Page 37 of Pretender

“What’s the matter?” she asks. “Don’t worry about that blog, darling, it’s just entertainment.”

I smack a hand onto my forehead and grit my teeth. She literally just complained about reading about me. It’s fine when it’s news she agrees with, then?

I won’t get into that. Too close to my lie.

“It has power, Mum,” I say. “Remember how they nearly took Mark down last year?”

“But you’re not doing any of that, and Mark is fine. Oh, so lovely to read he’s getting married! It’ll be marvellous to see the Beckers at the party.”

There’s an unwelcome churn in my gut at her words. The party.

“Linnea is coming, Mum. She’s very happy to be invited.”

“Oh, wonderful, my dear Aiden. Oh, I can’t wait!” she croons.

I close my eyes, sighing inwardly. I hate that it’s a lie that has made my mother so happy. Linnea and I had better play this well. I don’t have any problem being Linnea’s, even a fake version. I’m comfortable with people in any capacity. But I’m nervous how she’ll feel pretending to be mine. She’s been through a lot, and her poker face might have worked well in the professional world, but now I need the opposite from her. Will she be okay through this?

I’m waiting at the edge of the bustling riverbank, waiting for Linnea by the Golden Jubilee bridges (which I just learned they’re called). I’ve been in a Mayfair bubble for so long, I’ve ignored much of the world outside it. I’m not sure what to expect from this pop-up summer market she talked about.

I search the busy promenade for Linnea. What does she wear on a regular day out?

“Hey,” her familiar voice comes from my side, and I turn to face her.

Her blond waves frame her smooth face and angular jawline, as usual, but there’s a different glow about her. Tonight she’s in a light pink, thin-strap summer dress and there’s a blush to her face. Is that a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose? Have they always been there?

Her face breaks into a wide grin.

“Are you okay?” she asks, adjusting the strap of her small, brown leather purse hanging over her shoulder. “You’re going to catch flies.”

I quickly close my mouth and blink myself back to focus.

“You look magnificent,” I manage to get out.

She cocks her head as if she’s surprised. “Thank you. As do you,” she says calmly, gesturing to my black shirt and beige chinos, which isn’t an all too different outfit from what I wear during the week. “Let’s go get some gin,” she says, turning on her heel and I notice she’s in white lace-up shoes this evening.

I let her lead the way, mesmerised by her glow. I take in the scattered freckles on her sun-kissed shoulders, the lean arms clutching a navy jumper, and the exquisite waistline hugged by that dress that flows around her tan legs. She looks so soft. Soft and warm.

Squeals of children tear me back to where we are.

There’s a merry-go-round, one of those old-fashioned ones in gold with horses and twisted poles. And there’s a tall wooden fence lining the market, hints of colour and lights twinkling through the gaps, and green leafy trees visible above it.

“Do you come here often?” I ask.

“Not for years,” she answers. “But I figured it’s a good place for us to practice being in public without risking running into anyone we know.” She walks through the wooden gate, and I follow.

Round paper lanterns in a variety of colours hang from the trees. Purple, yellow, red, blue.

The lights guide us through the patch of oak trees to an astroturfed area about the size of two football fields. It’s lined with pop-up bars, food stalls, and fun-fair games. The middle section is dotted with colourfully painted wooden picnic tables. The space is bustling with people sitting, walking, or standing in groups, all with plastic cups of beer and Pimm’s.

It definitely has a vibe to it. There’s a coherent style to it all. Like the merry-go-round. Gold, reds, and whites, ornamental edges, festoon lights everywhere. It’s charming. Simple. Far from luxurious, and definitely not where I’d imagine Linnea spending her free time, but it’s got some personality.

“This is lovely, actually,” I say, inhaling the scents of hot dogs and stale beer. Wow, that’s … something. “Let’s go drink from a plastic cup.”

“I saw a sign for pink gin,” Linnea says. “I like the sound of that.”

“How did you find this place?” I ask as we line up in front of the red-painted stall on the other side.

“Believe it or not, but before starting my interior design company and meeting Henry, I used to be a normal mortal. Drinking beer from a plastic cup was just a regular Wednesday or Friday for me.”