Page 107 of Read My Lips

“So,” I said, forcing myself to settle in. “We’re not about to get stalked by journalists?”

“You’re the only one getting stalked. And Luke’s not here yet. Neither’s Richard.”

“Richard?”

All bets off. Should have trusted my gut.

“It seemed sensible to make a unified stand.” He angled his wrist, reading his watch. “He’ll be here any minute.”

I didn’t need to look at the time to tell that. Outside, a motorbike pulled up and a guy who was either a journalist or a very serious nature-photographer got off the back. His camera lens was longer than my arm, fatter than my bicep. My gut knotted tighter than a wet shoelace.

Our waiter reappeared in a twinkle, holding out a slab of wood covered in tiny plates.

“Antipasti, on the house.”

Another bike buzzed up outside as he set down olives and artichoke hearts and roasted peppers stuffed with cheese. Olive oil glistened in little dishes, specked through with dark balsamic.

“Unified stand?”

Simon’s face fell. He almost looked guilty. “I told you this would be a good media opportunity. Fastest way to land something is to do it in front of the press.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Three more photographers appeared on the street outside, milling together in a little cluster, already aiming cameras at us through Possimus’ famous window wall.

My skin itched.

“Thought this was supposed to be a date, not a docu-drama.”

Simon frowned. “It will be a date, once we’ve dealt with all this. I promise.”

Wake up Cooper. This had never been a date at all.

Richard Whittaker didn’t have to be here for us to talk to Luke. We didn’t have to be here to talk to Luke. Simon had planned everything for maximum exposure, not romance. He didn’t do romance.

Right on cue, Richard materialised at the door.

“Simon, you dog! Fancy seeing you here.” He strolled across the restaurant, beaming. “What are the chances? I have to sit with the pair of you now.”

He thumped my shoulder hard enough to make my teeth clack. All the muscles holding up my smile slackened. “What an absolutely unexpected coincidence.”

Simon tilted his head. “Ben, play nicely.”

“Love this place.” Richard announced, tucking in his seat on the other side of Simon. And I realised the full genius of a window table. All three of us on the same side, close enough for photos together without it looking like we’d decided to line up in height order. “Have you ordered yet? You have to try the duck. Temp’s obsessed with it.”

I slumped low in my seat. Not even Simon’s food recommendation was his own.

Barely five minutes later, Luke appeared in the doorway, wearing the same jeans and sleeve-rolled, tucked-in shirt combination he’d had on that fateful Friday. Nice belt. Nice shoes. Nice forearms. Intimidatingly glossy hair.

He shouldered off his record bag, not exactly smiling as he looked from me, to Simon, to Richard, and out at the sea of cameras on the pavement. “Didn’t realise you’d called a press conference.”

“Oh, you’re utterly fascinating.” Simon folded his arms onto the table top without disrupting any of the excess cutlery, and leaned in.

Luke eyed him with deep suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

I couldn’t work out his play either.