Page 48 of Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye
“What? Like a real one?” Sarah giggled. “You took a selfie with it, didn’t you?”
“No!”
Sarah reached out. “Let me see your phone.”
“I didn’t!”
“Well, it must be the only one in London you haven’t snapped.”
Leia shrugged. “So, I like them.”
“You love them!”
I do. I’m obsessed. “Tarquin’s also got a baby grand piano and a pop art collection. And he loves to cook.”
“Jeez, Ley, you read him all wrong.”
She picked at the case on her phone. “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when I spotted Warhol and Lichtenstein originals in his place.”
“Christ on a bike! Jordan’s gonna freak when he hears that! They’re having a huge Warhol auction at his work.”
“Well, it gets better,” said Leia. “He owns an original signed Banksy, too.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped. “You love him!”
“Yeah, and his print is my favorite: the young girl reaching for the heart-shaped red balloon—”
“Drifting out of her grasp!” Sarah finished Leia’s sentence. “Wow, I hate to think what that must’ve cost. Where does he keep it?”
“It’s in his living room overlooking that gorgeous bridge. You know, the old one that looks part castle, part bridge?”
Her sister squeezed the mug in her grasp. “Tower Bridge? That’s his view?! Oh, man. That’s just—wow. A view you could fall in love with, and despite all that, you still don’t want to date him?”
Leia rolled her eyes. “Saz, if you like him so much, maybe you should.”
“He sounds perfect for you, that’s all. I’d hate for you to kiss him goodbye just because—”
“Tyler sounded perfect, too, remember?” She shook her head. “I uprooted my entire life for him—twice. I won’t let myself go down that road again.” Her sister opened her mouth to say something, but Leia cut her off. “Even for great sex with a rich British guy with a castle in the sky.”
Twelve
TARQUIN
One week later
Fighting the heaviness squeezing his chest, Tarquin peered through a floating veil of dust and ash, his polished shoes crunching shattered glass and scorched beer mats with each step. He rubbed his stingy eyes and swung his flashlight once more over the charred remains of what used to be a maze of tables and chairs as a wheezy tickle stole his breath. He sputtered and coughed, the eerie essence of the derelict Spitalfields pub creeping into his lungs. It sucks to be forgotten, eh, old boozer? You must’ve been a showstopper once upon a time. Built in 1860 but shuttered in 2012, the abandoned property had recently survived an arson attack and two failed demolition orders. If the price was right, Tarquin hoped to return the once popular tavern to its former glory and save it from being flattened to make way for another soulless fast food joint or pound shop.
Fuck. I’ll pop a contact lens if I’m not careful. I should’ve worn my glasses. I wasn’t thinking this morning… my head’s all over the place. He closed his eyes briefly but found no relief, the itchy burn conspiring with the churning in his stomach. I can’t stop thinking about Leia. A cough hijacked his lungs. Shit. I promised myself I’d let her reach out to me, let her call the shots—but what if I don’t hear from her? It’s been a week and still no texts. On the far wall, the bright beam of his flashlight crawled across a barely recognizable dartboard, its wires and numbers melted and twisted from unimaginable heat. Is she ghosting me? Or playing hard to get? He fussed with his hard hat digging into his scalp and scrunched his eyes at the water-damaged walls and boarded-up windows blocking the midday sun. Fuck it, there’s only one thing for it. He secured his lit flashlight under the arm of his suit jacket and tugged his phone from his trouser pocket, quickly typing out a text.
Tarquin: Simon, quick FaceTime call? Only if Leia’s not there.
A minute passed. No response, nothing. Tarquin chewed his lip. Maybe Si’s at yoga? He set down his flashlight on a wobbly table with three legs, its surface a ghostly pallor of ash and chunks of fallen plaster. Or out with Leia for lunch? He collected his reusable coffee cup, recently purchased in the hopes of showing Leia he could be eco-friendly, too. Bloody hell, I miss her. That cute laugh, her beautiful blonde hair, her lips… on me. Ahh, what are you up to, Leia?
Downing the dregs of his fourth coffee of the day, his tired eyes pored over the singed wooden bar and the cracked mirror hanging behind the long-forgotten (and long-ago-drained) liquor bottles coated with swirls of caked-on soot. A ratty plastic bag, half-melted and clung to a nearby beer tap, its chunky red font faded but still readable, snapped Tarquin to attention. SPORTS NOW? Dammit, Balfour! Get your head back in the game! You’ll never prove Dad wrong carrying on like this. He sniffed sharply, the stench of burnt rubber irritating his sinuses. Okay, so the question I should be asking is: Can I bring this pub back to life without destroying its history and old-fashioned charm?
A high-pitched squeak jerked the cup away from his lips. The kitchen door mid-swing spit out the fifty-something real estate broker, the blazing headlamp on his hard hat glaring like a third eye. Barrel-chested with thick biceps bulging through his polyester suit and a crooked nose you’d need a roadmap to follow, he looked just as happy to give you a fat lip as a property sale. “So, Mr. Balfour,” he said, plucking a stubby pencil from behind his ear. “Made a decision yet?” He raised the two fuzzy gray caterpillars he called eyebrows and pushed out his lips, his hard stare and glowing headlamp landing on his clipboard, the papers discolored with cigarette ash and smears of Worcestershire sauce. “Give me the magic number and I’ll call off the other bloke. He’s due at half-three. He’s bringing an offer—and blueprints.”
“Blueprints?” Tarquin snorted, fighting back a sneeze. “For what?”
