Page 106 of Read My Lips

I knew where we were when it was sex. Even if it would be all for the bloody cameras.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

I flushed. He was aiming his phone at me, looking a lot like he was taking pictures.

“No way.”

Leaning in, he folded his arms onto the edge of the table. “Can’t stop thinking about yesterday, you say?”

Smart arse. “I did not say that.”

“Oh, didn’t you? Must be having trouble reading your lips.” He tilted his head, frown fully exaggerated. “Could have sworn you said something about what an outstanding gentleman I was, turning up in your hour of need...?”

“You wish.”

“Do I have to?”

I hid behind my menu, reading it through a hundred-and-one times.

We could have had breakfast here, that night he’d picked me up. We’d have sat in starchy silence and I wouldn’t have blurted out anything about Mam, and Simon would never have broken out his rusty signing with me. We’d have got to the office and I’d have let him go right under the bus when everything unravelled in that meeting. Because I’d have known there was no way I’d ever make sense in this bubble he liked, where all that mattered was what you could convince everybody else to believe.

And what if that was Simon when his life wasn’t about to fall apart? What if everything else was just a massive off-day for him?

Simon pushed my menu down. And I felt properly guilty when he cleared his throat, smiling like this was more awkward than he’d been expecting.

“I like the look of the duck, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

Oh god. Get a grip. This was a restaurant. I could eat food – I managed it every day of my life.

I got my phone out, flipping to the camera.

“Come on then. Let’s get a photo to commemorate this lapse in judgement.”

Simon leaned in, slinging his arm around my shoulders, and my heart flip-flopped. On screen, mirrored at us, we looked like we made sense. Simon smiled, looking every inch like he adored me. Master showmanship, that was. He knew how to make the camera lie.

Simon was caviar and champagne, and I was baked beans and builders’ tea, and when we were done saving his arse, when he called time on our sex holiday, there was no reason he’d ever want me for real. Not when he’d built his whole life circled around this kind of luxury.

Simon ordered wine from the multi-page menu like he actually knew what he was going on about, and the waiter made a show of opening it in front of us, like he thought we might accuse him of subbing it out for a bottle he’d picked up from the bottom shelf at the local off-license on his cigarette break.

Eighty-five percent probability Simon would actually notice.

Swirling and sniffing and tasting ensued before Simon gave a nod – he’d ascertained it was Good. The shadow-master of a waiter poured out glasses, and re-vanished himself.

“Cheers.” We clinked.

“To our first official date.”

“Should you be saying that out loud?” Bloody hell. Never mind failed continuity for eavesdroppers who were supposed to believe we’d been at it for months. First implied second, and maybe even third. He can’t have meant it.

“No one’s listening apart from you.”

The wine stained his lower lip a tone darker. I wanted to kiss him. Why were we even in this place with not enough soul, acting out all the parts of being together for god knows who, when we could have had a few more hours holed up in my bedroom? Why had I ever thought getting with Luke was what I wanted?

“And here I was thinking there was a reason we’re sat right in the window.”

But the street was clear. The pedestrian on the other side of the road had moved on. None of the cars were lingering. Simon had wanted to bring me to a fancy place for a posh lunch before we had to deal with Luke. Probably because it photographed well. He had no secret agenda.