Page 14 of Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye

He inhaled a deep breath, exhaling into a wince. “Ah, yeah. Sorry about that.” His free hand dug into his hair, leaving chaos in its path. “That being Lucy, my best mate’s girlfriend. She thinks she’s hilarious.”

“Well, she made me laugh.”

Thank fuck. The knot in his shoulders untied. “So, how are you?” He curved into the cool window, its chill inciting goose bumps on his arm. His finger traced Leia’s New Year’s venue towering over South London. “How was the Shard?”

“Still standing.” She chuckled. “I hope. I didn’t go.”

What? With a squeak, his finger stopped its skyscraper climb. The boyfriend fucked up? Please say yes. His breath caught in his chest. “How come?”

“Oh, we changed our minds and stayed in at my sister’s.”

We? Bugger. He swallowed hard. “That’s…a shame.”

“Yeah, but we still had fun. What’d you do?”

“A bunch of us went for dinner. Then I watched the fireworks from Tower Bridge—it’s close to where I live.” Yeah, leave it at that. Best to be safe. As much as I like her, I don’t know her.

Tarquin had found that people—so-called friends and potential girlfriends—became more interested in him when they learned of his family’s jaw-dropping wealth. The 1991 sale of the Balfour’s oil business had cemented the family’s status as one of the wealthiest in Britain, and from his teenage years onwards, Tarquin chased attention and popularity by playing the bon viveur with reckless abandon, throwing decadent parties, sleeping with different women every weekend, and diving into extreme sports around the globe. As a result, people never saw the real person underneath the drunkenness, flirty behavior, and bravado—until last year. Until Alex Sinclair. She was the first woman who didn’t care about his money or what it could do for her. Alex’s love and respect showed Tarquin that his kind heart and thoughtfulness mattered more than an abundance of zeros attached to his bank balance. It was life-changing, shifting his opinion of himself and what he wanted in life—no more fake friends, no more frivolous partying, no more one-night stands.

But losing her also triggered something Tarquin had battled silently on and off his entire life—depression. Not that anyone knew about it. Not Alex, not even Harry. To friends and family, Tarquin was the clown, a hedonistic extrovert: partying hard and climbing mountains, never vulnerable, always in control. But sometimes the world became too much and he found himself struggling alone, too ashamed to speak up, terrified of being seen as weak, and the soul-crushing avalanche of hopelessness wiped him off the map. Friends, though, thought nothing of his vanishing act. Tarquin would often disappear on a whim: off paragliding, gambling, volunteering in Senegal building hospitals—anything to shake the dark clouds. Weeks later, bruised but determined, he’d emerge from the rubble with false tales of derring-do and half-remembered parties. His most recent ‘getaway’, fueled by the sadness over his split with Alex, was last June. He decamped to Scotland and built a backyard playhouse for Ava, then spent several months in New York City working for Harry’s dad until plans for his own business and a renewed sense of purpose drew him back to London in December.

His finger skimmed down the window, following the outline of Tower Bridge and its bascules opening for a tall ship to pass. “New York can have Times Square and its ball drop—nothing beats London’s fireworks and Big Ben chiming in the background. Did you see it on TV?”

“I did! I can only imagine how amazing it was in pers—” A muffled voice dragged Leia away. Tarquin couldn’t make out their conversation, but the person’s tone pinched with impatience.

“Saz, I know.” Sounding exasperated, Leia rejoined the call. “Sorry, Tarquin. I have to run. Brunch is ready.” Her sigh caressed his ear. “But before I go, I was wondering if your offer’s still open? To meet your designer friend?”

YES! Tarquin’s pulse took off like a shot. “Absolutely!” Flippin’ heck! Eager, much? He sucked in a breath, hitting the brakes. Keep it in your pants, Balfour. “Uh, just let me know when you’re free and I’ll arrange it with Simon.”

“I’m free tomorrow after my dad leaves for the airport—so late afternoon, after work? I know it’s short notice…”

Short notice is good! “Tomorrow’s fine.” He grinned. “I can meet you there, say around half five?”

“Perfect.” Her reply was sunny and quick.

“Brilliant!” Tarquin stepped back from the window, his eyes sweeping across the river, taking in the bright blue sky. “So, you need details. Do you have a pen?”

“I do. Shoot.”

“His shop is called Desjardins—that’s his last name—and it’s on Wilton Way in East London—Hackney. I’ll text you the exact address.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I can Google it,” said Leia. “That way I’ll figure out the best route to take.”

“It’s not far from the Overground. Hackney Central is the closest stop, then it’s a few minutes’ walk.” Tarquin looked across the room, catching a riveted Lucy peering between the glass door and the doorjamb, brows scrunched and a ketchup bottle in her hand. She mouthed, “Simon’s shop?”

Tarquin gave her a fleeting nod then glanced back down to the swarm of tourists on the bridge. “I’ll text him this afternoon and let him know to expect us.”

“Thanks, Tarquin. This is really kind of you.”

“Hey, happy to help. See you tomorrow.” Ending the call, an easy smile monopolized his face. Yes! So much can change in twenty-four hours. His thumb skipped over the screen, saving Leia’s contact details as a savory aroma urged him back to the kitchen. Chin up, he sprang back into the fray, stashing his phone on a shelf away from the mess of eggshells and baked bean splotches left on the counter in Harry and Lucy’s wake.

“Another American, eh?” Lucy crunched a sliver of bacon and shot a look at her boyfriend frying eggs an elbow away.

“Nope.” Tarquin squeezed past, checking their grilled breakfast. Another minute and it would be ready to serve. “She’s Canadian.”

“I’m all for unique dates, but Simon’s shop?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Balfy, that’s a bit random, even for you.”

“That’s because it’s not a date. She has a boyfriend and lives in New York.” He shrugged. “She’s a fashion designer, just starting out—I thought Si might be able to help her. I was just being nice.”