Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye - Jacquelyn Middleton Page 0,24
“You still working on…?”
“No, I’m done,” she responded with a soft smile, her eyes hopping from Tarquin to the waiter. “But I’ll have an orange juice mixed with lemonade, please.”
“Wow, that’s unexpected.” Tarquin grinned. “I didn’t take you for a St. Clement’s gal!” He raised his dwindling drink. “I’ll have one more of these. Cheers.” Tossing back the remaining crimson liquid, he watched the waiter walk away, balancing their dishes with aplomb. The bittersweet taste of his cocktail raised the corners of his mouth. “I totally respect the decision not to drink. My brother is teetotal. He’s never been drunk.”
“You have two brothers, right? Both older?” Leia’s blue eyes narrowed like she was trying to remember something. “One is… Nikolai?”
Nikolai? Tarquin’s forehead creased. Someone dived deep into Google. “Yeah. Nick’s three years older than me. Rupert—the non-drinker—is two years.”
“Oh, right! Rupert!” She chuckled. “Nikolai was the name that stuck in my head.”
Yeah, everyone remembers Nick.
“I promise…” She laid her hand on her chest. “I’m not a creepy stalker. I just like to know who I’m meeting, you know? Can’t be too careful.”
Tarquin nodded. “Who doesn’t Google these days? I look up everyone I meet. It’s silly not to.” He swirled the orange twist around the bottom of his empty glass. “But despite my best Googling efforts, you, Ms. Leia, are an enigma. I found the Frill-Seekers website—and that’s it. No social media. Nothing.”
“Kettle—black, Han Solo!” She grinned, picking up her napkin. “All that popped up for you was a private Facebook page and your company’s bio. Most of the search results were related to your mom. She’s beautiful, by the way.”
On the outside, sure.
“And an actress! That must be cool. Her hospital drama is getting buzz, eh?”
“Yeah, here in Britain. She’s not really known anywhere else, unless you’re a fan of Equinox Ten.”
Leia shook her head, leaving her napkin on the table. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“E-Ten? It was a mid-nineties sci-fi series. Mum did it for five years, shot a few British films no one saw, and then landed a soap. Her career went tits up from there. She got relegated to personal appearance work—supermarket openings, comic cons, that type of thing. She was about to sign up for Celebrity Big Brother when the call came through for Shetland Medic.”
“Lucky escape!”
“Oh, no, she would’ve done it.” Tarquin put on an affected voice. “Kiki loves the spotlight, darling!” He shook his head. “Well, Kiki may love it, but I despise it. Showbiz is her thing, not ours. When we were little, she’d trot us out for all sorts of PR stunts. The worst were these pretentious magazine shoots with horses and large gardens.”
A giggle burst from Leia’s lips. “Oh, I saw one of those!”
He cringed. “God, you didn’t.” With a laugh, he rocked back in his chair, his hands fleeing into his hair. “They’re bloody awful! All that fake posing and happy family bollocks? Shameless.” Sliding their drinks onto the table, the server smiled at Tarquin’s comments and left the final bill in between them. “Cheers, mate,” said Tarquin, dropping his hands in his lap, leaving his hair wilder than it was before. “Other than Mum, I think Nick was the only one who enjoyed those shoots.”
Leia grabbed her phone, her finger tapping away. “Yeah, he had a huge grin.”
“Typical. Did the article say he was a child actor? Mum loves mentioning that.”
“I don’t know. The article is missing. It’s just pictures. Your hair, though…” She snort-laughed, waiting for something to load on her phone screen. “Were faux hawks in style back then?”
“Hey, I was a rebel—or at least trying to be.”
She tilted her head toward the bench beside her where Simon had been seated fifteen minutes earlier. “Come see. Sit here.”
You don’t have to ask me twice. Tarquin snatched his drink and shifted to Leia’s side of the table.
Opening a webpage, she budged toward Tarquin, handing him her phone. “Nick looks a lot like your mom.”
“Yep, all dark hair, blue eyes.” He placed his cocktail on the table and leaned in, skimming the article as his fingers spread across the screen, enlarging the photo. “He’s got the Balfour dimples, though, see?”
Dressed in their private school uniforms the three teens flanked their glamorous mother, her enviable forty-something figure in a body-conscious, floor-dusting gown of shimmering silver sequins. Her dress, more appropriate for a London red carpet than a family photo call in a 19th-century mansion, stood out like a fur coat at a PETA rally and completely overshadowed the grand