsticked harder. His hand bobbed under the pressure of my ineffective scissoring, and I cringed.

“Got it?”

“Nearly.”

“So close. Don’t stop.”

One corner of his mouth curled up, eyes bright with amusement. Never mind Mel Booker, Simon was firing me for offences against the person with a packet of cough sweets.

Digging deeper, I executed an impressive finger wriggle, triumphant as I dragged out a disappointingly dusty-looking lozenge.

With a sigh, Simon leaned back against the glass wall of the bus stop, stretching out his legs, and the soles of his shoes rasped, leather on concrete. Very post-coital vape. What a dick.

“He didn’t cheat on her.”

Right. Richard. I popped the lozenge, trying his disbelieving eyebrow-trick on for size.

“It wasn’t cheating. Anyway, I could hardly argue it’s a malicious hoax he’s not involved in if he named me. Wouldn’t be in his best interests to do that at all.”

“And if you’re wrong?” The love child of Red Flavouring and artificially sweet vapo-rub flooded my tastebuds. “Oh my god. This is not a sweet.”

Simon’s eyes glittered at me. “They fit into my pocket without ruining the line.”

“Exactly what I look for in my confectionery.” Clearly I had my priorities wrong. The arsehole probably got off conning people into eating them. “What’s wrong with breath mints?”

“I don’t have breath mints. Do you have breath mints?”

“No.” I squirmed under his judgement of my organisational fail. If I was organised enough to have breath mints stashed in my bag, the whole foetid mess of this would disintegrate immediately. Behind him, orange letters on the electronic display counted down the minutes to the next bus. In three and a half, one I’d never heard of would get here, and I’d get on, and go wherever it took me, and none of this would matter.

Sliding closer along the bench, he nudged my shoulder and his body heat needled into me, too hot and too close and too everything-I-should-have-never-wanted.

“Whatever happens, you’ll be fine. Skilled interpreters are in high demand.”