Page 67 of Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye

Tarquin lifted his cat from Leia’s lap and set her gently on the floor. “How about we meet up later, then—grab a bite?”

I was gonna work late on Shantelle’s gown, try to finish it.

He glanced down, catching the tabby weaving back and forth between Leia’s calves. “I know we agreed not to do date-like things, but you’re leaving in two days! Let me treat you to dinner.” He looked up, a visible swallow bobbing his throat. “How ’bout it, Ms. Frill-Seekers? Say goodbye to London in style?”

“And break my own rules?” Leia scratched behind the cat’s ears. But with me leaving in forty-eight hours, do rules matter anymore? Dinner would be nice. And really, am I going to say no to my last chance to see Tarquin in—and hopefully, out of—a bespoke suit? She sat back. “Okay, on one condition…can we go to that OXO restaurant you mentioned before? I Googled it and the view looks amazing.”

Tarquin winked. “You’re in the driver’s seat, Ginger!”

Sixteen

TARQUIN

“It’s Victorian? Hm. And on Sylvester Path in Hackney?” Phone glued to his ear, Tarquin leaned against his office window high up in the Shard, his bird’s-eye view taking in London Bridge, Borough Market, and, far off in the crisp early-afternoon sunshine, the London Eye and Big Ben. Immaculately groomed and clean-shaven, he had chosen his navy three-piece suit with its subtle red windowpane check, a white shirt, and a purple tie especially for Leia, wanting to look his best for their last night together. “That’s a great location, lots of people on a night out. It’s near the Hackney Empire, isn’t it?” He took a sip of coffee (his second cup of the day) from his ‘I heart the NHS’ mug.

“And the Picturehouse. I’ve heard rumblings about it going on the market since last summer,” said Simon, the sound of buzzing juicers in the background forcing him to speak louder. “But the ‘For Sale’ signs went up at lunch, so I thought I should let you know ASAP.”

“Cheers, Si. I’ll definitely check it out.” Tarquin sat down and pulled up his schedule on his laptop. A blue box with DINNER WITH LEIA owned the end of his day. The rest of his week was dotted with an appointment at the bank, meetings with his architect and project manager, and consults with a structural engineer and a conversion officer. Maybe go see it Friday? “A property like that won’t hang around long.”

“It might be a good replacement for that Spitalfields pub you lost out on.”

“Uh, don’t remind me.” Tarquin sat back in his chair. “That one hurt.”

“Well, here’s something to ease the pain—oh, cheers.” Simon’s voice trailed away briefly. “Sorry, Tarq, just paying for my juice. Sooo, this morning Leia said she’s going to miss London and wishes she could stay longer. Would that have anything to do with you, Monsieur Balfour?”

Hope so. “We did have a pretty spectacular sleepover last night. How’s she doing on this glorious Wednesday afternoon?”

“She’s good. Scrambling to finish her gown. I don’t know if she’s coming in tomorrow. I think her sister’s taking the day off to hang with her.”

Tarquin toyed with a red telephone box keychain on his desk and smiled. The leaving gift for Leia was neither expensive nor unique, but hopefully, it would be a cheeky reminder of their scintillating time together. “What time is her flight Friday?”

“Noon, I think.”

Bollocks. “That early?” A sinking sensation filled Tarquin’s stomach. I’m looking forward to tonight, but I’m dreading it, too. We’ll just have to make the most of it.

“Tomorrow is my stock-taking day,” said Simon, speaking louder over a passing motorcycle. “I’ll be up at six, so I told her she can come over at the crack of dawn if she has last-minute sewing to do…”

Which means leaving mine early. Again.

“…but I won’t take it personally if she doesn’t. I have a sneaky feeling she might want to spend that time elsewhere.”

With me?

“I think she’s smitten, Tarq.”

“Really?!” His pulse took off with a joyous leap.

“With your cat.”

Ah, shit. I fell into that one. “Ha! Very funny.” Tarquin couldn’t hold back his smile.

Simon snickered. “So, I did the obvious thing; I introduced her to Mrs. Chuzzlewit’s Instagram.”

Oh, mate. He pawed his hand through his hair. “Si! That account is a joke—started by your Freddie last Christmas!”

The jingly ring of a bell signaled that Simon had entered his shop. “Yeah, a joke you’ve posted to over thirty times. And now Freddie’s beside himself—your cat has six times the followers as Moriarty.”

“Well, to be fair, Chuzza’s prettier than Freddie’s cat. Her fluffy stripes, you know, they’re more exotic, more photogenic.”