Page 12 of Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye

“I’ll help.” Sarah followed, glancing back at her sister. “Ley’s got a call to make.”

Bossy little sis. Leia shook her head and hit enter for her pool search, ditching the bent Smarties box beside Tarquin’s business card.

Four

TARQUIN

“I’m not that hungover.” Leaning against Tarquin’s marble kitchen counter, Lucy Hardy tugged a hair tie off her wrist and gathered her box braids into a loose ponytail. “You know, I can make toast without setting your flat on fire.”

“Is that a promise?” Tarquin chuckled, tying his May the Forks Be With You apron around his gray Henley and dark jeans. “I appreciate you wanting to help, but I’ve got this. Really.”

“Do you…really?” Lucy toyed with the hem of her oversized Hamilton sweatshirt, stretching it over the bum of her navy sweatpants. “I thought we’d arrive this morning and find Prisha here.”

Don’t. Tarquin exhaled heavily and strode to the opposite end of his expansive kitchen where his full English breakfast bubbled and fried. Tongs in hand, he turned the sausages on his large flat top grill and kept an eye on the pot of simmering baked beans, bracing himself for Lucy’s next onslaught.

“Tarq, you can run, but you can’t hide.” A knowing smirk crept across the twenty-five-year-old’s pretty face as she stepped up to the sink and ran the taps. “How many is it now?” She pumped the soap dispenser twice.

Lucy, I’m not in the mood. Read the room.

She glanced over her shoulder, hands coated in soapy bubbles. “You’ve been back a month and gone out with, what? Six, seven women? Including two of my friends, and not one of them made it to a third date. You say you want a girlfriend, but—”

“Lucy.” Abandoning the floor-to-ceiling windows of his best friend’s lavish riverfront penthouse, Harry Manville scratched his blond bedhead and padded into the kitchen. Harry and Tarquin were lifelong mates, literally. Born on the same day in the same upscale London hospital, their friendship remained strong through schoolboy days at Ludgrove Prep and Eton, university degrees at Cambridge (Tarquin) and Oxford (Harry), and successful careers including Tarquin’s four-year stint working under Harry’s dad for Manville Developments. “Why don’t you hop in the bath? You’ve always wanted to gaze out over London from Tarq’s massive tub.” Harry rolled up the sleeves on his black shirt. “Now’s your chance.”

Ignoring her boyfriend, Lucy dried her hands and plucked her grandmother’s petite ruby ring, a Jamaican family heirloom, from the counter. “You’re stuck on Lex, Tarq.” Lex was Alex Sinclair, an American playwright living in London who was also Lucy’s best friend. She nudged her jewelry over a knuckle on her right hand. “It’s time to move on. She has.”

“Lucy, for the millionth time—I’m happy for her. She’s meant to be with Mark.” He tore open a package of bacon, his eyes boycotting hers. “And I have moved on.”

“Then why compare every woman you date to Lex?”

“I don’t.” Do I?

Harry nuzzled Lucy from behind, kissing her ear. “Leave him be,” he whispered, before letting go and opening the stainless-steel fridge, removing a paper bag of unwashed mushrooms.

“It’s only because I care.” Frowning, she unwrapped a loaf of bread from nearby Borough Market and plopped it on a cutting board. “Tarquin can have any woman he wants, so why is he single?” Lucy leaned conspiratorially into Harry. “Think about it.”

An impatient buzz rose from the pocket of Tarquin’s jeans. Leia? He abandoned the fry-up, and leapt down the counter to the faucet, dousing his hands before wiping them on his apron. “Harry, watch the grill.” Fingers still damp, he fished out his phone, spying a poolside photo. “Ah, for fuck’s sake, Mum! Not another—I don’t need this.”

“Ooh, but I do!” Sliding across the hardwood floor in her fuzzy socks, Lucy plowed into him. “You wouldn’t share last ni”—Her jaw dropped. “Holy eff!” A prolific curser, Lucy’s New Year’s resolution was to stop saying fuck. “Your mum—that’s bikini goals, right there!”

Tarquin winced. “That’s your takeaway? Not that my mother is texting bikini photos to her son?” His eyes drifted to the message below her photo.

Mum: Happy New Year, darling. Must chat soon!

Harry made an ‘Ugh, mate’ face and hovered over the grill, nudging the smoking sausages with a fork.

“You have to introduce me to her one day.” Lucy pulled the screen closer, her brown eyes studying the image of the beautiful fifty-something woman and the young stud wrapped around her. “That bloke is hawt—oh, jeez! He’s that—”

“Yup.” Tarquin chewed the inside of his cheek. “The fit male nurse on her TV series—the twenty-five-year-old. He’s younger than me.”

Harry scoffed. “She went on holiday with him? The National Mail is going to eat that up.”

“Shit, yeah, but give her credit”—Lucy let go of Tarquin’s phone—“Ibiza looks good on her!”

“Tell that to Ava, who missed seeing Grandma Kiki this Christmas.” Tarquin chucked his phone on the counter, far from his brunch-in-progress. A neat freak, Tarquin’s kitchen was tidy and crumb-free even in the midst of messy meal preparation. “It’s one thing for me and my brothers to grow up in the shadow of Mum’s selfishness, but…” He shook his head and glared at the bacon and sausages. “Ah, why bother? She’ll never change.”

Harry, always one to avoid an argument, cleared his throat and got to work, dunking the dirty mushrooms in a bowl of lukewarm water. “So, how was the club?” Every year, Harry’s private members’ club, Bespoke, threw a New Year’s bash hosting an enviable guest list of actors, models, and royals. This year, following dinner with Lucy, Tarquin, and Prisha, the twenty-six-year-old traded his own celebration for a house party in London Fields thrown by their friends, Alex and Mark.

“We didn’t make it.” Using a fork, Tarquin rolled the browning sausages to the edge of the hot grill, making space for bacon, mushrooms, and tomatoes. “Prisha started to feel ill waiting for our car. She reckoned it was food poisoning and wanted to go home.” He glanced at Harry, wrist-deep in water and bobbing mushrooms. “Did you feel okay after?”