Page 3 of Best Man
He blinks. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says faintly. He leans back in his chair and considers me. “So, if I were to give you this job, how would you approach it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, every case is different. We help people with their needs. Sometimes it’ll be someone who needs you to do their shopping, sometimes it’s to act as a PA, and sometimes it’s pretending to be a boyfriend for a family party so the person doesn’t lose face. How would you approach all these people with their very different needs?”
I stare at him in surprise. “Well, like they’re people.” I hastily try to cover up the “duh” tone in my voice. “Every person is different, Zebadiah. Can I call you Zebadiah?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” he says testily.
“Okay then. Zeb.” I nod. “I like that. Makes you sound less like a manager and more like a DJ in Ibiza.”
“Oh joy, that’s my life goal attained, then.”
“I’m sure sarcasm isn’t appropriate for a job interview.”
“I do beg your pardon.” His face is alight with amusement.
“What was I saying?”
“You were talking about how every person in this world is different. I’m halfway expecting you to launch into the chorus of ‘We All Stand Together’.”
This time it’s me that laughs. I sober and smile at him. “People arereally difficult. There’s a reason why Basil Fawlty was so popular.” I shrug. “But I like them better than a computer or a typewriter.” I pause and shudder. “Or a funeral hearse and the cremation machine.” His eyes go wide, and I shake my head regretfully. “I’m afraid I agreed never to discuss that matter.” I think hard. “I’m respectful, diligent, obliging, and focused.”
“And you’ve obviously swallowed a thesaurus at some point in your life.” He sighs and looks at me, and his gaze is suddenly piercing. “There’s to be no sex.”
I blink. “Zeb, this so,sosudden.” I put my hand to my chest. “I’m not that sort of boy.”
He shakes his head and this time doesn’t bother to contain the laugh. “You’re impossible.” He turns serious. “No sleeping with clients. It’s the number-one rule. This is not the littlest whore house in Neal’s Yard.”
I look him up and down, and the heat from the summer day seems to run in my blood. “Does that apply to the boss?”
He stares at me, and the silence stretches for a second. “It especially applies to the boss,” he says gruffly. “I don’t shit where I eat.”
“What a charming expression. I’m surprised your dance card isn’t filled up for the millennium.”
Another laugh. I’m beginning to like peeling them out of him. He sobers. “So, no fucking the clients.”
“I won’t even kiss them on the lips,” I promise. “I feel like Julia Roberts,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll be lying on a grand piano in my dressing gown soon. But that would make you Richard Gere, which is a crime.”
“You don’t like Richard Gere?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Face like a ferret and a personality to match. If he’d stopped that car for me, I’d have waved the fucker on.”
His laughter bursts out loud and joyful, and the door to the office opens and Felix pokes his head around. “Everything okay, sir?” he asks cautiously, looking like he thinks zombie hordes are about to flood the room.
Zeb wipes his eyes. “I’m fine, thank you, Felix. Come and meet the newest member of staff.”
Felix looks insultingly astonished. “Really?” he says in a doubtful voice.
Zeb nods. “May God help me?”
“You don’t need him,” I say earnestly. “You’ve got me now.”
“I need a new religion.” He sighs and I smile, getting up to shake his hand. I swallow at the tingle I get when our palms meet, and, looking at him, I know he feels it too.
“Shame,” I say softly so his assistant doesn’t hear.
His face twitches, and I watch the cool expression slide over his face. “Not where I eat,” he reminds me, and I step back, walking towards the door.
