Page 81 of Boy Friends
‘What?’
‘Come on, did you do something dirty?’ he asks with an evil glimmer in his eyes.
‘Dad!’
‘Did you or did you not sit on your grandmother’s antique sofa in your street clothes? Please tell me you ate food without using side plates. Or cutlery!’
I sigh. ‘We had breakfast in the library. We used side plates, but we were barefoot, if that makes you happy?’
‘Your grandparents would hate that. So it makes me happy.’
What I don’t tell Dad, because the memory is too raw, is how Simo kissed me awake, then told me he had an idea. Drowsy as I was, I let him lure me into the garden and all the way to the little private cove. But then I protested – just because it’s May and the sun is out does not mean the sea is warm enough for skinny-dipping. In the end, though, Simo got what he wanted. And you kind of forget the sting of the cold ocean when you’re making out in it with a boy you love.
I’m pulled from the daydream when a motor roars out on the street and a vintage Porsche pulls up in front of the cafe.
‘What are they doing? They can’t park here,’ Dad says. He throws his towel on the counter, ready to put the driverin their place, when the car door opens, and a man gets out. He looks like the type of guy who holidays in Monaco and owns a racehorse; with a perma-tan and a spring in his step. In the sun, his polo shirt is blindingly white. He removes a pair of sunglasses to look at the sign above the shop, revealing a handsome face with sharp angles.
Dad freezes, and the sense of doom is instant. The look on his face is the same one he wore when Anna first stepped into the cafe. I don’t like it. Whatever is happening, I want it not to.
I can’t stop the chime of the bell or the stranger entering the cafe. He scans the empty tables before his gaze comes to rest on Dad. His eyes are a startling shade of blue.
‘Maz,’ he says with a deep voice, ‘you’re looking well.’ He sounds polite, but I swear he’s checking Dad out.
I turn to see Dad’s reaction, and to my surprise, his eyes are shooting daggers.
Then the stranger notices me, and I might be imagining it, but his confidence flickers. ‘And you must be Luca. Your grandparents have told me all about you.’
‘Leave,’ Dad says. ‘Now. Get out!’
The stranger shows no sign that he heard Dad. He only stares at me, half-puzzled, half-smiling.
‘And who are you?’ I ask, when no one offers an explanation.
‘I’m Rollo, and I guess I’m your dad’s ex,’ he says with nonchalance. ‘But I’m also your mum’s ex. And to you that makes me . . .’
‘Nothing,’ Dad growls. ‘You are nothing to him.’
The man shrugs. ‘Either that, or I’m your father.’
