Page 29 of Best Man
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. Thatiswhat 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, not unless they employ an exorcist or theMost Hauntedteam. 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.
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 workingover 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’veevermet. 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 wasMurder on the Orient Expresssomeone would have just chucked her under the train as it set off.”
