I was just glad I didn’t have to see him on any more of a regular basis. Especially since we were about to meet tonight to take the photos for our engagement announcement. That was a trip to London I was not looking forwards to.
I pulled away from Bentley Manor and down the generous driveway, sighing out heavily when I reached the gates. Navigating my way through and out of Whitborough was easy now, and I was soon back on the motorway, but this time, I was heading east, not south.
And in a matter of days, the world would think we were actually in a relationship.
Fabulous.
• • •
“Why do you look constipated in almost every single one of these photos?” I asked Matthew, clicking through the gallery the photographer had sent our way. “Look. What is that supposed to be?”
He gripped the back of my chair and leaned over my shoulder. “I’m smiling.”
“That is not a smile!”
At best, he was grimacing.
At worst…
“That is a smile,” he insisted. “Look. The corners of my mouth are turned up.”
“Matthew, you look like someone has their arm so far up your arse they’re choking you from the inside out. How is that a smile?”
He tilted his head to the side. “Mm, I suppose you’re right. I do look a little on the pained side.”
I dropped my head in my hands and rubbed my fingers across my forehead. “This is a mess. Why do we even need a photograph?”
“The paper,” he replied, reaching forwards for the mouse to click to the next one. “Dear God.” He balked and quickly clicked to the next. “Our parents will want us to announce it properly, remember?”
“Ugh.” I knocked his hand off the mouse. “This is going to be impossible. Why can’t you smile like a normal person?”
“I don’t like getting my photograph taken. Especially not in studios.”
I clicked through the next few. This was a nightmare. There really were no usable ones that didn’t make it look like Matthew was marrying me under duress.
If anyone was getting married under duress here, it was me.
He was the git who should have been smiling in the photos.
“That one isn’t so bad.” He pointed at the screen. “I at least look like my hypothetical constipation is starting to ease.”
I tilted my head to the side. I couldn’t see it, but if he insisted… I clicked the little star near the menu to favourite the photo, and it turned bright yellow, adding it to the list.
I sincerely hoped that wasn’t the best option.
“They look as though they’re getting better,” Matthew said slowly.
“I think your eyesight is deteriorating. That, or they’re all blending into one big image.” I rubbed my eyes and yawned. “Do we have to pick these today? I’m not even sure she’s edited them.”
“She hasn’t. We only need one for the announcement and the save the date cards and they can be the same photo. Do you need anything?”
“A fake fiancé who can smile in photos?”
“I was thinking along the lines of a glass of wine. That’s probably easier than your option.”
I figured as much. “Then I suppose the wine will have to do. Perhaps if I drink enough, I can convince myself these aren’t the worst things I’ve ever seen.”
He laughed and walked across the room to the phone and dialled room service. It only took a few seconds, and he came back over to me at the desk. “Any luck?”
“I wish. I don’t think I’m skilled enough with Photoshop to make you look good. I might have to ask the photographer to take your head from one and put it on another. I really don’t know how you managed to look so bad in so many.”
“Ah, you’re such a charmer.” He laughed. “What about this one? This is fine!”
“Of you! Look at me!” I wasn’t even looking at the camera for God’s sake. I was looking at my feet or something down there. That wasn’t even close.
“What are you looking at there?”
“My feet? I don’t know, Matthew, I can’t see what’s down there, can I?” I sighed. “This is ridiculous. We’re never going to find a suitable one. We really might have to resort to editing.”
“So, we’ll edit them,” he said, shrugging.
How was he not bothered?
“That’ll cost more money!”
“And? Eva, if one of these…” He leaned forwards, squinting. “Two-hundred-and-thirty-one images isn’t good enough, I don’t think it matters if we pay her an extra hundred quid to put my face on a photo of you that you like.”
“There are two-hundred photos here?” I blinked at the screen.
“Two-hundred-and-thirty-one.”
“Semantics.” I waved him off, then turned in the hair. “How in the bloody hell is there not one good photo of us together in that many photos?”
“Because you’re being overtly picky.”
“I am not being overtly picky. I just don’t want the only engagement I’m ever going to have to be announced with a photo where it looks like my fiancé has a piranha feasting on his balls.”