Page 15 of Best Man (Close Proximity #1)

SIX

ZEB

An hour later finds me on the field next to the hotel. I look around to see Max sauntering towards me. “You shouldn’t have dressed up,” I say wryly, looking at his jeans and red T-shirt.

“I didn’t.” He looks me up and down. “Although why would I when you look so spiffy?”

I shake my head. “It’s navy chinos and a shirt. Frances wanted everyone to dress up for this in historic costume, but this is as far as I can go without getting heatstroke.”

“My outfit is historical. These jeans are at least eight years old.”

“Why am I explaining this to you? You read the itinerary, didn’t you?”

“Read it and mourned the fact that I’ve probably misplaced a precious childhood memory to retain that information.” He looks around. “Is that man wearing plus fours? I didn’t think anyone made them anymore.”

“Shh!” I hiss. “Someone will hear you.”

“Then maybe they can explain people’s attire this morning. We are actually shooting bits of pottery, aren’t we, not stalking pheasants? ”

“You know Frances,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “She watches a lot of Downton Abbey. ”

“I watch a lot of porn. Doesn’t mean I corral people into wearing bad underwear and having very stilted conversations.” He pauses as he sees Nina. “Brilliant. Now I need mental bleach.”

“It’s your own fault,” I say serenely. “Where’s your boy toy this morning, anyway?”

“Resting up,” he says with a wolfish grin. “When I left, he was sunbathing on the balcony wearing the smallest pair of briefs I’ve ever seen.”

I shake my head. “And when do you move on to the next one?”

He shrugs. “When I feel like it.” He nudges me. “Don’t give me that disapproving look. You’ve brought your own diversion this week.”

“Distraction, more like it,” I say glumly and groan when I see his delighted expression. “Please don’t matchmake,” I say imploringly.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not very good at it, which goes a long way to explaining your single status too.”

“I’d be very good at matchmaking if I actually believed in love,” he says crossly.

I lower my sunglasses and stare at him. “Putting you in charge of my love life would be like making Felix the boss of Manchester United.”

Hesitation crosses his face which is so alien to his normal confidence. “How is he?” he asks in a low voice.

“Fine,” I say tersely.

He scuffs his foot across the grass. “Is he still dating that wanker?”

“Do you mean Carl, who is lovely and polite and worships the ground he walks on? That wanker? Yes, he’s unfortunately still with him.

” He opens his mouth and I hold my hand up.

“I don’t want to know.” I turn to him. “Do you remember when all the shit kicked off and you told me to mind my own business?” He nods, looking surly.

“Well, this is me. Minding my own business. Behold. See how good I am at it. ”

“I just want to know if he’s okay,” he says, and his air of quiet desperation stops me in my tracks.

“He’s fine,” I say quietly. “Max, I–”

“Oh look,” he says with a determined cheerfulness. “We’re about to start.”

I let him pull me along as we move further onto the field next to the car park. The sun is blazing hot now, burning down on our heads and dancing dazzlingly over the cars. I accept the cold lemonade that a waiter hands me and listen as the man in charge of the shoot gives his safety talk.

After ten minutes he waves up the first person to shoot and I look idly round at the group.

Most have obeyed Frances’s instructions to the letter, wearing various versions of shooting gear.

They look quite hot and bothered and rather like extras from an historical drama.

I brighten slightly. If Richard Armitage strides through the crowd, all bets are off.

The bangs from the gun are loud and the cheering and banter get louder and louder. I turn to Max to say something just as he laughs and his whole face lights up.

“Don’t talk about my trouble,” he mutters. “Yours is sauntering towards us now and he’s got it written all over him.”

I turn and shake my head even though my heart is pounding. “That is not on the dress code,” I say disapprovingly.

Jesse is wandering lazily towards us. His dark hair shines in the sun, the loose strands pushed back by a Union Jack bandanna.

He’s wearing cut-offs that show off the tanned length of his hairy legs and old checked Vans, but my attention is on his T-shirt.

It’s a bright green Sesame Street T-shirt with a picture of the Muppets on it along with the words in big type: Hi, my name is Jesse.

As he nears the crowd, it parts and the man in charge calls to him and offers the gun.

Jesse looks slightly surprised but takes it and goes to stand next to the man as he talks and nods.

I look at the group who are, by and large, staring condescendingly at Jesse, apart from a group of women who are eyeing up his long legs and small arse.

Frances’s father shakes his head as he looks at Jesse and says something to the group of men he’s standing with that makes them break into laughter.

I bristle and only realise that I’ve tightened my fists when Max reaches down and separates my fingers. “Okay, Rocky,” he hisses. “They’re just your ordinary garden variety of arsehole. No need for fisticuffs.”

I shake my head. “Pricks. He’s better than any of them.”

I can feel his stare on the side of my head like a sunburn. “Hmm,” he says contemplatively.

He opens his mouth to say more but at that moment one of Charles’s group shouts out, “Hard to hold a shotgun with a limp wrist, son.”

I move a couple of steps forward but Max grabs me and pulls me back just as Jesse turns and smiles cheerily at the man.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asks happily. “You’ll have to give me some tips.” Then he turns and shouts “pull” in a way that inexplicably makes my balls tighten. He shoots the clay pigeon into smithereens. The first person to manage it so far including all of Charles’s group.

He gives the gun back to the man and smiles warmly at the crowd. “It’s all in the wrist action,” he says loudly, and a few of the girls giggle.

I shake my head as he comes towards me. “When did you learn to shoot?”

He shrugs. “One of my brothers fancied a girl who was into it. We went every Saturday.”

“One of them?” Max says. “How many have you got?”

“Five, and two sisters.”

“Fucking hell, it’s like meeting one of the Waltons.”

Jesse laughs. He turns to me, smiling, and I shake my head. “What are you wearing?”

He looks down. “Is there a problem?” he asks mildly.

“Is that a child’s T-shirt?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “You might not have noticed, Zebedee, but I’m a big boy now.

” Max snorts, and he grins at him before turning back to me.

“Although I did have one like this when I was little,” he says consideringly, looking at his name in bold letters.

He grins. “It helped in our family to wear something identifying yourself at all times. My friend Eli bought this for me for my birthday.”

“And you are wearing it because?”

He blinks. “Well, because the itinerary said to come in period clothing, although that’s a slightly vague request.” He waves his hand downward. “Anyway, you can’t get much more period than Sesame Street .” He looks around. “Oh, you can,” he says in a disappointed voice.

I open my mouth to speak but Nina strides across to us.

“Nina,” Jesse exclaims as if she’s his long-lost family. “How are you doing this fine morning?”

Nina ignores him. It’s a neat trick and one I wish I could learn, but here we are with no sign of that happening yet.

“Well,” she sneers. “You’ve managed to make quite the spectacle of yourself today, Zebadiah.”

I blink. “Have I?”

She waves her hand at Jesse. “Your companion is making a total fool of you. If you must pick up very young men, at least make sure you pick a classy one.”

“Now, you wait a minute,” I hiss, seeing her look of surprise.

In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never risen to her rudeness, having been taught to be polite at all costs to women.

But I’m not having her talk like that about Jesse.

“We really shouldn’t talk about classy behaviour, Nina, because you’re not exactly displaying it yourself.

You’re acting like a fishwife.” I pause.

“Why do we say fishwife?” Jesse grins delightedly and I shake my head.

“Never mind.” I look hard at her. “I’m here because your son asked me to come.

The same way he asked to live with me. I spent five years looking after him, and I’m glad to rest the burden on someone else’s shoulders.

However, I promised him I’d be here, and I keep my word.

But I detest pettiness and rudeness. You don’t know Jesse, and I won’t have you talking to him like that.

He’s a wonderful young man with a big heart.

I’d explain what that means because you patently don’t have one, but I’d lose the will to live, and we’re out of time anyway as I have to shoot pottery now. ”

Nina stares at me. For once she’s speechless and I give thanks .

Jesse breaks the silence as adroitly as ever. “I think your cauldron’s bubbled over,” he says helpfully to her.

She grimaces at him and stalks away.

“Did you know her husband was in the SAS?” Max says.

Jesse looks thoughtful. “If you were trained to kill in twenty different undetectable ways, wouldn’t you have knocked her off at some point?”

“Bloody old bitch,” I say forcefully and Jesse and Max turn to stare at me.

“Not now,” I say wearily. “I’ve got to go and shoot an imitation pigeon. Fuck my life,” I bemoan. I stalk off just as Patrick says “Zeb,” and comes towards me.

JESSE

Max and I stare after the stiff back of Zeb as he marches towards the man holding the gun. The man looks rather hesitant which might have something to do with the way Zeb is scowling, but he still bravely hands over the gun.

“Well,” I say slowly, and Max gives a sudden bark of laughter.

“You can say that again.”