Page 10 of Loving Jemima

“Darlington’s is a hedge fund,” Annabelle said snippily. Both Jem and Rolly turned to her. “What? I can’t know things?”

“As a general rule, if said things aren’t fashion or gossip related, then no,” Rolly said. There was no love lost between the two.

Annabelle rolled her eyes. “If you don’t like it, then I suggest you get someone else to get your car repaired,” she said to Jem. “Lucas, for example.”

“Luca,” Jem said, trying not to think about the creepy blind date that had attempted to put a hand up her skirt before the first course had even been served. “And no, thank you.”

“What’s wrong with Luca?” asked Annabelle. “He’s well-bred, plenty of money in the bank, he dresses beautifully.”

“His eyes were too close together,” Jem said. And he has a penis, she mentally added. Rolly squeezed her thigh under the table.

“His eyes were perfectly positioned under terribly nicely groomed eyebrows,” said Annabelle. “Honestly, I give up with you.”

“You and my father both,” Jem said miserably.

Annabelle drained her glass. “I’m loving you and leaving you. David will be sending a car for me.” She got up.

“What happened to Philip?” Jem asked.

“His nose was crooked,” Annabelle called over her shoulder, throwing them a wave as she strode out of the wine bar.

“Good riddance,” Rolly said as the door closed behind her.

“She’s not that bad,” said Jem.

“She’s an evil witch, and worse, she’s one of those terrible people that will pick at a scab until it bleeds.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rolly sighed. “You know what it’s supposed to mean. It means that if little Annabelle doesn’t get news soon that you made the beast with two backs with at least one of the horrible men she sets you up with, she’s going to get suspicious.”

“The beast with two backs?” Jem said, shaking her head. “What a horrible turn of phrase.”

“I quite like it,” Rolly said with a smile. His round face was sweet, with little dimples on either side of his chin. “But on a more serious note, you could just tell her, you know.”

“Tell her? And have half of London know by this time tomorrow?” said Jem. She groaned and leaned back on the leather banquette. “I can’t.”

“I know, trust me, I know. You think you can’t,” Rolly said. “But it would make your life an awful lot easier. Fewer penises for you, more for me. Or is that penii? I was always horrible at Latin at school.”

“It’s easier for you.”

“Is it?” Rolly asked. “What on Earth makes you think that informing my father that his one and only son and heir is a shirt-lifter was easy?”

“Don’t use words like that.”

“I’m reclaiming it,” Rolly said, folding his arms and looking truculent.

“You’re using a disparaging term about yourself because other people make you feel lesser for being different,” she pointed out.

“At least other people know I’m different,” he countered.

Jem closed her eyes. He was right, of course. At some point she was going to have to put up or shut up. Either tell the truth or commit to living a lie. Neither option sounded good.

“Which is a problem for another day, I’m thinking,” Rolly said, squeezing her leg again. “And now that Her Witchness has left, you and I can move on somewhere far more interesting.”

“Like where?” asked Jem, interest perked.

“Oh, there’s a new little queer place opened up that I’ve just heard about, for boys and girls and everything in between, it sounds lovely.”

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