Right. Not holding back at all.
He seemed to be deriving some emotional benefits from being with her, as well. His expression was one of resigned tolerance when he reached over and caught her hand. “Come on, Tig. I’ll shout you brunch.”
She looked down at herself. “I can’t go out to eat like this.”
“You’re fine. You hardly look like you put in any effort at all.”
She was still trying to work out if that was an insult when they reached his car. The assaulted Ferrari had been swapped out for an equally lush Maserati this week—temporarily, she assumed, unless he just replaced a damaged supercar like it was a pair of ripped tights. His lifestyle was a wet dream for the average British male. He’d also managed to find a prime parking spot. She wondered if the force of Richard’s personality was such that people just upped and left the moment he set his sights on their park.
Another photographer took their photo as they got into the car. Lainie resisted an insane urge to grin cheekily at her. She felt oddly light. Perhaps there was something to these exercise endorphins after all.
They ate at one of her favourite cafés in Bayswater, a few blocks from her flat. The décor was a bit naff and Ye Old Tea Shoppe, but it served incredible coffee and pancakes. Most of the restaurants in the area seemed to have gone over to the all-organic, all-healthy craze. It had been a personal mission to find one that didn’t sneak greens into every dish, as if they were tricking toddlers into eating their vegetables. Lainie would rather have hips than drink pulverised spinach in her smoothies. She preferred her green food to contain the words mint and chip.
There was good people-watching in the summer, when it was borderline warm enough to sit at the tables outside, but they settled for a cosy table near the wood fire. Lainie looked at Richard thoughtfully as she cut into her pancakes, scooping up an escaping blueberry with her knife.
“What would you usually be doing at this hour of the morning, if you’re not called in for rehearsal or scene changes?” It was half past ten, which in the world of evening theatre was most people’s seven or eight. “Sleeping?”
Richard shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of poached egg. “Depends on what time I got home the night before, and whether I have another work commitment.” He leaned back and picked up his coffee, giving her an unreadable look over the rim. “And obviously if I’m alone—or not.”
She stabbed her fork into a strawberry and ate it with relish. She was fairly sure the berries had come out of a can, but they were still tasty. “A morning quickie sort of bloke, are you?” she asked, going there out of sheer nosiness. “Or is it wham-bam-get-out-my-bed-ma’am?”
He smiled against his will. “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that it’s the latter. I prefer not to actually sleep next to someone if I can avoid it.” He added smoothly, “Although I handle the situation as tactfully as possible, of course.”
“Which, coming from you, probably means your poor girlfriends find themselves standing on the doorstep, wrapped in a bedsheet and clutching their knickers.”
“Only in the summertime. If it’s winter, I let them take a blanket, as well.”
“How about that? A joke.” Lainie was smiling, as well. She poured a bit more syrup on her remaining pancake. “What happened to the barrister? I remember thinking she looked nice.”
“Which barrister?” Richard looked blank.
“Working your way through the profession, are you? That seems a bit risky in your case. With that short fuse, you don’t want a stream of angry exes in the courtroom if you ever have to stand trial. The barrister you dated for like two months, you clod. You, at least, should remember her name. You took her to the Tony Awards. The blonde in the gorgeous Alice Temperley gown. The woman clutching your elbow all night.” She forked up a piece of stewed apple. “You probably sat next to her in the venue. Most likely shared a car ride home. And...”
“Yes, I don’t need the complete itinerary, thank you. You mean Barbara Greer. She’s a judge, not a barrister.”
“My apologies to her honour. Well? What happened?”
“Mind your own business.” He drained his coffee cup.
“Spoilsport.” She finished her plate with a contented sigh and picked up her own drink. Pancakes and hot chocolate were the building blocks of her happy place. “I wouldn’t care if you asked me about my exes.”
“How obliging of you.” He idly twirled his fork between his fingers. “Unfortunately, I would rather insert this into my retina than hear the intimate details of Will Farmer’s sex life.”