Mr. Knightsbridge (The Mister 1)

down to the jetty that led into the river. “It’s like something out of an E.M. Forster novel.”

“You read much E.M. Forster?” I asked, laughing.

“I read A Room with a View,” he said, which stopped my smile in its tracks.

“You did?” I asked. “For school?”

“No. I saw the film and liked it, so I decided to read the book.”

He was obviously serious, and I had to stifle a giggle. He seemed such an unlikely audience for anything Merchant Ivory.

He looked at me. “Are you laughing at me?” he asked, smirking.

“Never,” I replied and took a sip of my wine. I was such a horrible liar.

“What can I say? It’s a good film and a better book.”

“It doesn’t seem like your kind of thing. Isn’t it wistful and romantic?” Beck was dogged and determined. You didn’t get to be as successful as he was from a standing start without having an edge. A love of costume drama didn’t seem to fit. But what did I know? I couldn’t tell good people from bad. Friends from foes.

I wanted to ask more about his taste in films—prod to see if it was a character trait or a fluke—but I didn’t want to give away how little we knew about each other. “I’ve never seen it,” I said. “So I couldn’t possibly comment.”

“When we’re back in London, we’ll watch it one night.”

I glanced over at Bea, to see if she was taking any notice, but she was talking to Florence about something. Was this conversation real or fake? Either way, I was enjoying it.

“You’ll have to point out all your favorite bits,” I said.

He chuckled. “I can tell you don’t believe me, but my sister went through a phase of reading everything by him, and I was a dutiful younger brother and sat through the film a couple of times. Looking back, she must have been recovering from heartbreak. I guess she was around fifteen.”

Shit, I’d forgotten her name. I lowered my voice. I couldn’t not ask but didn’t want anyone to overhear. “Are you still close with . . . your sister?”

“She’s older and married with two kids. I don’t see her much but when I do, I enjoy it.”

“Tell me that’s not Karen and Matt arriving on a boat,” Florence said, pointing at the water, interrupting me imagining a sun-kissed, younger Beck reading E.M. Forster. People began to murmur and, sure enough, Karen, dressed in white, and Matt in his usual summer outfit of chinos and a blue shirt, climbed out of a small rowing boat and up onto the jetty. I might have been hoping that one of them would go head-first into the water, but I wasn’t about to admit to it.

“She’s such an attention seeker,” Jo said. “Who has an entire week of wedding celebrations in the first place. And then this?” She cocked her head at the river.

If Karen had told me she was going to sail into her wedding picnic on a rowing boat in a white floaty dress when we’d still been friends, I would have thought she was fun and carefree. “It’s not a bit of fun?” I asked.

“Everything’s fun for Karen if everyone’s looking at her,” Bea said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“If she’s so selfish and self-involved, why have we all been friends with her for all these years?” I asked. Had Bea and Jo seen this side of Karen since she got engaged to Matt or had they always felt this way?

“Because you always wanted the four of us to do stuff together,” Bea said.

“You’re always the one who includes Karen on the email chain or suggests she gets the invitation to dinner.”

It hadn’t been conscious. I just liked to include everyone. “I never noticed . . .”

“Because you see the best in everyone. Want the best for everyone. It’s lovely, but people like Karen eat up your goodness like summer pudding,” Florence said.

Karen always liked to be at the center of things, the rest of us just looking on like we were members of the audience rather than on stage, but it had never really bothered me—I hadn’t seen her as taking advantage of me. Maybe Matt was the same. When we were together, I’d thought we were co-stars, but perhaps I was just backstage sweeping up after him.

“Or Eton Mess,” Bea said. “Matt was no different—they both took advantage of your kindness.”

Beck nudged me and nodded toward Florence and Bea as if to tell me I should pay attention to what they were saying.

The thing was, I vaguely remembered Florence and Bea saying these things to me before and me dismissing them. But now, with what had happened, what Beck had said and kept saying . . . I couldn’t ignore who Karen and Matt really were anymore. But who else was going to reveal themselves as my enemy rather than my friend? If two of the people I was closest to in the world could betray me, then anyone could.