This is more than polite.
“Yes, let’s.”
“Same again?”
I nod and watch as he summons the waiter and orders. Nice hands. Good strong jaw. Unhurried, laconic mannerisms. He’s a lot more appealing than his webpage gives away.
“Your website photo is terrible,” I say abruptly, as the waiter disappears. “Really bad. Did you know that?”
“Wow.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows, looking taken aback. “You’re direct. Lucky I’m not vain.”
“It’s not about vanity.” I shake my head. “It’s not that you’re better-looking in the flesh. It’s that your personality is better. I’m looking at you and I’m seeing a guy who makes time for people. A guy who puts away his phone. Who listens. You’re charming. In a way.”
“In a way?” He gives an incredulous laugh.
“But your photo doesn’t say that.” I ignore him. “In your photo, you’re scowling. You’re giving out the message: Who the hell are you? What are you looking at? I haven’t got time for this.”
“You got all that from one website photo?”
“I’m guessing you gave the photographer about five minutes and grumbled the whole time and checked your BlackBerry between every shot. Bad move.”
Lorcan seems a bit speechless, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
OK, of course I’ve gone too far. I don’t even know the guy and I’m critiquing his photo.
“Sorry,” I backpedal. “I can be … blunt.”
“No kidding.”
“Feel free to be blunt back.” I meet his eyes. “I won’t be offended.”
“Fair enough,” says Lorcan without missing a beat. “That bridesmaid’s dress is terrible on you.”
In spite of myself, I feel a flicker of hurt. I didn’t think it was that bad.
“Earlier on, you said it looked very nice,” I retaliate.
“I was lying. You look like a fruit pastille.”
I guess I asked for it.
“Well, OK. Maybe I do look like a fruit pastille.” I can’t resist making a little extra dig. “But at least I don’t have a picture of myself looking like a fruit pastille on my website.”
The waiter puts down two more gin and tonics, and I pick mine up, feeling a bit fired up after our exchange. I’m also wondering how we’ve got so far off topic. Maybe we should get back to the subject in hand.
“Did you hear about Lottie and Ben’s no-sex policy, by the way?” I say. “How ridiculous is that?”
“Ben mentioned something. I thought he was joking.”
“It’s no joke. They’re waiting till the wedding night.” I shake my head. “If you want my opinion, it’s irresponsible to get married to someone without sleeping with them. It’s asking for trouble!”
“Interesting idea.” Lorcan shrugs. “Old-fashioned.”
I take a deep gulp. I’m feeling a need to off-load my thoughts on the subject, and I can’t exactly sound off to Noah.
“If you want my theory”—I lean forward—“it’s skewed their judgment. The whole thing is about sex. Lottie’s lost in a cloud of lust. The longer she waits, the less she can think straight. I mean, I get it. I’m sure he’s very hot and she’s longing to roll around with him. But does she have to marry him?”
“It’s cockeyed.” Lorcan nods.
“That’s what I said! They should just go to bed. Spend a week in bed. A month if they want to! Have a good time. Then see if they still want to marry each other.” I take another massive gulp of my drink. “I mean, you don’t need to sign your life away just to have sex—” I break off as a thought suddenly occurs to me. “Are you married?”
“Divorced.”
“Me too. Divorced. So. We know.”
“About what?”
“Sex.” I realize that came out wrong. “Marriage,” I amend.
Lorcan thinks for a moment, sipping his drink. “The more I think back over the last few years,” he says slowly, “the less I feel I know about marriage. Sex, on the other hand, I would hope I’ve nailed.”
The gin has gone straight to my head. I can feel it buzzing around, loosening my tongue.
“I’m sure you have,” I hear myself saying.
The air seems to thicken in the silence. A little too late, I realize I’ve just told a total stranger that I’m sure he’s good in bed. Do I backtrack? Qualify in some way?
No. Move on. I cast around for something anodyne, but it’s Lorcan who speaks next.
“Since we’re speaking frankly—how’ve you found it? Your divorce? Total nightmare?”
Have I found my divorce a total nightmare?
I open my mouth and draw in a deep, long breath, automatically reaching for the memory stick round my neck. Then I stop.
Not bitter, Fliss. Not bitter. Sweet. I need to think spun sugar, candy, flowers, fluffy lambs, Julie Andrews.…
“Oh, you know.” I give him a saccharine smile. “These things happen.”
“How long ago was it?”
“Still happening.” My smile broadens. “Should be sorted soon.”
“And you’re smiling?” He sounds incredulous.
“I like to be Zen about it.” I nod several times. “Stay calm, move on. Look on the bright side. Don’t dwell.”
“Wow.” Lorcan’s eyes have widened. “I’m impressed. Mine was four years ago. Still hurts.”
“That’s a real pity,” I manage. “Poor you.”
My fake smile is nearly killing me. I want to ask him how it still hurts and what happened and shall we compare ways in which our exes are total louses? I’m desperate to spill out all the details and talk incessantly about it until I hear from him what I need to hear, i.e., that I’m in the right about everything and Daniel is in the wrong.
Which, no doubt, is why Barnaby gave me a talking-to.
He’s always right. Bastard.
“So. Um. Shall I get some more drinks?” I reach for my bag and hurriedly pull out my purse.
Argh. No.
The purse flipped up as I tugged it out and with it came the contents of my Durex variety pack. Ribbed for Extra Pleasure falls on the table, and a Pleasuremax lands in Lorcan’s drink, splashing him in the face. A Fetherlite has fallen on top of our bowl of peanuts.
“Oh!” I quickly start grabbing them. “Those aren’t—They were for my son’s school project.”
“Ah.” Lorcan nods, politely retrieving the Pleasuremax from his drink and handing it to me. “How old’s your son?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” He looks scandalized.
“It’s … Long story.” I wince as he hands me the dripping condom. “Let me get you another drink. I’m so sorry.” Automatically I’ve started drying the Pleasuremax with a paper napkin.
“I’d probably chuck that one,” says Lorcan. “Unless you’re desperate.”
I glance up sharply. He looks deadpan but there’s something about his voice that makes me want to laugh.
“It’s fine,” I counter. “Waste not, want not.” I stuff it back into my bag. “Another gin? Without the contraceptive garnish?”
“I’ll get them.” He leans back, tilting his chair to signal at the waiter, and I find my eyes running over his long, lean body. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the frisson of having told him he’s good in bed or this whole weird situation, but I’m becoming a little fixated. I’m mapping myself onto him in my head. Bit by bit. What would those hands feel like on my skin? What would his hair feel like between my fingers? His jaw is faintly stubbled, which is good. I like friction. I like spark. That’s what I’m feeling between us. The right kind of spark.
I predict he’s slow and determined in bed. Focused. Takes sex as seriously as he takes fixing his friend’s love life.
Did I just say predict? What exactly am I thinking myself into here?