Page 4 of Best Man
“It’s because the inside of cucumbers are twenty degrees cooler than the outside air,” he says just as I get to the door.
I stop and turn back. “What?”
“You asked where the idiom ‘cool as a cucumber’ came from. That’s what it means.”
“I don’t know how I lived this long without knowing that,” I say solemnly, and his face creases into a smile.
“Welcome aboard, Mr Reed.”
“Aye aye, captain,” I say. “And it’s Jesse.”
“Welcome aboard, Mr Reed,” is his reply. “Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.”
ONE
JESSE - THREE YEARS LATER
I walk through the narrow, whitewashed alley, coming out into the glory of Neal’s Yard. Even after three years, this place still makes me happy. It’s almost a shock to cross from the main road with its cars and noise into this small courtyard full of the scent from the window boxes hanging from the tall, narrow buildings that are painted intensely vivid colours from pink to lime green to sky blue. It’s hidden in plain sight and I’ve always thought it was like a psychedelic Diagon Alley, full of small shops, restaurants and cafes, and tourists taking the perfect Instagram shot.
According to Zeb, the area was once the home of occultists and astrologers, and to me it seems that atmosphere lingers a little in the open and welcoming feel of the courtyard.
Zeb’s building is one of the prettiest. It’s four storeys in the original brick with windows painted bright orange. It has the original bay doors from when it was a warehouse, and pretty Juliet balconies. His front door is painted lime green with a discreet sign advertising the name of the agency, and when I open it and walk into the hallway, it’sblessedly cool and filled with the scent of roses from the flower arrangement on a low table.
I saunter through the reception area, which contains the usual load of people waiting to see Felix or Zeb. Felix grins at me.
“Why the sunglasses inside, Brad Pitt? Hiding from the paparazzi?”
I shake my head. “They’re needed today.”
“Have you got a hangover?” he asks sympathetically.
“Why does everyone always leap to the conclusion that anything I do is alcohol related?”
“Because it is,” comes a deep voice from behind me. I whirl round to see Zeb standing in his doorway. He’s in his shirtsleeves, his tie at half-mast, clutching a handful of papers and wearing a sardonic smile.
“I feel judged,” I say. They keep looking at me, and finally I sigh and lower my glasses.
Zeb drops his papers and strides towards me immediately. “What the fuck?” he says angrily. “Who did this?”
I gape at him as he lifts my face and examines my black eye intently.
“Well?” he says. His voice is sharp, but the fingers he touches to the side of my eye are gentle. I blink at him, smelling the scent of oranges. I’m sure he doesn’t realise how close he’s standing, but I’ll take the time to enjoy it while I can.
Felix shifts position and realisation comes into Zeb’s eyes as well as discomfort, and he drops his hands from my face.
I mourn the loss of his closeness before I realise that he just said something. “Huh? What?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Did you hit your head when this happened?”
“No?”
He sighs. “Okay, this is just normal behaviour, isn’t it? I keep forgetting that.”
Felix breaks into laughter, and I shake my head before putting my glasses back on. “It’s a long story,” I say slowly.
“Ah, would it have anything to do with the very long email I received from Mr Sampson this morning?”
“It depends on whether that email is praise or recrimination.” Hestares at me and I shake my head again. “Okay, a bit of both, then,” I say sadly.
