Page 43 of Never Too Late

“Who?”

“Pinocchio’s conscience.”

“I am just concerned. You are not getting any younger.”

I laughed. “You’re older than me, and I don’t see you dating anyone.” Not unless he’d kept it a secret, which, given how often he poked his nose in my business, would be incredibly galling, if so. “Are you seeing anyone? Woman? Man? Inanimate object?”

He rolled his eyes. “We are not talking about me. We are talking about you. I’ve said it before and I will keep saying it. Talk to the Irish man. Ask him what the future holds. If he does not give you the answers you need, then it will only be more painful in a year’s time. Do not spend years locked in some strange status quo where neither of you are truly happy, but cannot see another way of doing things. You are happier, but you are not happy. You can dress virtual sex up all you like, but at the end of the day, it is still your own hand giving you pleasure rather than someone else’s.”

As always, no matter how blunt Laurent’s words might be, there was a ring of truth to them. Enough that they stung, and I had to force myself not to react to them the way a rabid dog might and come out fighting. I settled for levity instead. “You just want to get going on the matching bicycles.”

Laurent smirked. “More like, Henri wants to get going on the rebound sex. He wanted to join us tonight, and I had to tell him we would talk about your feelings for most of the night and it would be incredibly boring. Which, if you think about it, is not that far from the truth.”

“Well, if that doesn’t put him off me, I don’t know what will.”

Laurent wasn’t listening to me anymore, his gaze focused on something on the far side of the restaurant. I twisted round in my seat, but when I couldn’t find anything that warranted that much focus, turned back. “You could just tell Henri that I’m not interested in him, and that I never will be.”

“I have told him that. He is not to be deterred. He is made of stronger stuff.” Laurent might have responded to me, but his gaze was still fixed elsewhere.

“Sounds like a stalker, if you ask me.”

“Hmm… maybe.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to agree that one of your closest friends is a stalker.”

“Yeah…”

I twisted round again to look behind me. There seemed to be some sort of kerfuffle happening in the area where Laurent’s attention focused, a few of the restaurant staff having drifted across to deal with it since the last time I’d looked.

As one of them moved aside, her hands raking through her hair in an obvious sign of growing agitation, I could see the source of the upset. A man, who I would have put in his mid to late fifties, was gesticulating wildly.

One such gesticulation had an empty glass careening off the table. It hit the floor with a crash, tiny fragments scattering in every direction. He was obviously drunk, his body language that of someone who’d had a drink or eight before coming out tonight. Alerted by the sound of breaking glass, more people turned to stare.

“We should go,” Laurent said. He showed how serious he was about the idea by standing, leaving me staring up at him open-mouthed.

“Or…” I said, gesturing at our still half full plates and wineglasses, “we could finish our meal first. Just a thought. And I hope you’re not suggesting we run out without paying, because I’m not ready for a life on the run in a country with a language I don’t speak. I could agree to anything in prison without knowing what I’ve agreed to.”

Laurent sank back into his seat, his body language oozing reluctance.

I eyed him with a frown, trying to work out what was going on here. Did Laurent just have a really low tolerance for drama? Or was it something else? “Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“The man you haven’t taken your eyes off for the last five minutes.” I turned to get another look. He’d shaken off the staff and was coming this way. “He seems to know you.”

“He’s my father.” Laurent’s expression said he really wished he didn’t have to admit that.

“Oh…” There wouldn’t have been a lot more to say to that revelation, even if it hadn’t coincided with the man reaching us. Up close, sweat glistened on the man’s brow, and his rumpled clothes hinted at him having slept in them. He leaned against the table, the wood groaning, but thankfully bearing the extra weight and staying upright. “Ssssson,” he slurred in an English accent that surprised me.

Laurent said nothing. His hands curled into fists, though, his knuckles going white.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Finn. Finn Prescott. I’m a friend of your son’s.” He turned my way, the movement almost throwing him off balance before he righted himself. A struggle to focus followed. One that I wasn’t entirely sure he was victorious in. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to…” I stalled at that point, my understanding of the situation when I’d only known he was Laurent’s father for approximately three seconds, leaving me with no clear idea how to proceed. Why was he here? I assumed it wasn’t just a coincidence and that he’d been looking for Laurent. “Yeah…” I finished vaguely. “Perhaps not the best time.”

His head swung back round to his son, the table rocking. I automatically snatched my wine glass off it before it became the second casualty of the evening. “Yooou haven’t been answering my callsss.”

“No,” Laurent said, the single word laced with bitterness. “Take a hint from that.”

“I jussst wanna talk. That’sss all… jussst talk. Fathers to sson. The two of us. Like old… timesss… like before.”

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