Page 24 of The Best of Times

“I suppose as a photographer, you don’t actually need your own imagination,” Aron said. “It’s more just point and click. Not like an artist or someone like that.”

He saw Paul’s neck redden.

A direct hit.

“In answer to your question, Edwin,” Paul said, evidently ignoring Aron’s victory smirk. “I will be organising the stag do.”

“It sounds like a competition to me,” Edwin replied. “If you need any ideas to make it unforgettable, give me a call. We took some guys paintballing the other week. It was a roaring success.”

“The bruise on your bottom is nearly gone,” Anais added.

Edwin shook his head. “Those things can hurt.”

The cat stretched and wandered over to Paul for some fussing. Aron was transfixed as he watched him stroke the huge beast.

Paul’s hands were massive. Aron had often wondered how he managed to operate a delicate contraption like a camera.

He also remembered how they felt roaming over his naked body.

Focus, Wimpole. Fucking focus.

CHAPTER SIX

When Aron had frequented Queens Parade, Club C had been the local carpet shop. Now it had earned the reputation as one of London’s premier nightspots. Apparently, the paparazzi were often filling the little street. The miraculous feat had been achieved by Rodrigo Costa, an enigmatic Portuguese man who Aron had met at the Professor’s.

When Aron went in, he hardly recognised the place. A dark wood bar ran the length of one wall. Opposite stood a small stage with a DJ setup. The fabric and the flooring all screamed money. Rodrigo had obviously spared no expense in creating the perfect venue.

It was perfect for what Aron had in mind. He hoped that Rodrigo would have availability. Like everything else with this wedding, time was of the essence.

They sat in a booth in the large, deserted room. Being in a nightclub during the day was a strange experience. The silence was deafening. A lone barman restocked the shelves while cleaners polished the brass fittings.

Aron felt that he should speak in hushed tones for some reason. Every noise appeared to be amplified.

“I’m thrilled that you’ve chosen Club C to host,” Rodrigo said. “And for such an important event.”

“I figured most of the guests will be members, so it shouldn’t be a problem on that score.”

Rodrigo waved his comment away. “For Mrs Wimpole, we won’t be too strict on the membership rule. She is a wonderful woman and deserves nothing but the best.”

Once again, a lump formed in Aron’s throat. If he was having this reaction in the run-up to the wedding, he would be a quivering mess when he watched her walk down the aisle.

“Things have changed round here since I left,” Aron said. “She’s always been a big figure. Now she’s got her own fan club.”

Rodrigo shrugged. “She has helped a lot of people. We’re simply enjoying the opportunity to pay her back in whatever way we can.”

To his shame, Aron hadn’t always listened all that intently when Granny relayed the latest drama on Queens Crescent. Now, it appeared, he had misjudged her impact.

“That’s beautiful,” he said. “I’m so pleased she has so much love around her. I don’t think I realised how much I’ve missed her.”

Rodrigo smiled. “I ran away from Lisbon because my mother can be hideously overbearing. To be Mrs Wimpole’s friend is very different to being her grandchild, I would imagine.”

Aron shook his head. “I didn’t run to New York to escape her.”

“You ran to escape, though?” Rodrigo followed this up with an intent stare.

The club became hot all of a sudden. Aron undid his top button.

“I guess I did.”