Page 29 of The Player

I stare at him, struck for words because he isn’t wrong.

“Maybe I’m not dating material,” I finally say. “I can’t say I’ve been on that many.”

“You’re totally dating material,” he says briskly, balling up his serviette and placing it under his cutlery so it doesn’t blow away.

“What do you consider a date, then?”

He shrugs, and I wish I could see his eyes. “There isn’t one generic date. It depends on the people involved.”

I lean my elbows on the bench. “So, how would you date me?”

The question is slightly breathier than I’d like, and he studies me. I wonder what he sees. A thin, dark-haired man wearing pinstriped trousers, a black T-shirt, and red braces. I probably cut a ridiculous figure with my outfit and my hair escaping from its bun.

“I would pretend we were house-hunting so you could look inside all those big old houses that you pore over in the property pages. Then we’d order food from that fancy restaurant in Chipping Norton you like and eat it as a picnic at home while watchingMade in Chelsea.”

I stare at him agog. “Bloody hell, that soundswonderful. You’ve managed to cater to my extreme nosiness, greed, and love of posh trashy television in one date.”

He shrugs. “I know you. It’s easy.”

“I can’t imagine knowing me is easy at all,” I say lightly, but he shakes his head.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Knowing you is the easiest thing that’s ever happened to me in my life. You were my best friend between one breath and the next.”

I’m struck dumb, held in a spell consisting of the blue sky, the scent of lavender, and Con at the centre, his golden-brown hair lifting in the breeze and his attention on me. The way it always is. I want it to last forever but know it can’t.

I open my mouth, unsure of what to say but knowing I have to break the moment. This is a dangerous time for our friendship. I’ve discovered I have feelings for him right when he’s become involved with another man. One wrong step and I could lose the person who means the most in the world to me.

Luckily, my phone rings and breaks the moment. I pull it from my back pocket and look at the screen. “Joan,” I say to Con, who says nothing, still watching me with that funny intent regard.

I click to answer. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

“I’ve had Jimmy Fitch’s people on the phone,” she says. “Are you and Con still together?”

“Hang on.” I look around. We aren’t near anyone who the call could irritate. Everyone is off in the next field. “I’ll pop you on speaker, Joan.” I look up at Con. “Jimmy Fitch’s people have rung.”

He stares at me for another long second and then seems to jerk back into life. “What’s up, Joan?” he says.

“Jimmy wants to have a personal meeting, but he’s had to schedule some rehearsals for a new pop video, so he wondered if you’d go to him.”

“Where is he?” he asks.

“In Taunton, Somerset.”

I look at Con and shrug. “You’ve done it before.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “But it’s usually with real musicians,” he starts to say, and I blow a raspberry.

“Oh, dear. Here comes the music snobbery. Brace yourself, Joan.”

Joan laughs, and Con shakes his head.

“It’s not funny. I have no fucking idea what to say to him. He’s not interested in the music so much as the money. I can’t talk music the way I would with other people. And every time I meet him, he goes on about something on Twitter that I have no idea of what he’s talking about. Last time he went on aboutLove Island, and I thought it was a relationship counselling holiday.” I laugh, and he gestures at me. “You know what he’s talking about?”

“Of course I do. But that’s because I don’t live under a rock formed of old back copies ofMelody Maker.”

I chuckle at his face, but my jollity dies away with Joan’s following words.

“And that’s why you should go too, Frankie.”

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