Page 98 of Pretty Mess

“I’m notthatbad,” I say indignantly.

Claude laughs, but I don’t miss the curious look he sends Mac and extends to me.

We end up sitting at a table looking out on the square. It glistens in the rain, the cobbles gleaming and the storm giving everything a misty, pearlescent sheen that looks almost magical. The restaurants are already filling with people, and the signs look neon against the gloomy sky.

“So pretty.” I sigh.

“Yes, you are,” Mac says, and I turn to find him watching me, his menu abandoned and his eyes dark. I flush with pleasure and then shake my head, making him smile. “Do you trust me to order for you?”

“Of course.” I look at the menu and then place it back on the table. “I’ve got a GCSE in French but can’t read or speak it.”

He blinks. “How did you pass it, then?”

“Well, I memorised a few paragraphs that have turned out to be a bit niche in social situations. If you need me to tell someone that my grandmother’s elephant is in the kitchen, I’m your man. For anything else, not so much.”

He laughs loudly, his eyes creasing in amusement. Claude, who’s coming towards us to take our order, stops dead for a second, staring at Mac in an arrested manner. He shoots me an inscrutable look, and I shrug. By the time Mac sobers, Claude is at our side, and the two of them launch into very fast-paced French, pointing at items on the menu.

Claude finally leaves, and silence falls. It’s not awkward, but it’s strangely heavy. I fiddle with the napkins and my drink, taking a sip of the wine that Mac pours me. It’s heavy on my tongue, and I lick my lips.

I want to ask him many questions, but I’m unsure where to begin.

He shoots me a look as he takes a sip of wine. “Oh dear. I can almost hear your brain ticking. It’s painful.”

“Oh, shut up.” That makes him give another laugh. “I just have so many questions,” I confide, leaning closer over the table. “I know we covered lots of small bits today.”

“That process seemed to take up a large part of my life.”

“I can’t think of where to start with the bigger stuff, because I want to get them all out before you raise the drawbridge.”

“Do I do that?”

“You pull it up like a medieval knight protecting a castle.” He’d make a good knight, I muse. He has a face that belongs in a medieval drawing—withdrawn and serene.

He sits back. “Go ahead, then,” he says wearily.

“And you’ll let me ask all of them?” I check.

“Until I grow bored or die. Whichever situation blesses me first.” His mouth curves and for a moment I’m lost in how handsome he is, his hair curling in damp waves and his thin cheeks flushed with the heat, making his eyes look very blue.

“You’re so funny.” I rally. I have information to gather. “Okay.” I think hard. “You own half of this restaurant.”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“Can’t it be both? So, how do you know Claude?”

His eyes twinkle. “That’s two questions.”

“There’s a limit now?” I say crossly.

He chuckles and refills our glasses. I didn’t realise I’d drained the first one. I’m going to go carefully because the mystery that is Mac is lightening in front of my eyes. Like fog eddying and revealing vague shapes.

“Okay,” he says. “Claude has been a friend since I was a small boy. He has a lovely family who were very good to me.”

Very good to me. I consider this and the way he’s said it. As though it wasn’t a frequent thing to have good things happen to him. I open my mouth to ask about this, but immediatelyreconsider. I’m nosy, but I’m not cruel. If he doesn’t want to elaborate, that’s his business.

“Which university did you go to?”

He raises his eyebrows, as if he’d expected a different question. “The Sorbonne.”