“So, how was Scotland?”
What was with the twenty questions? “You want me to fill in a questionnaire for you about my life?” I asked.
Dexter burst out laughing. “I take it you have your period.”
“Don’t be a sexist fucker,” I said. I might go. Dexter was irritating me tonight. Everything was irritating me tonight.
“Oh sorry, I forgot you were the bastion of political correctness.”
“Not being a dick isn’t being politically correct—it’s not being a dick.”
Dexter raised his eyebrows. “Fair enough. So, you don’t have your period because you’re not a woman, not that being a woman is a bad thing and having a period must be great, but seriously, mate, what the fuck is the matter with you?”
I slumped back in my chair. “Just got some stuff on my mind, that’s all.”
Over at the hostess’s table, Tristan was chatting up a member of staff. “That guy needs to get laid,” Dexter said.
“Clearly,” I replied as Tristan approached our table.
“Christy,” he said by way of explanation. “Hot, right?”
“Doesn’t mean you have to bang her,” Dexter said, as if he were telling a four-year-old not to go near the fire.
“Doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t shag her either.”
; Tristan was going through a phase. It was just a phase that had lasted about five years.
“Is it just the three of us tonight?” he said.
“Gabriel might join us later but he’s working late,” Dexter said.
“How was Scotland?” Tristan asked. “Did you get the building?”
I exhaled. It should feel like more of a victory than it did. Perhaps it would be different when the documents were finally signed. “Price is agreed. Survey done. Just waiting for the contracts to catch up.”
“Wow, that’s great news . . . isn’t it?” Tristan said.
“So what?” I barked. Without Stella, the Dawnay building didn’t seem so important.
“His dog died,” Dexter said, trying to explain why my expression didn’t match up to the news that the deal I’d been waiting so long for and working so hard toward was finally about to happen.
“My dog is fine.” I shook my head. What was I talking about? “I don’t have a fucking dog. No one died. No one’s sick. I’m just . . . pre-occupied.”
I didn’t miss the look Tristan shot Dexter, one that said I was teetering on the brink of mental failure. Which I might just be.
“With what?” Tristan asked.
“Just stuff. Work and things. And then Dexter was being a dick and irritating me.”
“Apparently, I’m sexist,” Dexter said.
“That goes without saying,” Tristan said. “But it’s not news.” He took a sip of the drink that had just been put in front of him. Clearly flirting with the hostess hadn’t been just about getting her number. “Scotland worked out. Work’s good. No one’s dog died. How’s Stella?”
Fuck him. I hated Tristan at times. He was a nosey parker. How was he still a member of our circle? “Fine.”
Dexter and Tristan both sucked in a breath at the same time.