Page 19 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

I drag myself back up to my desk and try to find the right words to describe the situation we’re in.

Hi Nico!

Sorry to contact you out of the blue like this, but I’ve received some troubling interesting news!!!. It seems that the wedding ceremony we took part in in Las Vegas was more legitimate than either of us realised! Of course I was disturbed shocked aggggggggg!!! concerned by this development, but I hope we can resolve the matter quickly. I can consult a lawyer here if you agree that’s easiest. Although probably not my boyfriend ha ha ha!!! I’ve attached the relevant paperwork for you to look over so please let me know how you’d like to proceed.

I hope you are well, otherwise.

Love

Yours

Best wishes,

Lee x xxx x

Exhausted, I hit send and then collapse back in my chair, my eyes closed, trying to picture Nico’s face when he reads it. I always dreamed of marrying Nico Hart one day and now it’s really happened. Then again I imagined it pretty differently. I thought he’d know about it, for a start.

‘Lee?’ Gran’s voice drifts up, breaking through my misery. ‘Are you home?’

My head snaps up. What is she doing back? She’s never left a party early in her life. The bit in her note about disappearing for a week was no exaggeration, it’s been known to happen.

Should I tell her about what’s going on? She’ll never let me live it down, but she might be able to offer some advice. Then again Nico should probably be the first to hear about it. What if he doesn’t want people to know? I’ll play it cool. Relaxed.

‘Hello,’ I greet my grandmother from the stairs, and my voice sounds like it belongs to a cartoon chipmunk. I’m not sure what to do with my arms. ‘What are you doing back? I thought the great debauching was under way.’

I lean against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. I’m trying to look casual but I think it’s coming off more awkward-’90s-boyband photo shoot.

Gran looks up at me, her mouth a pout of perfectly applied red lipstick.

Bridget Turner is a small, elegant woman with a crop of dark hair for which she pays her hairdresser a great deal of money. She has the same wide, indigo blue eyes that I see in the mirror every morning, and looks a good twenty years younger than her eighty-three years. (Admittedly, helped along by the Botox she claims she’s never touched.)

‘Well, I was supposed to be,’ she says, unwinding a Chanel scarf from around her neck. ‘But Peter is on a health kick and so the debauching was off the cards. I was rather put out to discover that the majority of his personality was owed to a stiff whisky and soda – without one in his hand the man turned out to be a dead bore. I had to hear far too much about the benefits of a diet that consists – from what I could tell – largely of cabbage.’ She shudders. ‘Can you imagine? Only think of the odours.’

‘I think it’s good that he’s looking after his health,’ I say pointedly.

She ignores this completely, drifting through to the kitchen, and I follow as she opens the fridge and starts fixing us both a martini. ‘The tiniest splash of gin,’ she says when she catches me looking disapproving. ‘And you can have most of it.’

‘I need it.’ I sit on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island and pull the biscuit tin that lives there towards me. Prising off the lid I dip my fingers in and grab one of Gran’s lemon shortbread biscuits.

Gran is a phenomenal baker, a fact that takes most people by surprise as it is tricky to imagine her in an apron. (She doesn’t actually wear one when she bakes: ‘Aprons are for children and morticians, darling.’)

Now, Gran looks up, sympathetic. ‘Did your meeting run long?’

‘Er, yes,’ I agree quickly. ‘Very long.’

‘Those government types are so dreary,’ she sighs, dropping a perfect curl of lemon peel into my glass and sliding it over to me. ‘I don’t suppose you actually get to meet any of the real spies do you? All a load of pencil pushers.’

‘You know I can’t talk about my work.’

Gran pouts again. ‘What’s the use of having a granddaughter who consults for the intelligence services if I don’t get to meet James Bond?’

‘I’ll be sure to raise that issue next time,’ I smile. ‘Although, apparently Jack’s in the running to play the next Bond so you could be hanging out with him sooner than you think.’

‘Well, your brother does look marvellous in a tuxedo,’ Gran muses. ‘And I could teach him some of my Taekwondo. I’m a yellow belt now.’

‘I thought you were stopping the Taekwondo,’ I frown.

‘The doctor said exercise was good for me,’ Gran huffs. ‘If it were up to you, I’d spend all day locked in this house doing nothing. Speaking of which, why aren’t you out somewhere enjoying your youth?’