the grill, nudging the smoking sausages with a fork.
“You have to introduce me to her one day.” Lucy pulled the screen closer, her brown eyes studying the image of the beautiful fifty-something woman and the young stud wrapped around her. “That bloke is hawt—oh, jeez! He’s that—”
“Yup.” Tarquin chewed the inside of his cheek. “The fit male nurse on her TV series—the twenty-five-year-old. He’s younger than me.”
Harry scoffed. “She went on holiday with him? The National Mail is going to eat that up.”
“Shit, yeah, but give her credit”—Lucy let go of Tarquin’s phone—“Ibiza looks good on her!”
“Tell that to Ava, who missed seeing Grandma Kiki this Christmas.” Tarquin chucked his phone on the counter, far from his brunch-in-progress. A neat freak, Tarquin’s kitchen was tidy and crumb-free even in the midst of messy meal preparation. “It’s one thing for me and my brothers to grow up in the shadow of Mum’s selfishness, but…” He shook his head and glared at the bacon and sausages. “Ah, why bother? She’ll never change.”
Harry, always one to avoid an argument, cleared his throat and got to work, dunking the dirty mushrooms in a bowl of lukewarm water. “So, how was the club?” Every year, Harry’s private members’ club, Bespoke, threw a New Year’s bash hosting an enviable guest list of actors, models, and royals. This year, following dinner with Lucy, Tarquin, and Prisha, the twenty-six-year-old traded his own celebration for a house party in London Fields thrown by their friends, Alex and Mark.
“We didn’t make it.” Using a fork, Tarquin rolled the browning sausages to the edge of the hot grill, making space for bacon, mushrooms, and tomatoes. “Prisha started to feel ill waiting for our car. She reckoned it was food poisoning and wanted to go home.” He glanced at Harry, wrist-deep in water and bobbing mushrooms. “Did you feel okay after?”
“Yeah, felt great.” Harry’s eyes darted to his right and a nodding Lucy cutting thick slices of bread farther down the counter. “Have you heard from her?”
“I texted,” said Tarquin. “She’s feeling better, thank god.” But was food poisoning just an excuse to call it an early night? I don’t blame her. Prisha is smart and attractive, but neither of us felt sparks. She’s pining over a bloke from her work, and I can’t stop thinking about the amazing girl I met in IKEA who, let’s face it, I’ll never see again. Strip by strip, he transferred the bacon to the grill, the sharp sizzle a welcome distraction. “I got home at ten-thirty, had an aged Scotch, watched the fireworks from my terrace—it wasn’t the worst New Year’s Eve.”
“Wasn’t exactly the best, either,” Lucy muttered under her breath, sliding bread into the expensive four-slice toaster.
“You should’ve come to London Fields, mate.” Harry scooped the mushrooms out of the water, patting them dry with paper towel. “Alex and Mark did invite you.”
“I know, but it still feels a little weird.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow, her expression shouting ‘I knew it!’ “See! You’re still hooked on Alex—”
“Lucy, please. Just drop it! This isn’t about Alex, or Mark.” He left the tongs on a plate and stormed to the fridge. Wait. He paused, his hand sliding down the handle. Don’t be a dick. It’s not Lucy’s fault. “I skipped their party because I feel like the odd man out, okay? I envy what Mark has with Alex. Blimey, I envy what Harry has with you.” He yanked open the door, escaping Harry’s sympathetic nod. “I do want a girlfriend, someone I can be myself with…someone to love—someone who loves me back.”
“She’s out there, mate, trust me,” said Harry.
“Yeah, probably in love with someone else.” Tarquin shifted several yogurts and juices out of his way. “I’m tired of apps, dates that go nowhere, shagging just because—it’s not me anymore. It feels…empty. Hookups were fun for a while, but now that everyone’s pairing off, I—” Fuck. I’m not talking about this. He scowled at a pre-packaged red curry-for-one at the back of his fridge.
“I—what?” asked Harry. “Don’t leave us hanging.”
Fine. “I have this niggling fear I’ll actually end up alone.” Shit. Well, that sounded sad and desperate, you tosser. Tarquin grabbed a carton of free-range eggs. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.
“Well, you will be if you never make it to a third date. Stop being so picky!” Lucy licked butter off her finger as Tarquin’s phone, wedged between his coffee maker and recipe books, burst into the Star Wars theme.
Mum, give it a bloody rest! Eggs in hand,