[paris] le tourbillon de la vie. [tag; arkadiy, charlie & kate]

january 2002

She was regretting this already.

At the time, it had seemed like a marvellous idea. She and Arkadiy didn't have that many couple-y friends and she'd been thrilled at the prospect of having another pairing to hang out with. Florence had never been on a double date before and she'd been excited. Paris was flooded with a million and one places to eat but she'd had the idea of having everyone at home. It'd be cosier and warmer and quieter and, they had the advantage of being on home turf; she and Arkasha were a team.


To say her husband was cautious would be an understatement. It was understandable, of course. Florence had mentioned Charlie briefly in passing as nothing more than an occasional employer but inviting him over with his girlfriend was a step up. Eventually, she'd managed to sweet talk him into it, saying it might be nice to meet new people. It had sort of worked but they hadn't arrived yet, so it was hard to say.

She'd decided on a Moroccan theme for the evening. She hadn't been before but she liked spice and most of the dishes contained vegetables in case Catherine was a vegetarian because there was always a pesky vegetarian at dinner parties.

The living room was lit only by candles and strings of fairy lights left over from Christmas, casting the room into a warm and gentle glow. There were four large and fat floor cushions around a low table in the middle, full of dishes  of different sizes and colours. Having a Moroccan theme was a stroke of genius, considering they didn't have any cutlery that actually matched. Florence had put the rug under the table for extra warmth and comfort as she leaned over and lit the last remaining pillar candle. Frowning, she decided to sprinkle a few rose petals down the centre, like a table runner before setting out wine glasses.

Like her mother, Florence was a feeder. Though she didn't have a big family, she'd grown up eating family style which meant the food all came at once and everyone helped themselves to whatever they wanted to try.

Florence had also really, really tried to cook everything herself and had spent most of the day slaving over a hot stove. She'd made sesame encrusted haloumi bites with a warm honey dip, pulled lamb shoulder with a sticky pomegranate glaze, decidedly lopsided pita breads, spicy chickpea couscous, a potent smoky aubergine tagine with apricot and lemon and big bowls of rice and roasted vegetables. She'd made enough for twice the number and she was fully prepared to eat this for the next week and a half.

The teeny balcony outside had more fairy lights wrapped around the railing and a few potted plants that Florence had rescued from wilting, along with a chipped but rather jazzy plant pot that Arkasha used as an ash tray. It was a cold night but the wind had dropped and the rain had eased off. The moon was shining through the drifting clouds as the vibrant artists' quarter came alive from the apartment windows, stretched out for all to see.

Her mother had always said the most important part of a dinner party was not the food but the wine. So she'd bought eight bottles. Their apartment, though small, was perfect for them both. The walls were painted white and cream to maximise the light and space with pale floors and splashes of colour. The building was old and the plumbing was a mess, their shower often fluctuating between burning hot and shocking cold. The elevator didn't work and they lived on the fifth floor, the neighbour's cat hissed and swung for them when they walked past but it was home and it was a sanctuary. Apart from the sloping ceiling in the bathroom that Arkasha routinely banged his head on. The sound of him swearing in both Russian and French (and sometimes English) always made her smile.

Their home was eclectic, full of curious little things. When they'd bought the place, it was utterly barren and they'd spent a lot of weekends at Les Puces, snatching up furniture which Florence spent painting and repairing. "I'm just going to clean up," she called out to Arkasha before she showered and changed. There wasn't any dress code enforced and she wasn't going to be wearing any shoes. Her long blonde hair was up in a ponytail with the ends curled, her crushed velvet black top ever so off the shoulder in a very Parisienne way. Carefully applied cat eye liner and slick of deeply red lipstick and she was good to go.

A knock at the door caught her attention and she blinked; show time. It was close to seven in the evening and at least they were punctual. Her long legs stepped over to Arkadiy and she leaned up on to her tippy-toes to loop her arms around his neck. "Thank you for doing this," she said softly as she kissed the corner of his mouth. Their bed was literally five steps away but they had company and she pulled a face briefly. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," she told her husband as she wiggled her finely groomed eyebrows before letting him go.

Their front door was the only one in their entire building to be painted and they'd chosen a cheery summery shade of duck egg blue. Opening the door, Florence grinned broadly. "Bon soir!" She gushed to their guests as she placed a kiss on both of their cheeks, Charlie first and then Catherine. "Entrez, entrez. Come in, come in. It's freezing," she shuddered. Also, their ancient apartment building was very poorly insulated. "This is Arkadiy, mon coeur," she announced proudly with a bright smile as she blew a kiss to her husband. "Arkasha, this is Charlie and his lover, Catherine," she said as she made introductions. "May I take your coats? I will get you some wine. Unless you don't want any," Florence frowned. She didn't have a back up plan. Who didn't drink wine? "I have water. Or some ice cubes."



@Arkadiy Malenkov @Charlie Baker @Kate Duenas

Arkadiy Maksimovich really had no idea what was going on anymore. The apartment had been full of foreign smells the entire day, and not just foreign like French. Foreign like spices he couldn’t pronounce and cheeses he didn’t understand. He had offered to help, of course, but after managing to botch what should have been an easy job (seeding the pomegranates), he had been shooed from the kitchen, relegated to tidying up the rest of the place.

Of course, he wasn’t much better at that. They had a vacuum, but neither of them had figured out how to use it yet. He had instead resorted to vanishing the more visible dust on the mantle and calling it a day. He lazed about the rest of the afternoon, reading or opening the bottles of red wine ‘to let them breathe’ but also to have a pre-dinner-party glass.

Despite his past job as a glorified PR rep and his current job of promoting his new book, Arkasha wasn’t much for conversations with strangers. He had made exceptions for Florence’s friends, of course, and it was no different this time. However, she hadn’t met the girlfriend either and had only been able to tell him what she had heard from the boyfriend, the one she occasionally worked for. She had promised that she would make Arkasha’s night worthwhile if he was on his best behavior, and he was determined not to let her down.

But he wasn’t going to overexert himself either. He had on slacks, a crisp white button down with sleeves rolled up, and a pair of suspenders that Florence had bought him, insisting they made him look like he belonged in their neighborhood. Like his wife, he was barefoot; he sat on the sofa with his feet closest to the radiator, reminding himself yet again that he really needed to work on that spell to charm the floors into being warm.

He stood at the knock on the door, finishing his glass and setting it on the low table in front of him before going to find Florence in case she was unaware their guests were here. Well, her guests, anyway. “Anything for you,” Arkasha reiterated as she thanked him once again. “I will hold you to that,” he reassured her, glancing at the lopsided mirror on the dresser to wipe the small smudge of red lipstick from his mouth before following her out to the door.

Returning his wife’s smile as she introduced him, he extended a firm hand toward the man. “Charlie,” he said, his ‘ch’ sound somewhere between the Russian and the French, equal parts incorrect. “Lover Catherine,” he mimicked Florence’s gesture of kisses for the girlfriend, completely missing the mark that ‘lover’ in English might not be as complimentary as he assumed.

Arkasha took a step back, letting Florence fulfill her hostess duties, not really sure if he should offer to help with anything. He was certainly not well versed in playing the host; plus, it seemed like she more or less had everything covered. “I can take coats,” he offered, figuring he should do at least something instead of stand there with an awkward smile on his face (though he was pleased to note that Charlie looked as equally happy to be a part of this as he was).

“Have you seen Paris?” He was no good at small talk and he wasn’t about to improve any time soon.

Why he’d agreed to this, he wasn’t sure. Florence had invited Charlie and his ‘Catherine’ to spend an evening with them in Paris and the musician had mentioned it to his girlfriend offhandedly when regaling his last Paris trip to her. Unfortunately, Kate had then taken it upon herself to write directly to Florence and set a date. He had to learn to stop underestimating the women in his life and their predispositions to put him in uncomfortable social situations.

So here they were, in the city of love. They’d arrived this morning, checked into their hotel, and spent the rest of the day playing tourist. Charlie would never admit it to Florence, but he’d taken her tips onboard and suggested a few museums for them to visit. Kate had dragged him to the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe and forced him to take photos with her in the rain. They’d had lunch on the Champs-Élysées. All in all, he felt like he’d walked the whole of Paris. The Slytherin had grumbled his way through most of it, knowing he owed it to Kate to make everything up to her. Thankfully, he felt that he was well on his way there judging by the smile that hadn’t left her face all day.

After a short spell back in their hotel room freshening up and getting ready they were climbing the stairs to the Malenkov’s apartment. Well, Charlie was. Kate was piggy-backing. The flat was on the fifth floor and with the elevator was out of order, in tandem with the large amount of walking they’d been doing all day, the combination of Kate’s sore feet and high-heels were an excuse for Charlie to be chivalrous. He set the petite witch down gently on the landing when they reached the top floor, straightening his coat before rapping his knuckles on the pale blue door.

As soon as the door opened the smell of rich food and warm air hit Charlie’s nostrils. He wasn’t given any time to try to discern what exactly had been cooked because a bright, blonde, bubbly witch was in his face. “Florence,” He smirked, letting the blonde greet him. “you look nice.” Charlie removed his hand from its place at the small of Kate’s back to shake the other man’s firmly, sizing him up as he did so. “Arkasha, is it?” That was a mouthful already, had Florence used a nickname? The Englishman would have to see if he could shorten that further, he might then at least have a chance of remembering it.

He tried not to laugh at the Russian’s greeting towards Kate, but his grin was immediately wiped from his features as Arkasha leaned to kiss Kate’s cheeks. Charlie knew that he was Florence’s husband and that it was just a formality, but the musician still didn’t appreciate him being so close to his girlfriend.

“Wine’s fine.” Charlie drawled, looking to Kate to let her pick what particular type she’d want. He slipped out of his coat, handing it to the other man with perhaps a little more force than was necessary. “Thanks, mate.” Beneath the coat he was wearing dark grey trousers and a black collared shirt, with dress shoes. He’d trusted Kate to tell him if he was under- or over-dressed. "Er, shoes off?" He asked cautiously, aiming the question more at Florence than Arkasha.

As they moved a little further into the Malenkov’s home, Charlie took in what detail he could in the low light offered by the candles. The apartment was much smaller than what Charlie was used to, but he liked it. His own flat seemed very sterile in comparison, perhaps he would have to ask Kate to help with that. He’d bought it before they were officially a thing, let alone thinking she’d be moving in, and so it was still very grey and masculine.

“We’ve seen a bit, eh?” Charlie looked to Kate, again, knowing she would be a much better conversationalist than he. At least Arkasha seemed just as uncomfortable as Charlie felt. He had a distinct feeling that their other halves would need to keep everything running smoothly.

Before this morning, Kate had never been to Paris. She and her boyfriend had spent the day sightseeing and eating, and she'd been acutely aware that this had been a great sacrifice of energy for him (and that it had been entirely for her benefit). He'd not even raised that much of a stink when she'd insisted on a kissing picture in front of the Eiffel Tower with the camera he'd gotten her for Christmas, for the mantle, of course, even though a stranger had to take it and hadn't spoken any English. It had been something of a small struggle to bridge the language gap and get it done, but eventually she'd ended up with a product she would be perfectly happy to frame upon their return to London.

Even though Charlie had happily gone along with her throughout the day, as far as she could tell, to do all the things she'd wanted to do so far, Paris being the city of love made her heart sink when she thought about it too hard. The whole reason they were here was to meet his friend and occasional employee, Florence, whom was quite lovely, from what she could gather, but there was another undertone to their visit. One that perhaps might not have been there if their first trip to the city hadn't happened after the fateful events of the very recent new year's eve. She'd tried to ignore it all day, and Charlie had admittedly done a very good job of helping that along. He'd been nothing but sweet and kind to her. She knew that he was sorry, but even so, it was difficult to completely pretend she didn't wish she were married to him on this jaunt to the city of love. Would have made things a little less bittersweet.

It was evening now, though, which meant it was time for them to make the trip over to Florence and her husband, Arkasha's, apartment for dinner. Kate had written to her to set a date, as she'd known she couldn't have entrusted Charlie to do that and actually follow through. The only times he really wanted to go out were when she wanted to go out, so instead of being angry at his aversion to social contact, it made more sense for her to be endeared to the way he often sacrificed his own comfort for her benefit.

She clung tightly to his back as he climbed up the stairs, thankful he'd offered as the pair of heels she'd been wearing had not been the kindest to her feet. Seemed like it was time for a charm refresh on the soles, when she could get a minute, but for now, she was perfectly content letting him carry her. Thankfully, she had worn pants and it hadn't proved an issue. Other times, her outfit selections certainly did, and being thrown over his shoulder, which was the other option, tended to give people a show they hadn't bought tickets for. Of her underwear. Or lack thereof, if she'd decided not to wear any, and if she were being frank, that was... more often than not.

He set her down and she took his hand for a second, holding onto it as the door swung open and they were ushered quickly inside. The apartment was tiny, but it was so darling. The type of apartment she thought of when daydreaming about the kinds of people who lived in Paris: people who were okay with a little dysfunction and age. Quirky, interesting people.

Kate let go of her boyfriend's hand and greeted Florence with a big, sunny smile, her palm resting on the other woman's shoulder as she leaned into her kisses. She was familiar with this greeting by now, many of her friends did it and she'd learned it was pretty run-of-the-mill in Europe. It was nice. Her husband stepped forward to do the same thing and Kate stood a little more still, very aware that Charlie was standing next to her and wanting to make sure the evening ran smoothly. Would have been a bit of a damper to sour his mood less than two seconds in the door.

Shucking her long black coat, she politely handed it off to Arkadiy after Charlie had shoved his at him and slipped out of her shoes, sinking a further four inches to the floor to her regular height. Everyone in the room was significantly taller than her. Her face, now obviously blushing at the stark contrast, 'lover Catherine' comment, and heap of awkward interaction, was not made-up except for a spot of mascara and lipgloss. She felt a little underprepared next to Florence, but she also knew Charlie liked being able to see her freckles.

"It's so good to meet you both. Charlie has told me so much about you, Florence." Kate responded at once to all of the greetings. She did not bother to tell them to call her by her nickname. It was rather refreshing in a way to hear her full name used. "We would love wine. Whatever you've got ready to open. And we have seen Paris. Just a little, you know, what we've been able to see in a day," She smiled at Arkadiy. "I'm not sure, we might be sticking around awhile tomorrow. Any specific recommendations for us?"

"Thank you," Florence said brightly as Charlie said she looked nice before taking a quick step backwards to let them both in and closing the door behind them. The apartment was warm. Well, for the Malenkovs, anyway. The plumbing was dodgy and temperamental, as was the heating. In the end, they'd sort of just thrown spells at the place to heat it more effectively and keep the costs of running the home down.

She didn't miss the way her boss had thrust the coat at her husband and she arched an eyebrow, figuring Charlie was threatened. She was unsurprised. Arkadiy was quite the catch; tall, dark and handsome and full of the unique and charming mismatch of European customs and approaches that made him completely irresistible. "Thank you, baby," she told her husband with a smile as he offered to take coats. This must be a stretch for him to adapt to and she was ever so grateful. Out of everyone, his was the only happiness she really cared about and if Charlie was going to upset the balance, she would try and drown him in the lamb curry.

The comment about shoes made her smile. "You can leave them on," Florence said brightly, bemused. "I just don't like wearing mine," she added cheerily as she wiggled her toes, the nails of which were painted a bright yellow.

Seeing her husband greet their guests made her smile before she turned her attention to Kate. She was beautiful, she noticed. Florence's eyes flickered down quickly, a fraction of a second to check her hands. She wasn't wearing a ring and she looked quickly at Charlie. He knew that she wore two wedding rings, one on each hand and honouring both hers and Arkadiy's cultures. "Elle est tres petite," she told her husband, slipping into French automatically. "Comme une souris." She paused. "Ou un cube de sucre." She was teeny. Was everyone so diddy from her country?

"Oh?" She asked brightly, trusting that everything Kate had heard from Charlie had been nothing but complementary. Reaching out, Florence took her hands and pulled her further into the warmness of the apartment, leading her down to the table and the cushions. "I love your accent," she gushed, her pale blue eyes sparkling in the candlelight with a childlike wonder. "Say the word "hawk"," she pressed Kate gently.

"Oh they're all open," the artist cooed with another smile about the wine. Arkasha favoured red so she began to pour out some white wine to three lopsided glasses. They cost next to nothing at Les Puces and she'd sweet talked the stall owner into a sort of job lot, consisting of seven rather ugly wine glasses but she loved them. She held out a glass to both Kate and her boyfriend and then a glass of red to her husband, trailing her finger tips down his arm gently.

"You love it, no?" Florence asked happily as Kate replied to Arkasha's question about Paris, ignoring Charlie momentarily. Deciding there was too much distance between them, she linked her slim fingers with her husband's and gave them a reassuring squeeze. Did she have any specific recommendations? Hell yeah she did.

"The parks are lovely," she said as she sipped at her wine. "And there are some pretty snazzy exhibitions on. Oh! There is a great little book shop at kilometre zero," she enthused, her eyes wide in excitement as she started to visibly vibrate. Then, she realised she was giving out suggestions of her and Arkadiy's favourite places and she suddenly stopped, suddenly very protective of them. She changed tack swiftly. "There's also a really special restaurant on the Left Bank, isn't there, mon coeur?" She said, turning to her husband with a glint in her eye that she saved for special occasions.

It was situated in the dodgy part of town, run down and downright terrifying to anyone but a local person. They'd been there once. The service was terrible, the drinks were expensive and whatever she'd eaten, she'd had a headache for a week. And Arkasha would know the very one. "Bistro Pierre, I think it's called. There is no need to book a table, you can walk right in. It's a well kept secret," she added as she took a sip of wine, hiding her smile behind the rim of her glass.

"Paris is beautiful in the winter," she said as she addressed everyone, taking the lead and sitting down cross-legged on a plush pink cushion. "Place de la Concorde is also really pretty. It's close to the Louvre, so you can cut across it. They used to behead people with the guillotine. Fascinating," Florence added in a dreamy voice. Not realising it had taken a dark turn for a dinner party, the tall blonde began taking the lids off the dishes and setting out cutlery, using a spoon to heap some couscous onto her plate and nibbling a pomegranate seed.

"Sit, sit," she instructed everyone as she wiggled her bum to sit more comfortably on her cushion, placing the open bottle of wine and two more in the centre of the table. "So," she said briskly. "How did you two meet?" She asked Kate and Charlie with a sunny smile as she stuffed a fistful of pita bread into her face, her cheeks puffing out like a hamster's as she awaited a response before scooting her cushion a little closer to Arkasha's.

Was it bad form to deposit a guest’s coat on the terrace, over the railing? Florence would probably get on him about not being a proper host if he followed through with that idea, yet it was still tempting. Instead, Arkasha cleared his throat and offered the other man the most imperceptible of nods, turning to take Catherine’s with a toothy smile. They had a line of mismatched hooks on the wall next to the door and he hung them up, offering a very simple (and French), “Anything for you,” to his wife. It seemed that would be his mantra this evening.

Catherine was much shorter when he turned back to their guests and as usual, Florence’s thoughts were already on the same page as his. “Oui, une très petite souris.” He paused for a second to consider if either Charlie or Catherine spoke French before deciding to add his next thought in Russian. “We didn’t set out any cheese.” Arkasha was no stranger to talking about people while they were standing there, but those people usually weren’t his invited guests. Well, his wife’s guests. At what point did it become rude?

“Er,” Arkasha started to answer Catherine’s question about recommendations, but he had had a bit of trouble following what she had just said in her preceding sentence. Her accent was a bit... wonky, for lack of a better word. He hadn’t had any interactions with Americans, and almost all of his conversations with a native English speaker had been with Englishmen. Thankfully, his wife saved him, both from the question and by placing a glass of red wine in his hand.

He sat on his cushion rather haphazardly, his legs far too long and gangly to make sitting cross legged on a just-too-small cushion anything more than unenjoyable. Still, he found comfort in Florence’s hand (but also in the glass of wine), relaxing just the slightest bit into the pillow, his elbow resting on his knee as he followed the conversation with his eyes. He nodded as Florence talked, especially at the comment about the little book shop. That particular establishment was selling his book, so it was automatically one of his favorites.

Florence’s French brought his attention back to what she was saying. “Hmm?” He peered over the rim of his wine glass, taking another swallow as he repeated in his mind what she had just been saying. Oh. “Yes,” he said a second too late, having to swallow his mouthful of wine first. “It is even good for French food,” he reassured them, pushing the memory of their last adventure there from his mind.

“Fascinating.” Arkasha beamed, unsure if his understanding of the word ‘fascinating’ was different than how Florence was using it. He would just have to ask her later. And also ask what ‘guillotine’ meant. He followed suit as his wife started in on the food. She had explained the dishes to him earlier, but they looked much different prepared than they had before and he realized he had forgotten what they were supposed to be anyway. He picked a meat at random and served himself, spearing it on the end of his fork and sniffing it just a whiff before putting it in his mouth. It wouldn’t do to eat cautiously in front of the guests, not wanting his hesitation with the spice and the smells to lead them into thinking that they were being poisoned. He would let Bistro Pierre do that for him.

Arkasha looked up expectantly at the couple across from him as Florence posed her question. It was one she always asked any couple they ever met, always using it as a way to lead into their own story of the early stages of their relationship. Florence was a sucker for romance, and even retelling the story of his awkward yet attractive wooing of her was enough to put her in a good mood, and also in the mood. It was a good tactic.

She scooted her cushion toward her and Arkasha shifted his fork to the other hand, freeing up the one closest to her to grab her waist, give it a little squeeze, and pull her closer, before settling his hand at the oh so convenient and remarkably comfortable spot where her backside met the cushion.

Charlie relaxed a little as he saw Kate’s smile. It was so much easier to be sociable when she was around, because she could take the brunt of any questions – and didn’t seem to mind doing so, either. He bit his tongue as Kate said they ‘might’ be staying on for a bit tomorrow, his eyes darting to Florence and expecting a reprimand for not treating his Catherine to a full week in the city. As his line of sight locked onto the blonde, however, she was busy looking at Kate’s hands, then she met his gaze. He knew immediately what she was thinking, and he frowned slightly, looking away. Florence didn’t know about New Years and the mess it had been, and he didn’t really want her to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. He especially didn’t want anything to do with marriage and proposals brought up tonight, so he hoped that Florence wouldn’t be insensitive enough to bring it up.

Thankfully, he was distracted by the little exchange between husband and wife. Charlie wasn’t by any means fluent in French, but he knew some basics – enough to ask for directions or order a glass of wine. He caught the gist of what Florence was saying, but wasn’t sure of the insinuation – did she mean that Kate was small as in young, or was it simply an observation of her short stature? Charlie’s dark eyes flicked to Arkasha as he added something further in another language that the Englishman wasn’t familiar with, presumably Russian. Charlie’s frown deepened slightly, finding it rude, and wondering what the other man could say to his wife but wasn’t brave enough to say infront of him.

Charlie kept his thoughts to himself and simply sat, a little awkwardly, on one of the provided cushions (having removed his shoes when his girlfriend did). He would play nice, for Kate’s sake. She was probably the only person in the room who would fit properly on one of these stupid things. He shifted a couple of times, thankful that Arkasha seemed to be having the same problem.

The brunette took the glass of wine offered to him, jealously eyeing Arkasha’s glass. Charlie preferred red, but in all honesty he could, and would, drink anything offered to him. Finding himself surplus to requirements on the current conversational tangent, Charlie simply started sipping at his drink, his eyes drifting around the room once more as he picked up on the haphazard, but charming, décor. He was barely paying attention as Florence babbled on about all the places they should go – Kate would remember anything that took her interest. Admittedly, he should probably make an effort to stow away a few of the ideas to surprise her with, but he’d already lost his place in the conversation now.

Charlie turned his attention back to the conversation just in time to hear Florence suggest a restaurant for them to visit. Well, that would do. He nodded, he could remember that. Belatedly spotting Florence and Arkasha’s interlinked fingers, Charlie subconsciously reached for Kate’s petite hand, squeezing gently when he found it.

The musician quirked an eyebrow as Florence started her lament to archaic executions, with her husband gleefully agreeing. Charlie subtly looked at Kate and flashed her a funny little smile. At least, he supposed, they weren’t the only couple to have little quirks. He let go of Kate’s hand and placed his wine glass on the table as their host began revealing the food. His face fell. He wasn’t the best with foreign food, and he could tell just by smelling the air that some of this stuff would be spicy. Not for the first time this evening, he looked to Kate for guidance. He helped himself to some halloumi (cheese was safe, surely? Who’d ever heard of a spicy cheese?), lamb, vegetables, and a couple of pita breads in case he needed to soak up some heat.

He’d just shoved some lamb, wrapped in the bread for safety, into his mouth when Florence asked how he and Kate had met. Charlie almost choked in his urgency to say “At a party—“, with Kate’s own ’Charlie’s an old family friend’ cutting across him. He turned to look at her, and she at him, and both opened their mouths to speak again, each drowning the other out. Charlie wasn’t ashamed of Kate, but he was wary of people finding out when exactly they’d started seeing one another. He swallowed his food and picked up his wine glass, gesturing at her, “You tell them,” he smiled awkwardly, staring perhaps a little too hard in his effort to say with his eyes what he couldn’t with his mouth: not the truth.