“Well, they weren’t offering to give a lecture on Lord Byron.”
I snorted as I returned to the counter holding a carrot and some spring onions. The idea of those overgrown giraffes talking about anything close to poetry was a laugh. Ces, though, could talk circles around just about anyone when it came to all things bookish. Somehow, she made it interesting, too.
For a second, I recalled the image of her sweet lips spread in a smile when she mentioned some random character. Usually one she was imagining as herself.
Right on cue, the other images arose—of those same lips open as she called out her orgasm. Her coke-bottle body spread across counters like a fine buffet. That peach-shaped arse, high and waiting when I bent her over the couch.
Fuck.
It had been a long four months since that night in January when the world made sense again for five fucking minutes. Francesca and I had gone back to being, well, not friends exactly. But at least cordial.
We had worked out a bit of a system. When I was in town, which was every other week or so, she allowed me to pick up Sofia after school and take her to the park or a museum or someplace. In order to avoid her brother, she’d meet us, we’d share a quick meal, and then she’d take Sofia home. Sometimes I could see her Sundays too, when Ces taught one of her aerobics classes. I don’t want to mention the dirty thoughts that went through my mind when she told me that choice bit of information. All I needed was to see her in skin-tight leggings to threaten my self-control.
On a few occasions when her brother had been out, she’d invited me to dinner at the little brick house that was disturbingly like the flat where I’d grown up. Ces was a bit ashamed by its shabbiness, but I felt right at home.
She’d let me cook for Sofia while we made polite, empty conversation. Hello, Xavi. Goodbye, Xavi. How’s the weather in London, Xavi? Have fun at the park. These noodles are great. See you next week.
Sometimes, though, if she managed to get Sofia to sleep quickly, Francesca would come back downstairs, lips curved into a suggestive smile as she accepted a second glass of wine and let me join her on the sofa. I’d asked her about what book she was reading (there was always one), and then listen as she launched into a retelling of some random novel. I should have been bored. But I was fucking transfixed.
Maybe it was the way the wine stained her lips just a bit darker. Or the way she rolled her ankle hypnotically while she spoke. Or maybe it was the curve of her smile when she remembered some forgotten passage, like the characters themselves had asked her to keep some scandalous secret.
Whatever the draw, it was in those moments that a few other choice phrases floated into my head. Things that were the opposite of nice, but somehow exactly what I wanted to say.
Do you still think about that night too?
Do you also wake up at three every morning grabbing for me in the dark?
Do you wonder if we made the wrong fucking decision?
I blinked and shook my head, forcing my focus back on julienning the carrots. I’d made this choice on my own. My absence during the first four years of her life had already fucked up my daughter enough. I wasn’t going to do more by messing around with her mum. Didn’t matter how tight her arse looked in those bloody yoga pants or that after I left, I usually had to take a very long, cold shower at my hotel. I had to do what was right. I owed Sofia nothing less.
I finished chopping the carrots, then moved on to the dipping sauce, taking shoyu, mirin, and a few other choice ingredients from the fridge.
“I should tell you, I’m probably going to stay on that side for a bit after the opening,” I said, finally broaching the topic that I’d been putting off for weeks. “Most of the summer, probably. Maybe longer.”
Jagger looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can. And I am. Look, Chez Miso opened smoothly with you here. I was barely needed.”
“Xav, you had to fly back four times just to tell that frog where to shove it. He bloody well doesn’t listen to me. What am I supposed to do if you’re gone?”
I shrugged. Jean Le Ver was a legitimate pain in the ass, but now the menu was set and things were running smoothly at Chez Miso. A Michelin star, probably two, were in the wind. It was inevitable.
“If Chie does as well as we think, it would make sense to start a New York office for the Parker Group,” I said. “I can open up a few more spots there, maybe one in Boston, and another in Philadelphia. Washington. Miami. Maybe expand west eventually.”
“What about Paris?” Jagger asked. “Not to mention the new Dublin pub and the bistro in Prague? Xavier, you’re throwing out the entire roadmap here.”
I knew why he was arguing. This wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded, and it was about to cause a massive headache for my CFO. The Parker Group was mine in name, but we had investors to answer to. A business plan to follow. One that would probably have to be tossed right out the window if we did what I was suggesting.
I just shrugged again and started grating ginger into the sauce. “Americans are rich, and they love to eat, Jag. There’s a lot of people on that side of the ocean. I’d be an idiot not to have a go.”
Jagger just stared at me for a long time. Then, as I’d seen him do all the other times I’d made horrifyingly rash decisions (some of which had made us both very rich men), he tossed back the rest of his drink and slammed down his empty glass. “Well, that explains it.”
I looked up from the cutting board. “Explains what?”
“Why this flat looks like it’s half-emptied already. You might have told me you wanted to relocate the business a bit earlier. I could have helped.”
I frowned, first at the spring onions, then back at my flat. I hadn’t realized it, but he did have a point. Half my shit was already piled into boxes. But that’s because I’d been trying to get rid of things, not because I was moving.