Page 27 of The Stranger

“Sorry, I really haven’t the foggiest.” Oh, Lord. Who from this century even uses that phrase? Could I be anymore weird? Honestly? Probably.

“I’m not buyin’ that,” the man says.

“I suppose he did seem a bit cheesed off. Not that I took offense.” I totally took offense.

“Cheesed off?” The man looks confused.

I shrug. “You know, unhappy. Irritated.”

“I’d go with wrathful, and he was looking at you.”

I assume a thoughtful expression. “Maybe a case of mistaken identity?”

“You think he confused you for someone else?” he asks doubtfully.

“Maybe I look like an ex,” I suggest with a shrug. Laughter bursts out of the man and I find myself frowning. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“Oh, it was,” he says, putting his hand across his chin in a crappy attempt to hide his amusement. The man probably only dates supermodels. All legs, and hair, and flawless skin.

“Thanks for implying I’ve got a face like a melted flip-flop.”

“That’s not it.” But he’s still amused. “It’s more like… well, he hasn’t dated in a while.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I retort flatly. “He’s hardly Mr. Congeniality.”

“Rich men don’t generally have to be agreeable. Not that I need to tell you anything about rich men.”

“Why would you say…” My words trail off as the penny drops. I hate it when people bring up my brother. I mean, I love him—he’s great. Generous and level-headed, if not a little overprotective. But he’s my brother, not my keeper. And though we both live in London, we hardly exist on the same plain.

“Your brother is said to be fair-minded but formidable.”

“He’s really decent.” Desperately in love with his wife and his life. It’s all a bit sickening, really. Or seriously sweet. “Not all rich men are so far up their own arses they can tickle their own tonsils, you know.”

“Well,” he says with a quirk of his lips. “That was quite the visual.”

“Apt, if you ask me”

“Don’t let first impressions fool you. Lucien is a pretty decent guy.”

“I’m sure.” I’m sure that’s a load of old codswallop because my first, second, and third impressions all point to the opposite. But I paint on a smile that I hope is more convincing than it feels. Lucien. That’s a little more like it. Definitely more hell-hound fancy. And by that, I mean fucking rabid. “Where are the children, by the way?” There’s no need to give Lucien any more excuses to get rid of me. Or Em.

“Sylvie’s making cupcakes with Zoe, and Felix is currently killing things.”

“And… are his entry-level serial killer behaviors usually encouraged?”

“Virtually. He’s playing CoD in the games room.”

“Right.” Must be a fishing game or something. “I should go and find them.”

“Maybe you want to put some clothes on first.”

“Oh, right. Good plan! Er, which way again?”

“Keep going,” he says, making a gesture behind him with his head. “Then hang a right. End of the hallway.”

“Thanks,” I say, brushing by him. “This place is like a maze.”

What are the chances he’s overcompensating for something? None, unless he had a large, underripe banana in his pocket last night.