I managed not to be visibly freaking out when Caspian finally arrived. I’d spent the intervening time profitably at any rate. Okay, that was a lie. I’d showered and painted my toenails blue and silver and tended my…uh…whatever the male equivalent to the ladygarden was. The boylawn?
Nothing major—just a delicate trim to frame the general area and the personal eviction of a few non-brunette hairs. It was the St. Ives family curse: brownish on top, reddish below. At least, I assumed it was genetic. I hadn’t asked my mum about her curtains or anything. But her head hair matched mine. And what that meant for me was the occasional bright ginger pube, waving wildly from amongst its more socially acceptable fellows like a Miley Cyrus fan at a Taylor Swift concert.
Anyway, Caspian arrived, looking blah blah gorgeous, because did he ever not, his intimate hair probably perfectly groomed beneath his pinstripes. He was carrying a bottle of something. Dark green glass, silver-gold label. Uh-oh.
He held it aloft, his lips curving into what—on a less austere face—might have passed for a teasing smile. “I understand you’ve developed a taste for this?”
“Well, we drank a couple of bottles the other…Wait a minute, how do you know that?”
“The app monitors the contents of the fridge.”
“That’s incredibly creepy.”
“It’s for restocking, Arden. Not spying.”
“Tell that to the milk.”
He laughed and went to replace the champagne. And, after a moment, I trailed worriedly after him.
“It was okay, wasn’t it? For us to drink it, I mean.”
“Of course. You might, however, want to go a little easy in the future.”
Ouch. Although considering my postfinals performance, it was no wonder he’d concluded I was a burgeoning alcoholic. “I know you probably won’t believe this, but I’m not really a big drinker. I’m not going to drain your cellars dry or anything.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just this happens to be somewhat of a rare vintage.”
“Somewhat?” My heart curled up like a dead slug. “You don’t mean somewhat at all, do you? You mean…extremely or remarkably or exceptionally.”
He didn’t have to say anything.
I windmilled my arms. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Why was it just in your fridge? That’s like a totally irresponsible way to store expensive wine and shit. Even I know that and I know nothing about expensive wine and shit. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry, Arden.”
“Don’t laugh. This isn’t funny.”
Caspian closed his eyes. Brought up a hand and pressed his knuckles to his mouth.
“I said don’t laugh!”
He laughed.
A great undignified spluttering thing and if I hadn’t been so angry-appalled I’d have been delighted. Because to see Caspian anything less than absolutely controlled was a victory.
“How could you let me do this?” I wailed. “I’ve never even heard of clos du mes…mes…whatever it was. Although I guess that should have clued me in to not drinking it.”
He drew in a rough, unsteady breath. And, within seconds, was almost his usual self again. “I don’t care that you drank it. Since I’m neither a collector nor an auctioneer, that’s what wine is for.”
“Not wine like that. It was just in your fridge.” I was repeating myself like a traumatized crime scene witness. “Why would you have something like that sitting in your fridge?”
“To impress the people I usually have staying here.”
“That’s…a little bit wanky.”
“I work in financial services.” His mouth softened with a faint, fleeting trace of mischief. “I know a lot of wankers.”
We were silent for a bit, hovering awkwardly in the kitchen. Now the initial shock had worn off, I was beginning to calm down.
