A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ a box full of dynamite?’

      ‘Almost. It’s a box full of fireworks. Confiscated from a particularly explosive member of the brains trust.’

      This kind of thing happens a lot here. It’s one of the reasons Finn was brought in in the first place. Fireworks. Huh. How stupid. How juvenile.

      ‘What time does it get dark these days?’ I ask, my mind filling with Catherine wheels and rockets.

      ‘No,’ he says simply, grinning at me. ‘You can’t have them. You’re explosive enough without the fireworks. What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, but I thought you were at Laura’s do?’

      He pauses, looks me up and down, and says sadly: ‘I can’t believe you were at a party at the café and didn’t bring me any cake.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I genuinely am. It’s kind of a sin, that, coming back empty-handed from a visit to Comfort Food heaven. Cherie has done her usual trick of figuring out his particular favourite – some mad Danish rice pudding with almonds and cherry sauce – and serves it up to him so often he should be the size of a sumo wrestler.

      He’s not, though. He’s just about perfect, especially today. He does a lot of rugged things like surfing and sailing and hiking, and it’s not an enormous stretch to imagine him at the helm of a longboat planning a raid on the unsuspecting turnip farmers. As a result of all this outdoorsy-ness, he has one of those year-round touch-of-gold tans that makes his eyes pop and his stubble glow. Yowsers.

      He’s sitting there, wearing a white shirt with the top few buttons open, which always gets me going. There’s no dress code at Briarwood, but he wears these semi-formal shirts when he’s working, saying it differentiates him from the others and makes them treat him more like a grown-up.

      He definitely looks like a grown-up, and I’m already wondering if he has time for a quick trip into the adjoining boudoir for some adult time. I remind myself of why I’m here, and shake it off. Almost.

      He’s holding a letter which he’s obviously been reading, and I stall for time by asking: ‘What’s that?’

      ‘It’s an invitation. To a conference.’

      ‘Oooh! A conference! How exciting – can I come? Will there be a swanky hotel suite and rude movies? Will there be free pastries and name tags so I can pretend I’m someone else? What’s it about? I love conferences!’

      He quirks one eyebrow, amused, and replies very deliberately: ‘It’s about Institutional Financial Processes for Non-Accountancy Qualified Managers, and I’m staying in a Travelodge.’

      ‘Oh … maybe not then. I think I’ll leave you to it. When is it?’

      ‘Few weeks away. Are you all right?

      ‘Sort of. I’ve been better. Okay,’ I say, rallying my thoughts. ‘I kind of have something important to tell you. Not bad, but important. But I also kind of really fancy you right now, and am hoping that I can get you naked some time very soon. So the choice is yours – talk or sex?’

      He taps his long fingers on the desk surface, and gives me a feralgrin that does nothing at all to help me calm my reckless libido.

      ‘Well, that sounds intriguing,’ he says, and I can tell from the readjustment of his sitting position that I’ve definitely piqued his interest in more ways than one.

      ‘On the one hand,’ he continues, ‘I’m a man, so every instinct I have says sex first, talk later.’

      I’m hoping he goes for that option, but something tells me he won’t. He’s too darned clever to fall into my evil trap like that.

      ‘On the other … I might feel cheap if I let you have your wicked way with me, and then you tell me something unpleasant afterwards. So, reluctantly, I have to go for talk first. And, depending on what it is you want to talk about, maybe sex later.’

      I nod my head, and bite my lip, and realise that there isn’t a simple way to do this – other than to just do it.

      ‘Right. Well. The thing is, I should have told you this earlier, I realise that, but the thing is …’

      He sits, still and silent, his blue gaze steady and calm and irritatingly unyielding. I could probably crack that cool exterior if I whipped my bra off and jiggled my boobies in his face – that’s always worked before –but I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s right.

      ‘The thing is, I’m kind of married.’

      I stare first at my knees, which are bopping up and down nervously without me even giving them permission, and then up at him.

      He still looks steady, but not quite as calm. He glances away from me, at the window, for a few seconds, before turning back in my direction.

      ‘You’re married?’ he repeats, his voice low and an awfully lot less playful than it was a few minutes ago. Which I suppose is understandable.

      ‘Yep!’

      ‘But you’re not with him?’

      ‘No! God no!’ I say, emphatically. I have the sudden realisation that he was perhaps thinking this is all a lot worse than it is. My fault, for not explaining myself properly.

      ‘No,’ I say again, grabbing hold of one of his hands and holding it in mine. ‘It’s not like that. It’s not like one of those stories you read on the internet where I have a secret life, and a husband and triplets waiting for me on the Isle of Wight or whatever. Nothing like that, honestly. I got married, years ago, when I was much younger and much stupider and living in Spain, and we split up. I came back home, and I’ve not seen him or spoken to him in years. Years! He literally doesn’t exist in my life at all, apart from on paper. It’s completely over, and has been for so long, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and …’

      I trail off at this point, because I can’t think of anything else to add. He notices that I’ve stopped, and I see him churning it all over in his mind.

      ‘So,’ he says, slowly, ‘to recap – you got married to a man I don’t know. The relationship broke down years ago. You’ve not seen him since. I wasn’t at all part of the reason for it not working?’

      Finn, I should have twigged earlier, was bound to worry about that. He is the product of a supremely messy divorce – his dad had an affair, and it turned into one of those lovely scenarios where two grown-ups decide to use a child as a bargaining chip. As a result, he’s fairly straightforward on the whole subject. He would never, ever forgive himself if he’d contributed to the collapse of a marriage.

      ‘I absolutely 100 per cent promise you that you were not.’

      ‘And I’m working on the assumption that now you’ve told me part of it, you’ll tell me the rest at some point?’

      ‘Of course I will,’ I reply. I’m going to owe this story to a lot of people.

      Finn nods once, firmly, and stands up.

      ‘All right,’ he announces, walking from behind his desk, grabbing my hands, and pulling me into his arms.‘Then I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed directly to СКАЧАТЬ