Page 43 of Read My Lips

“D’you think Sev got enough footage? I mean, you reckon it’s going to look believable?”

“I’m sure she got something passable.”

What a glowing endorsement. “Passable?”

“It’ll be a very short clip.”

Getting on for the best make-out session of my life dubbed maybe just about okay by the other participant. Kill me now.

“Ben, passable’s good.”

“No, yeah, definitely.” Good like a report card stamped A+ for Effort, D- for Achievement.

“Don’t get offended.” He nudged my boring trainer with his patterned shoe and got a grubby wet mark on the fabric. “You did excellent fake boyfriending. And, I—um. Enjoyed myself immensely.”

I nearly nutted him whiplashing my head up to look him in the eye. “You what?”

Immensely enjoyable did not sound like passable. Not even close. Holy hell. The laws of physics must have inverted themselves. Horsemen of the apocalypse were thundering around the corner.

“I mean. Me too. Obviously.”

Laughter in the corners of Simon’s eyes crinkled his skin. “Good.”

Nothing about this meant the clouds were going to part for a flock of bluebirds and rainbows sprouting from every corner. But Simon had enjoyed himself. With me.

“You shouldn’t listen to Richard. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I dunno...” Oh god – the cringe of Simon trying to prop up my listing ego. “Isn’t he sort of an icon?”

“Ben, he doesn’t have a clue.” Too loud, his voice echoed off the back wall of the station. I could live here forever. Toe to toe with him, watching him watching me, saying things like that, like he really, really meant them.

“Right.” A beaming smile took my face hostage. It wouldn’t let go. The muscle of my jaw spasmed with fatigue. “If you say so.”

Soft rain drummed a murmured patter onto the thin fabric of his bright red umbrella above our heads. Simon peered past it, out of our bubble, up at the sky.

Grey clouds loomed fat and dark and unending. We could be stranded here for hours, huddled together in the rain, staring into each other’s eyes. What an absolute shame.

“This isn’t letting up. Let’s walk back to Heybourne.”

My brain stuttered. “Wh-at? Why?”

Our little umbrella bubble wasn’t going to stand up to the reality of his ex-polycule’s country pile. I’d rather hitch hike back to London. But there was no passing traffic.

I’d rather walk the entire way.

“Don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to figure out our travel arrangements in the dry. With phone signal.”

Ah, logic and practicality. My twin nemesis-es.

Simon set off. The hard rubber wheels of his bag whirred along the tarmac, whisper-quiet, kicking up grit. A few microsplatters of watery mud sprayed his box-fresh shoes and the bottoms of his trousers with little pinpricks of dirt, but you’d never know unless you were staring at the back of his legs like a totally obsessed nutcase.

Dodging puddles, I darted out into the rain to catch him up, and he held the umbrella out for me again, eyes finding mine as I ducked under. Getting out of the wet made me warm all over. It was absolutely nothing else.

“How are you planning on getting in when there’s no one home?”

“Don’t disappoint me Ben. Surely you’ve jimmied a window before?”

Crouching at backbreaking half-height in the middle of Heybourne’s porticoed rear terrace, I rattled my Tesco loyalty card up and down along the pencil-lead-wide gap between the patio doors like I was trying to swipe the mag strip at the self-scans. That never worked either.