by Lily Morton
Before the old lady can get on her broomstick or call her familiar, a waiter announces that dinner is ready and we all move towards the table.
“That was a lucky escape,” Max mutters. “A second longer and you’d have been bleeding on this very expensive rug. I hope you haven’t given a damage deposit for this week. Nina looks like she’s contemplating disembowelling you before she really gets around to torture.”
Zeb shakes his head repressively and takes my arm gently to steer me down the table. There are cards stuck at the place settings, and I’m relieved to see that Zeb and I are together, and that Frances and Patrick are at the far end of the table. I’m less relieved to find that Max and Xavier are sitting at the other end and sitting opposite us is the homicidal old lady and her husband who looks like he’s contemplating throwing himself under a bus. I sneak a look at the old lady again. I wouldn’t blame him, really.
Amidst the bustle as everyone sits and snaps their napkins out, I lean closer to Zeb. “Is that Patrick’s mum?” I ask.
He blanches slightly. “That’s her. Nina and Victor.”
“And you were with Patrick for five years? Weren’t you afraid that as the offspring of a witch he’d eat you in your sleep?”
He shakes his head and fights a smile. “Be nice,” he warns me. He looks at her, and at that point she looks up and catches his glance.
“Zebadiah,” she says in a glacial voice.
He nods at her. “Nina.”
She sniffs haughtily. “I’d like to say this is a pleasure, but I’m afraid it’s not. I’m amazed you have the nerve to attend this joyous occasion.”
I open my mouth to speak but Zeb grabs my knee under the table and squeezes. Hard.
“Ouch,” I mutter.
“Behave,” he says tightly.
“I can’t promise anything if you happen to move that hand a couple of inches up.”
“A couple of inches? You’ve got a comfortable self-image.”
I shrug. “I work with what I’ve got.”
A waiter inserts himself between us to position tiny plates before us. Each plate has a piece of meat on it with an inch of sauce curled round it. Zeb’s hand falls away. I look down at the plate gloomily. “Is this it?” I ask sadly, and the waiter snorts before resuming his stately procession down the table.
Zeb looks at me and his mouth quirks. “I’d say that was a mouthful,” he mutters. “For someone who hasn’t got a mouth the size of yours.”
“Zeb, I am a growing boy. I’m hoping they serve more food than this over the next few days or you’ll have to take me to hospital for a drip.”
“You’re exceedingly dramatic,” he intones. “I’m guessing it’s because you’re the youngest of eight children. You must have had to work very hard for your voice to be heard.”
“Not really,” I mutter, downing my starter in one sad bite. “It was never a problem.”
“Quelle surprise.”
I nudge him. “I like a man who’s lingual.”
He stares at me. “I have never met anyone who manages to turn such an innocent sentence so dirty.”
“So.” Nina’s voice cuts through our quiet talk. “This is your latest, then, Zebadiah?”
He turns to her, and my heart clenches as he smiles kindly at her. “He is. This is Jesse.”
She grimaces. “Of course it is.”
My eyes narrow at her. Old cow.
She looks me up and down as if I’m a piece of dog shit he’s managed to bring in with him. “He’s very young. But I don’t know why that should surprise me. You obviously like them that way.”
“But surely the whole world is younger than you,” I mutter. Zeb lowers that hand to my knee and squeezes again, but I ignore him in favour of smiling coldly at the woman.
“I beg your pardon,” she says in a low voice.
I lean forward. “I said how young you look,” I say in a clear, loud voice, like I’m talking to someone deaf.
She glares at me but turns back to Zeb. “Did I say how glad I was that you and Patrick split up?”
“Quite a few times,” Zeb says wryly, and I snort.
She looks at me again. “This man is a serial predator. I’d get away from him if I were you.”
I inhale sharply, feeling rage sear me as Zeb stiffens all over.
“Nina,” her husband says in a resigned voice.
I lean forward and smile sweetly at her. “Predator, eh? The last time I heard that used was on Planet Earth.” I tap my finger on the table. “Is this a dinner-party game? Are we naming the animal that’s most like us as people? If we are, I’m trying to think what animal is most like a rude and excessively bad-mannered woman.”
She breathes in sharply, rage clouding her face. “I have never been so insulted.”
“You do surprise me,” I say sweetly.
I think it’s only the fact that the waiters start to clear the table that saves me from total annihilation. I shoot a quick glance at Zeb who is staring hard at me with an inscrutable look on his face that doesn’t promise good things. Something to look forward to, I muse gloomily. My gloom intensifies as a plate with more small food is placed before me.
I turn slightly desperately to the woman on my other side in an attempt to avoid Nina. “So, what do you do?” she asks cheerfully.
Why do people like this always ask that question? Why don’t they ask someone’s favourite colour or what music they’re listening to at the moment?
“I’m an architect,” I say brightly. Zeb jerks and gives a desperate sort of groan, but the woman immediately sits forward.
“Really? My son wants to do that. Do you have any career advice for him?”
“No,” Zeb says in a very loud voice and we slowly turn to face him. He looks slightly panicked. “I mean no,” he says in a lower voice. “Oh no, not … trifle. It’s trifle for dessert,” he finishes somewhat lamely, and I bite my lip.
“He’s very passionate about his food,” I confide in the woman. “But it’s nice to have strong feelings about things.” I catch Nina’s eye. “Unless they’re homicidal ones, of course,” I finish robustly.
“Career advice for my son?” the woman reminds me.
“He should be very enthusiastic about buttresses,” I say seriously.
Zeb leans forward. “I’m so sorry,” he says very charmingly to the woman. “Could I just borrow Jesse for a minute?”
He then forces me to listen to a conversation he’s having with an old man about stocks and shares. I muse rather sadly on the fact that I wasn’t able to spin my architect story. It would have been a hell of a lot more interesting than what the city closed at today, which I’m pretty sure has nothing to do with when they all clocked off and went to the pub.
Towards the end of dessert, which is basically one mouthful of peach juice and a bit of cream smeared on the plate, Nina leans forward again. Her expression doesn’t bode well.
“I was very sad to see your eye.”
“My eye?” I stare at her and then realise that she’s gesturing at the remnants of my black eye. “Oh, thank you,” I offer.
“I have the number of the domestic-abuse hotline if you’d like it,” she says in a very sweet but carrying voice.
“Mother,” Patrick says in a loud voice, but she just smiles at me, widening it to include Zeb.
A startled silence falls over the table. I stare at her. What a fucking horrible bitch. “Oh, there’s no need,” I say loudly. “Zeb didn’t punch me, if that’s what you’re thinking. That is what you’re trying to imply, isn’t it?”
“Jesse,” Zeb mutters. I smile at him before reaching over and pressing my lips to his. It’s a soft kiss, and, to my regret, I have to pull back immediately before I really have time to register the soft plushness of those lips under mine. I turn back to Nina.
“They can get you help,” she says smugly, raising her glass to take a sip of wine.
I wait until she’s taken a sip. “No need,” I say cheerfully. “Well, n
ot unless they employ an exorcist or the Most Haunted team. A dead woman did this when she hit me in the face with her shoe.”
To my satisfaction, that sort of kills the conversation around us for the rest of the meal.
Chapter Five
Jesse
After dessert, people start to drift away from the table. To my relief, Zeb grabs my hand and steers me out of the dining room and away from the witch. I offer her a casual wave over my shoulder while she looks thoughtfully after me as if calculating how many hours it’ll take to disembowel me.
“Phew,” I say. “Another five minutes and I’m sure she’d have brought out her flying monkeys.”
He shakes his head and picks up his pace. I follow obediently instead of pulling my arm out of my socket, and we’re practically moving at a jog as we hit reception.
Patrick appears in front of us. “Zeb, have you got a minute?”
“No, sorry,” he says tersely, seeing the lift doors open ahead of us. “Things to do.”
“That’s me,” I whisper as I pass Patrick. “I’m the thing he has to do.”
I catch his frown and offer him a sweet smile before Zeb yanks me into the lift. The doors close behind us, and I watch him as he leans back against the lift wall. His face is closed but something is working over it. Is it rage? I squint to check, but I can’t be sure, so I launch into speech.
“I promised I’d behave if people were polite to you. And I kept my word,” I say loudly as he lowers his head into his hands and his shoulders start to shake. “She was fucking awful to you, and I won’t have it.” I pause and amend my sentence quickly. “In my position as your fake boyfriend, I wouldn’t have stood for someone talking to you like that.” I huff indignantly. “She’s the rudest person I’ve ever met. I am quite frankly astounded that nobody has murdered her. If this was an Agatha Christie mystery there’d be no bloody mystery because we’d all have done it.” I pause. “I think that’s been done,” I say slowly. “Although if it was Murder on the Orient Express someone would have just chucked her under the train as it set off.”
I pause as he makes a faint sound. Oh shit, is he crying? Have I broken him? Surely not. If anything was going to break him it would have been the time I crashed my old Fiat into his new Mercedes. Nevertheless, I move closer.
“Erm, Zeb,” I say consolingly, moving to him and patting one very wide shoulder. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sure it’s not you and I’m really positive it’s her and–”
I break off as he raises his face. His eyes are wet, but he’s laughing, almost silently heaving with the chuckles, and when he sees my face, he bursts into peals of laughter. “Oh shit,” he gasps. “I couldn’t have held that in a moment longer.”
I fall back against the wall. “Oh, thank God. I fucking thought you were upset.” I smack his arm. “Give me some sort of sign next time.” I watch him laughing, my own mouth tipping into a smile. It’s so rare to see him uncontrolled. He looks young and untroubled.
The lift dings and the door opens, and he tries to sober up, but chuckles burst out as we walk towards the door of our room. I take the card he offers me and insert it into the slot. “You okay now?” I ask. “I can’t believe you’re not mad at me.”
“How could I have been mad at you? I haven’t seen a takedown like that since Marquez and Pacquiao.”
“I’m Marquez though, aren’t I?” I say, shrugging off my jacket and slinging it over a chair before hastening over to the balcony doors to open them. Fresh air scented with the fragrance of freshly mown grass hits my face, and I sigh happily and stretch. “That’s better.” I turn only to stand still, caught in his fixed stare. “You okay?” I ask.
He jerks and looks slightly awkward. “Yes, I’m fine,” he says hurriedly.
“Okay.” I wander over to the table where the room service info is. “I’m going to order some food.”
“You’ve just had a meal.”
I fix him with a hard stare. “Zeb, that wasn’t a meal, it was an amuse-bouche in four fucking courses. That wouldn’t have filled me when I was ten, let alone now.” I look down at the menu and smile contentedly. “I’m having a burger and chips. What do you want?”
He stares at me for a second. “Eating a huge meal after what we’ve just eaten is guaranteed to give you heartburn.” I gaze at him and deploy the big eyes, and he sighs. “Okay, I’ll have a salad.”
I make a moue of disgust, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to get changed,” he says, moving towards the wardrobe. I place the order on the phone while watching him open the doors and look at the neat row of his clothes hanging inside. I look guiltily at my suitcase which hasn’t been unpacked yet. Instead I’d dug through it earlier and now it looks like a very small bomb went off in it, strewing clothes around the vicinity with abandon.
Zeb takes his jacket off and hangs it neatly in the wardrobe, and I watch idly as he takes off his tie and coils it into a drawer before unbuttoning his shirt. Then I watch not so idly as the hairy planes of his chest appear. He’s muscled and the skin glows golden in the low lamplight. I think what I like best is that he’s not perfect. He doesn’t have a perfect six pack. He’s muscled but it lacks the definition of the gym junkies I’ve slept with lately. He looks more real somehow and all the more desirable for that. I study the way his trousers hang loosely from his narrow hips and the way the skin shines soft and warm there.
Realising that I’m watching him and getting the beginnings of a stiffy while he’s not paying any attention to me makes me feel a bit pervy, so I adjust myself quickly and turn my back on him, putting my phone down and making my way over to the fridge set under the polished table. I open it and wave some small bottles at him. “Which goes best with burgers? Jack Daniel’s or gin?” I shake my head. “We’ll have all of them. I can never understand hotel fridges. They’re either intended for alcoholic pixies or the manager is a half-hearted member of the temperance society.”
I hear a laugh and look up as he comes towards me. He’s wearing blue checked pyjama shorts and a white T-shirt that makes his face glow with his tan and his eyes seem very blue. I swallow hard and pass him the bottles. “There’s some ice in there too,” I instruct him. “You do the drinks while I get out of this suit.” I pause as he obeys me. “I must say I’m enjoying this new dynamic where I tell you what to do.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he advises me, and I sigh and slink over to my case. I rifle through it, pulling out my pyjama shorts and a T-shirt, and then seeing his jaundiced gaze fixed on the clothing spilling everywhere, I huff and start to hang everything up. The food arrives as I’m putting the last bits away, so I cram the rest of my clothes in higgledy-piggledy, and after a short battle with the wardrobe door I manage to force it closed.
I eye it dubiously and then shake my head. Food.
When I walk out onto the balcony, I find Zeb laying the food out neatly. Glasses full of ice and alcohol are set meticulously in the correct position and the cutlery is set neatly on the other side. I shake my head fondly. It’s burger and chips, but it looks like we’re expecting the queen.
He looks up and I don’t miss the way his eyes flit down my body. It’s a quick but comprehensive glance, and by the time his eyes raise up to my face again I’m half hard. Our eyes seem to meet and catch for a lovely, sleepy moment full of promise, but then he clears his throat and shutters his expression.
“Come and eat,” he says, his deep voice slightly roughened. “Before you faint away.”
“You joke,” I say judiciously. “But it’s a real threat.”
“Okay, Camille.”
I eye him as I lift my burger up and take a huge bite. “You think I don’t know who that is but you’re wrong,” I say indistinctly.
He shakes his head. “Isn’t it rude to talk with your mouth full?” he observes, shaking out his napkin daintily and forking some lettuce up.
I swallow the food. “Depends what you’ve got in your mouth,” I say cheerfully, watching happily as h
e checks slightly before giving me a glare and starting to eat his own food stoically and with little obvious pleasure. I wait a second and then sigh and cut my burger in half and slide it onto his plate.
“Oh no, I can’t take that,” he immediately and predictably protests.
I wave my knife at him. “I can’t tolerate watching you force that down. It’s like I’ve taken you to Rosies for the twink parade and you’ve settled for cleaning the tables.”
“There’s a twink parade at Rosies?” he says faintly. “Do they wear costumes?” I open my mouth but he shakes his head forcibly. “No, don’t bother explaining. I think it’s probably better that way.”
Despite his protestations, he eats heartily and with every sign of enjoyment, and I watch him contentedly. He had hardly anything to eat tonight, even with those meagre portions, and I know it was because he was tense in that social situation. It’s one of the reasons why I was so mad at the old cow. Zeb needs to eat properly. He quite often looks tired and worn.
I shake my head at my thoughts and fall on my own food like a starving dog. Finally, when my hunger is appeased, I sit back and watch him eating the salad.
“I always wondered who ate that,” I observe, and he shakes his head.
“I suppose it’s useless to ask if you eat five a day.”
“Not at all,” I say primly. “I had a Fab lolly earlier on. That’s got strawberry and milk in it, so I’ve had my fruit and dairy.”
He shakes his head. “I’m amazed you can manage to walk and talk at the same time. Not that you make any sense while you do it.”
“Zeb,” I chide. “Give in to my charm. I know you feel it. The force is strong in me.”
“And so is the bullshit,” he observes, a small smile tugging at his lips as I roar with laughter.
When I sober up, I stare at him. “So, Max?” I say. “An old friend?” He looks at me with one supercilious eyebrow raised and a small smile on his lips. “Have you fucked him?”
He blinks. “I often wonder if you’ll ever lose the ability to ask inappropriate questions.” He shrugs. “Today is not that day.”
