“What’s wrong, sis?” he said.
“I thought I saw a great, big, smelly rat under the table.”
He turned, raising a hand and calling the waiter over.
“What are you doing?” I snarled.
He looked back, a patently false expression of innocence on his face. “I’m calling the waiter over. We have to tell him you saw a rat. After all, they’ll need to close the place down and call in the exterminators.”
“Stop it! I mean it,” I warned him. “This is my favourite restaurant. There’s nothing, nothing wrong with the hygiene here. They were featured on Master Chef, and if you get me kicked out, I’ll never forgive you.”
The waiter smiled, weaving his way through the other tables to our place by the window.
“Are you going to play nice?” Mark asked.
“For as long as we’re in here.” I glared at him. Mark stared back before nodding to signal he’d accepted the deal.
TJ gave our order to the conveniently placed waiter. “Okay, baby, I’m just going to the toilet. You two behave. When I come back, you and I are going to talk, Kitty-Kate. Seriously. There is no way a woman like you should be begging for a date.” TJ planted a big, smacking kiss on my lips, in true TJ style, before rising from the table.
Mark sucked in a breath, scowling. “What the hell is he, a kissing cousin?”
What was his problem today? “You can’t have a problem with TJ. Everyone loves him.”
His jaw bulged as he ground a layer of enamel off his molars.
Good. At least I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t going to get a smiley-face sticker next time I went to the dentist. “Of course I don’t have a problem with TJ.” Much. “How did you and this guy that everyone loves hook up, anyway?”
“What’s your problem? If TJ wasn’t gay, I’d think you were jealous.” Like Mark would be jealous about me. He was on my mother’s side in this farce.
He stretched, relaxing back in his seat, a smile spreading across his face, his foot once again brushing my calf. “How did you two meet?”
It was like a switch had been thrown and suddenly he was all smiles again. Bipolar? “TJ and my flatmate at university had a bit of a fling.”
Speak of the devil, TJ appeared at the table, and I winced, damn it. “Seeing as how you brought it up, how is Anton?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“That good, huh?”
I waved a hand in dismissal of Anton’s achievements. “America. Job. Lots of money. Trust-fund boyf–”
“You be sure to let me know if he’s ever hit by a car, so that I can offer my congratulations to the driver.” TJ turned to Mark and shrugged. “First love. You know how it is.” Mark gave an understanding nod. TJ sat down as a pair of waiters appeared and began placing our dishes onto the middle of the table.
“Right, now spill.” TJ spoke as the waiters left, simultaneously filling his plate.
I didn’t just spill, I flooded. Tsunami style. TJ sat in semi-stunned/amused silence. I finally wound down my tale of woe, voice trembling, chin wobbling, nose running. It wasn’t my best look.
“I still don’t understand why she used that picture if she wanted to increase your chances of attracting a man,” he said. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
“We’re talking about my mother here, TJ – of course it doesn’t make sense. Unless…” I turned to Mark as a thought struck. He had taunted me for as long as I could remember – had he persuaded my mother to use that picture? Was it some sort of ultimate embarrassment?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he responded. “I had no idea what was going on until I came to pick you up from the police station.”
I turned back to TJ, for once inclined to believe Mark hadn’t been actively involved in my humiliation. “She says she likes the photo. I know.” I mirrored his look of horror. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“She loves you,” Mark said. “Of course she thinks you look good in all the pictures she has of you.”
No, really? TJ and I blinked owlishly at Mark.
“Maybe I’ve just never really been in love then,” TJ said. “Because some people are not photogenic. Sorry, Kate. I can’t lie to you.”
“Don’t look now.” I slapped TJ’s arm, gaining his attention. “That guy standing outside Karma Cafe, the one wearing a flasher mac: that’s John. I said don’t look.”
“Then you gave me exact directions of where I needed not to look. Besides, don’t look is what people say when they want you to look. He’s the guy you went on a date with last week? He’s a bit… strange looking. That was the best you got from the digital adverts?” TJ twisted in his seat and craned his neck to get a better view.
“Stop it!” I said.
“Why’s he pretending he hasn’t noticed you when he was obviously looking right at us two seconds ago?” TJ waved, wiggling his fingers as John looked back.
“Don’t.” I grabbed his hand, pinning it to the table.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about. He’s scuttling off now he realises you’ve seen him. Underground poster photo aside, if he’s indicative of the calibre of dates you’ve received so far, we need to think of a new plan of action. Two months isn’t an awful lot of time, and with the dating adjudicator sitting there watching you, you’re going to have to make an effort.”
“I don’t mind making an effort, if he’s tall, dark, handsome, and intelligent.”
Mark nudged my foot under the table. He raised his eyebrows, flashed me a smile, and tapped his cheekbone with a long, blunt finger.
“Employed.” I continued looking away. What the hell was he up to now?
TJ considered me for a minute. “You’re going to Anne Westmore’s wedding this weekend, aren’t you? Weddings are the place to meet men.” He continued, oblivious to the under-the-table battle going on, “That’s if you’re not interested in the hunk you’re toting around with you today?”
My attention snapped back to TJ. “Who?” His head tipped to one side, indicating… “We’re not back on Mark, are we? We’ve already had this discussion. He’s–”
“Not related to you in any way!” Mark thundered. TJ bit back a smile.
“I wasn’t going to say anything about your being like a brother to me.”
“KT,” he said, his voice deadly, “do us both a favour. Shut up.”
“I was going to say: he’s not a man hunk.”
Mark scowled. “Didn’t I just tell you to shut up? Do I need to make you?”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Not nearly so much as I’d like to do it.”
Mark fisted my coat and hauled me from my chair up to his mouth. What the…?
His lips moulded to mine. I shivered out a breath of surprise. The warm, firm pressure of his lips brushing mine sent tingles of shock and desire skating across my skin. My eyes closed. The tip of his tongue slipped out, tapping against my top lip. Hmm. I blinked my eyes open. My lips parted and he stepped back.
Leaving me panting and staring at him. “Uh… What was that?” Okay, I could’ve made that more convincing. I touched my lips with the tip of my tongue, trying to stop the tingling.
“It’s called kissing. I did it to shut you up, but if you’re asking remedial questions like that, you’ve got a hell of lot of learning to do.” With that, Mark threw some cash on the table, grabbed our shopping, and walked out, leaving me confused and TJ smirking.
Chapter 5
I’m not the wedding photographer, but I can picture us together.
“What is it?”
“Another red carnation and a…” I stared down at my palm. “A necklace.” Mark stood tensely at my shoulder, dressed for Anne Westmore’s wedding, in a beautifully tailored silver-grey suit, scanning the street for my gift giver. I felt a bit shaky. This was weird. “It’s a cameo thing. Mum got one free as a mystery gift from one of those frequent reader catalogues once. It made her skin turn green when it got wet
.”
Mark turned to me. “Have you got some sort of thing going with a book catalogue that I should know about?”
“No.”
“Then where did that come from?” He poked the gold-looking chain in my hand.
“I think it’s John. He followed me back from the corner shop last night and the Underground every night last week.” Even though I was getting off at Victoria Station (I still couldn’t use Pimlico) and schlepping an extra mile home.
“Why didn’t you say something?” He scowled, looking over my shoulder and scanning the street.
Because I was getting tired of being the main focus of his amusement. “I just did.”
“Earlier, KT. When I could’ve done something about it.”
“What could you do about it? It’s not like he did anything. He didn’t try to talk to me or abduct me… I didn’t see an axe.” I was taunting him, given his requirement that I wait until someone turned up with a weapon to shout for help when I was dating. “He was just there. Walking along the same street as me. At the same time. Along with half a dozen other people.”
“It’s called stalking.”
“Or maybe he works near here and was just making his way home. He said he did on our date.” Amazingly, I was actually being the voice of reason in a conversation with Mark.
“Had you ever seen him around here before you went on your date?”
“No. But… well, he doesn’t really stand out in the crowd; maybe I’ve stood beside him on the Underground every day for the past five years and just never noticed him before. We live in the same area – give or take a couple of miles – after all.”
“What were you doing letting some stranger know where you live, anyway?” he muttered, dragging a hand over his hair. “I guess this explains the silent calls I’ve been getting all day when you were at work.”
“What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” I glared, daring him to answer. He didn’t, denying me the opportunity to really lose it with him. “I didn’t tell him anything. I didn’t even want to go for dinner with him. If you’re going to get snotty with someone, do it with Mum. She’s the one who posted my picture on the Underground. All he had to do was wait until he saw me coming out of the station one night and follow me home.”
“The phone calls?”
“I don’t know. Even Mum knew enough to use a telephone messaging service and not my real number.”
“It’s creepy. The whole following you and leaving surprises on the doorstep. It’s creepy. Normal people don’t do things like that. I think you should talk to the police about getting a restraining order.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have a very good relationship with the police at the moment.”
Mark turned from the empty street, looking down at me. I stroked the carnation bud against my cheek as I stared at the necklace curled in the palm of my hand. “So, are you going to toss that thing, or what?” He didn’t wait for my response. He plucked the flower out of my hand and pitched it into the gutter.
“We’re going to be late for the wedding if we don’t get your mum and set off now.”
I tossed the necklace onto the side table, picked up my bag, and headed out the door. Mark snagged my hand as I walked past, pulling me to a halt and turning me to face him.
“I meant to say earlier, you look gorgeous, KT. Like a 1940s pinup girl.”
I wasn’t expecting the compliment. My heart hit my ribs, pounding hard in my chest, responding to his hot tone and look. I was wearing a knee-length navy dress that highlighted my curves. The top was V-necked, with small sleeves; the fitted waist highlighted my shape and was set off with a narrow black patent leather belt. A full skirt flared around my hips and hit me at the knee.
“I’ll be fighting the men off to get a dance with you.”
* * * * *
The wedding ceremony was over, and Anne Westmore was now Mrs Anne Schwartz. We’d been standing in the freezing cold in the small formal garden of the Georgian Hotel, where the wedding reception was being held, for the past hour while the photographer ushered us into various groups and poses for photos.
My mother was talking with her friend Susan. A pretty, black-haired, sprite-like bridesmaid had glommed on to Mark as soon as the ceremony was over. I couldn’t blame her – he looked James Bond hot in his suit, and you couldn’t tell that he was a blackmailer’s henchman from looking at him.
With TJ’s advice – that weddings are great man-hunting grounds – still fresh in my mind, I scanned the lawn for potential. I spotted two groomsmen, dressed in black suits with cerise bow ties to match the bridesmaids’ dresses. One was athletic looking with brown hair and intense blue eyes, reminding me of Jamie Dornan, a.k.a. Christian Grey in the Fifty Shades movies. The other looked like Chris Hemsworth: sandy-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, tall and muscled, so hot he acted as a Norse god (Thor).
“Everyone for the family photo,” the middle-aged photographer called, positioning his equipment at the foot of the stairs leading up to the big house. “Line up on the steps, bride and groom in the middle, wedding party and family on the steps beside and behind, please.”
I was family. Anne’s mother Lucinda is my dad’s second cousin. This was my chance to stage a meet with the potentials and somehow – this part of my plan was vague – tempt them to ask me on a date.
Leaving Mum and Mark behind, I followed Mark’s bridesmaid, sashaying across the lawn. Actually, I staggered (heels and a wet lawn do not mix) over to the sandstone steps. People had already lined up, so it was pretty crowded, but this played in my favour, giving me a great excuse to squeeze in between my two hotties, who were conveniently standing next to each other on the front row.
“Excuse me,” I chirped in my best flirty voice. “Is there room for a little one?” I touched “Chris” on the arm as I squeezed between them. Yummy. I suppressed a shiver at the powerful hardness of his arm beneath my palm. “Jamie” turned, his intense eyes flicking over me as the hot spice of his aftershave filled my senses.
Lovely. A hot man sandwich.
“What are you doing?” Anne snapped, breaking the spell. I glanced around, to see who she was bridezilla-ering now. She jabbed a finger in my direction. “You.” Me? I was just standing here, enjoying being sandwiched. “I don’t want you in this one, Kate. It’s just for close family.” What? My heart dipped and heat flooded my face, as everyone turned to see who she didn’t want. “You can go in the big group photo later.” She made a shooing gesture with her French-manicured hands, before turning to her new husband and muttering, loud enough for me and everyone else to hear, “In the back row.”
Pride in tatters, I slunk down the steps to the laughter of Jamie and a sympathetic back pat and – dare I hope – flirtatious wink from Chris.
For once, Mark didn’t laugh or make a joke at my expense when I got back to where he stood with my mother and Susan. “Come here.” He opened his suit jacket, letting me snuggle inside against his chest, away from the bitter wind, whilst I got warm and nursed my bruised pride.
* * * * *
An hour later, we were all inside the grand ballroom and halfway through the wedding meal (warm prawn cocktail followed by cold chicken and gravy), pretending to listen to the endlessly dull speeches (close family were also pretending to laugh at the “right” points).
I was topping up my Dutch courage to make a second approach to Chris if he didn’t seek me out when the dancing started. I wasn’t going to risk Jamie again – not just because he’d laughed when Anne had been a bitch, but because I wasn’t really into the whole Fifty Shades pain and submission thing.
I was jarred from my thoughts by my mother’s cackling laughter. Unfortunately, Anne had seated Mum and Susan at the same table, along with me, Mark, Dr Sommerville – a morose balding man – his wife – a wannabe Stepford wife – and his awkward teenage son. Susan had, like Mum, been through a difficult divorce. They’d bonded over their shared experience of husbands who ran off with th
eir best friends and formed a bitchy one-upmanship type of friendship. I’m not sure exactly how it works. All I know is Mum can be in a pit of depression, then Susan comes over and starts criticising her housekeeping, and the next minute Mum’s suggesting Susan think about getting help from the makers of Hoarding: Buried Alive, and they’re both off happily trading insults, like it’s some form of therapy. They’re not being intentionally mean; they’d be genuinely upset if they thought they’d hurt the other one. I think they think it’s funny.
Unfortunately, they didn’t care who was around to hear them. “Lucinda must be thrilled to finally get Anne married. With Anne’s looks and personality, she must’ve thought she’d never get rid of her,” my mother said. She’d gone all out for the wedding, her ash-blonde hair swept back into an elegant French twist, and she was wearing a baby-pink shift dress with matching long-line jacket. She’d even cracked out the family jewels. She was wearing her engagement ring on her middle finger.
“Quiet, Mum,” I said. I was too used to their game to be shocked. I just wanted her to lower the volume, so everyone in the room didn’t hear.
“Hmm. She is rather unfortunate looking,” Susan said, equally loudly. “I was so lucky with my Laura. She’s always been a natural beauty. Takes after her mother.” Susan spoke through lush pink lips. She’d waged a fierce battle against aging for the last twenty years. Her jet-black hair was piled on top of her head, to cascade down in an abundance of synthetic curls. Her eyebrows were fixed halfway up her forehead, in an expression of perma-surprise, which was the only expression her over-Botoxed face could make. “All the boys fighting over her; engaged at eighteen and married by twenty-one. Such a stunning bride.” She turned a surprised (I guessed she intended to look sympathetic) look on me. “Don’t worry, Kate, dear. Your time will come… and they have some lovely dresses for mature brides these days.”
Kissing Frogs Page 7