Page 91 of Read My Lips

“Oh, mate. You are obsessed, let’s be fair.” His nose scrunched up all soft and sympathetic, which told me exactly what he thought very, very eloquently. “It’s not like it’s telephoto shots of him through his bedroom window though is it? You’re just looking at him like he invented happiness.”

Oh shit. “Take that back right now.”

The invention of happiness was a bit beyond a casual blow job. Two years from now, Simon was probably going to turn the story of this into a docu-drama about his stalker, starring an actor who’d really bring out my psychopathic qualities. All my photos would be scrolled into a deeply disturbing montage with a heavy breathing soundtrack.

Matt grimaced. “He’s not keen on you actually liking him?”

I ground down my tooth enamel. “Don’t think so. No.”

“Bit shit isn’t it? He seemed alright apart from rubbish signing skills.”

“Yeah.” Something clenched painfully in my chest. “He is.”

Turned out, assembling a table was exactly what I needed.

Every page of the instructions demanded deciphering. Matt dug about in a bag the size of my head, scattering screws and circular thing-a-me-bobs onto the carpet, and I hammered in dowels, picturing Richard Whittaker’s face.

There were a lot of bits. Smaller rectangles slotted together to form a base and another slightly smaller rectangle fitted inside it. We were supposed to screw the top on somehow.

And by the time we had two oversized slabs to manhandle into place, it felt like maybe I hadn’t catastrophically altered the trajectory of the entire universe by showing Simon some pictures.

Matt sat back on his heels and I titled my head to make sense of the monstrosity we were about to bring to life.

“What is this?” Oddly, I felt kind of proud.

“Really starting to worry about you Ben. Clearly it’s a dining table.”

“For the garden, right?”

“Don’t be dense. It wouldn’t fit in the garden.”

“Mate, it doesn’t fit in here.”

He scoffed a laugh, like he didn’t realise I was serious. “Stop picking holes. At least I’ve gone out and got what I wanted. You’d leave the whole place empty.”

“Would not.”

He gave me a long look. “You wouldn’t have a bed if it hadn’t come with the place.”

“That’s different.” I was being economical. Why would I go out and buy another one? A single worked for sleeping the same as any other bed.

“Alright then. Name one bit of furniture you own.”

“I’m barely ever here!”

Matt shook his head like I’d proved his point. Because he didn’t know anything at all. “Grab the end.”

Knees bent, we both ducked down to heave the table top up, wobble-walking it up to heft it into place. It clattered against the frame as it settled, and Matt dusted his hands off, beaming.

“Look, it’s multi-purpose. Goes up and down. Coffee table, dining table, coffee table, dining⁠—”

“I get it.”

“And then, look...” He shoved me down onto the sofa wedged between it and the wall, scraping the skin off my shins on the glass top. “Perfect angle for the TV.”

I failed to muster any convincing enthusiasm. Watching me, Matt’s happiness sloped off his face into a little wounded puddle on the floor.

“It’ll grow on you.”