Page 122 of The Best Men
“Let’s just see what happens,” she says. “I have a good feeling about this.”
She’s the only one who does.
40
TROUBLE FOR TROLIVER
SEPTEMBER
ASHER
Nights like these are one of themanyreasons I said yes to my dream job. An evening out with old friends, a good meal, a beautiful city.
And a great job. I’ve taken a million photos of athletes at work. Redefining FLI’s audience for a younger generation is our goal. And I can’t believe I get to be part of the project.
By all accounts, Paris has been fantastic for the last ten weeks.
And so have England, and Spain, and Germany. I’ve been all over, shooting right in the thick of the action.
The gig is everything. The lifestyle, even more so.
Truly, I can’t complain.
Well, not about much.
And definitely not about the weather, since rain can make for great photos.
With my phone, I snap a shot of my English friends on the other side of the table at the Parisian brasserie while silvery drops of water hit the cobblestone street in a faint drizzle.
“Make sure I look pretty,” Felicity chirps, tilting her blonde head next to her husband’s.
“You always do, love,” he says.
“And Oscar is correct,” I say as I set down the phone. “I’ll send it your way later.”
As we return to the debate on the merits of skiing in Switzerland versus France, my mind meanders to New York. Does Mark ski? No. Too risky. Bet he even has a risk analysis spreadsheet for skiing versus . . . walking in the city.
And why do I find that idea so fucking endearing?
“Should we all go later this year then?”
I snap my attention to my friends. “Name the date,” I say, since that's my mantra.
Felicity suggests the first week of December, then goes quiet. “Asher . . .”
The sound of my name is full of import. “Yes?”
“You don’t quite seem yourself.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“You’re here, but every now and then you’re . . .not,” she says, far too observant for my own good. “Like, your mind is elsewhere. And I know it’s not us, because we’re brilliant company.” She adds a wink.
“You are.” I finish my wine, then wave a hand. “It’s nothing.”
Oscar arches a bushy brow. “Nothing? Since when do you, mate, ever live in anything but the present?”
That’s an excellent question. With a very easy answer.
