Thomas Reyes

“An’ A’ve worn other shirts ‘fore A wore Arsenals, you can have your pick of ma old boots if you’re really that fussy” It wasn’t like Eilidh could really claim any sort of moral high ground when it came to football rivalries, certainly not as someone born and raised with the Old Firm. But oh boy, she was going to act like she could. “An’ have A ever struck you as someone who’s ever been overly concerned with manners?”

“Oh A’ve been very much wanted at every party A attend, just need a smile an’ no much more and all sorts of doors are open wide, you jealous?” She was about one step away from sticking her tongue out at him, running her mouth before thinking about the consequences of it. “Arsenal dinnae care if Am invited a place, they just dinnae want me making anymare scenes”

“So what you’re saying here is that you’re not interested in being loyal. Is this something that applies to both your professional and romantic life? If you know the meaning of that word at all,” the journalist’s smile resembled more a line than it did something genuine. If you looked closer, at that spark in his eye, you could easily find cruelty there. “I took some of the photographs of you which ended up on page 4. I think manners were never given to you at birth.” It was perhaps a bit cold to shade her parents too, but she had it coming, trying to mess with him like that.

“And you couldnae run a day in mine, a dinnae think this is the sorta game you wanna play, pal” She hadn’t really been paying attention to what was going on, lost in her own wee world (and at the bottom of her drink), but even then she thought she’d picked up on enough of the goings on of the situation to stick her foot in it all. “Just ‘cause you can be a place don’t mean you’re wanted there. Might be a shout fae you to learn that”

“I couldn’t. I’m a Tottenham fan I’m afraid, pal,”  which really wasn’t the point of her intervention, but who was he to deny her the true Reyes experience? “Anyhow, has no one told you it’s not polite to interrupt...” He turned to pester again his target for tonight, but the woman had taken advantage of this distraction to get the fuck out of his sight. Great.

Freya stood close enough to hear but not too close, a delicate balance but she felt she looked like she was part of the person’s team or something as she nodded in agreement with what he was saying to the gruff person trying to keep the actual reporter out of the area. Now, freya might have considered herself part of the media machine in some ways but she was not a reporter by any means and she did not have a media pass of any kind and she still didn’t know anyone who could make a fake one yet, unfortunately. So sneaking in with or behind this dude seemed her best bet if she wanted any information too. She stayed quiet though, for now.

"That’s alright, I’ll just write a long article about how he’s unable to answer a few simple questions. I’m guessing it’s easier when you’re the one picking them before hand, huh?” That member of parliament was well known for only doing interviews with journalists who agreed to let him pick the subjects spoken, and basically were more interviewers than anything else. It didn’t take skill to ask a bunch of questions, and it annoyed him to no end, knowing how well they were getting paid for this bullshit.

She scoffed. It’s the easiest way to describe the feeling of air being kicked out of your body. “Your language is something you shouldn’t say. To anyone.” But especially Meagan. It could just as easily be his foul choice of words causing the smoke, rather than carcinogenics he seems so adamant to spew into the environment. “Has it occurred to you that perhaps you’re just a particularly /poor/ listener? Your wife…” At a loss for words. Momentarily. “How she’s able to communicate with you at all must be a miracle.”

Her foot took a step forward in the opposite direction, readying herself for her escape, just when he happened to drag August into the conversation. Their marriage was none of his business, not to mention the filthy implications he tacked onto it. “Let me make something absolutely clear to you,” she wrung out from her throat, a finger poised and dangerously armed. “I’m not your anything, and whatever sick, twisted fantasy you’ve made up…” On second thought, she dug her hand through her purse, pulling out her iPhone, flash on, camera recording.

“This is the face of a sexual predator! This man just accosted me to tell me I was craving his touch. This is a public service warning to everyone currently in the Belgravia area.–Is there anything you would like to add for the record?”

  “Does it bother you? Does it make you uncomfortable?” Undeniably, but hearing her say it would have a different flavor than watching the signs. Tapping ash onto the pavement, Thomas looked at the flakes of burnt cigarette flying away. Though they symbolized a whole lot of health issues he’d eventually come face to face with, there was a poetry to those figments of fiber floating, disintegrating in the ambient air.

“My wife and I communicate just fine. She’s a bit of a genius, so basic conversations are within her wide range of skills,” the dig made at the first lady caused him to smile, but not quite as much as knowing that he’d yet managed to poke her in the right place through mentioning her disaster of a husband, and if she surprised him as she took out her phone (of course it would be an iPhone), he had to sigh as she opened her mouth.

“I never said that,” she stuck her tongue out at him, “I meant that if I had all the time to get manicures and could then just sit around at home, I’d be really quite terribly bored.” She knew that they both knew that, which was why jokes like this worked. They both understood one another on a sort of incredible level - though, Isabella supposed, part of that likely had to do with the fact that they’d been involved for a full decade, now.

“I mean, if you’re offering, that’s pretty much the best birthday present I can think of. I don’t need more stuff, so having you all to myself for my birthday would be pretty much ideal.” She grinned. “Also, that was only marginally more subtle than that party back when I was nineteen and tried to get you to sleep with me in our friend’s bed.” Isabella giggled. “Oh, my parents did.” She looked straight at him, a mischievous grin crossing her face. “Think you’ve met them. Gabriela and Carlos? Brilliantly big fans of you. My father literally made you a family recipe the first time you came over to meet them?” She shrugged. “Though I’ve always been told I am rather independent, so I don’t know if my parents can be directly blamed for my behavior.” She smiled into his hand. “You-” she narrowed her eyes in false frustration (though, on a certain level, those jokes did sometimes bother her) - but his next words caused her smile to brighten again.

“Certainly not another ten years. Besides, I can manage to have a kid while I’m finishing things up. You know both your parents and mine would happily care for said child - not that we should think of relying on those things, but they will love their grandchild and would probably offer the moment we told them that they’ll be grandparents, so…” She pressed a kiss against his hand.

“You already are.” Another shrug. “But I do think I’ll stay just as I am, since I wouldn’t want to risk actually turning out anything like Mrs. Meagan Finley.” Another face. “At a minimum.” She took another bit of her food, grabbing the orange he’d brought her for dessert.

“We’re not working together, honest. Unless you think that’d work?” She looked over to him with wide eyes. “Good, I absolutely cannot wait.” 

.

“You’ve never learned to do nothing and it shows,” he commented. But it would be a damn lie to pretend he could do nothing himself. His parents were hard working and rarely stopped work, but even they could take weeks off to relax or stay at the beach to chill. He detested that, and back when he was a child, would go explore the rocks, swim, build sand castles and befriend kids his age into playing football with him.

“You have me all to yourself everyday, cariña.” He noted. Sure, he was even more attached to her heel on special days, but that was not his point here. “You were so drunk,” he leaned in for a kiss, smiling as he did. “I think, if I hadn’t waited for you to be sober, we wouldn’t be here right now,” because even he knew that was fucked up, and he’d have fled the scene.

He covered his face in his hands as she mentioned her parents’ love for him. His family was more reserved but Thomas knew they liked Isabella. “Now that I think of it, this looks an awful like tactics to get me to stay. Am I subjected to the Stockholm syndrome?” His eyes grew wide as he stared into her eyes in shock.

“You could managed having triplets, I’m sure, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” Thomas knew she was precisely the sort to manage through 10 things at once. He was not, which made his juggling of two lives a really stupid thing to do. “We can wait for you to finish your residency, at least,” and then she’d have to work a little before they had a kid. This gave them a few more years perhaps, just the two of them. He was just worried his children would end up all messed up, too much like him, too little like her. Out of them, Isabella was the clever one, the one who dreamt big and actually reached out to achieve those sueños. Thomas was not that. It was easier to turn everything into a joke.

“I’d rather shoot myself in the head than move in with you,” comes Emilio’s response, voice temporarily muffled by the shirt he’s pulling over his head. This camaraderie Thomas seems to have decided they have is still a strange and foreign concept, but Emilio is doing his best to try and warm up to the idea. Thomas had, after all, supported him during the voting process, and his company, while at times intrusive, is relatively easygoing. Letting his guard down around him is becoming marginally easier with each visit.

Shirtless and in dire need of a shower, Emilio doesn’t grace Thomas’ question with an answer until he’s dug a clean towel out from the depths of the wardrobe. “I set it on fire and used it as a candle. Next time get me something that smells nice.” In the bedroom the monstrosity in question stares at him from the corner he’d relegated it to, still very much intact and half-buried beneath a bloodstained shirt. “Any more stupid questions or can I go now?”

“You’re never dramatic, that’s what I love the most about you,” having picked up the cat in his arms, Thomas was taking a stroll around the living room, and making his way back to the kitchen to have a look at the cooking books he might find here. While he didn’t blame Emilio for not being huge on literature, even Matilda’s parents owned cooking books, right? If Roald Dahl drew the line here, so would he. But even those were nowhere to be seen. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” the exclamation came in Spanish, and he kept going in his mother tongue : “Where the fuck do you keep your recipes? This is not right, Emilio. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

That would be when the cat decided to wiggle out of his arms. Just like his owner, thought Thomas, doesn’t like people getting too chummy.

“I’m sure she’d love that, but he’s dead, so unless your suggesting she dig him up she might have to think of another plan. And to think I thought you were a good reporter who made sure to know everything about their subjects. Oh shit no, sorry, you just make it all up. Forgot for a second.” Waving her hand in front of her face with a light laugh as if to say ‘oh how silly of me to say something so obvious’. Letting out a soft sigh as she pointedly looked past him, visibly bored in her expression.

“I do just have to check really quickly that you know in order to classify your creation as a book it’ll have to be longer than the pamphlets you find at the doctors. I know writing too many words without intercutting them with crude paparazzi photos that are the work of someone other than you is tricky, but if you want to write this so called ‘book’ you’re going to have to make a real effort.” Giving him a kind look, one hand against her chest, the other reaching to give his shoulder a soft squeeze of reassurance. “I believe in you though. You just keep trying.”

You fucking asshole.

Silently added to the end.

.

“You know, your habit of looking down onto the Sun readers speaks more about you than it speaks about them,” his jaded expression returned and he looked her face over with a bit of contempt to him. “But I suppose convincing yourself that you are better that them is how you get through the day,” which made his effort to kick her pedestal down all the more satisfying. What did she have that was so special? He asked himself the question whenever they asked of him to cover her shenanigans. Rich girl parties hard and sleeps around. Wow. A whole personality in here. Surely there must have been more to her than this shallow puddle he captured on cream coloured paper, but if this was all she chose to show, he couldn’t really be the one to blame.

“I’m suggesting she be faithful to her husband in life and in death,” he retorted. Another fun fact about him, he supposed. He’d been raised to be faithful, both to the Lord and to his wife, to his family and to his criminal friends. Thomas was loyal, and you could count on him. Always and forever. It was unconditional, which made it all simple. “But if we’re being honest, I abhor the fact that I know so damn much about you. It was all fucking pedestrian,” his complaint could have been repeated for most of the people he wrote about.

Still jaded, he sighed as she called out the length of his articles. Again, it wasn’t his fault if there was not a lot to write about people who followed patterns of self sabotage. Another champion in that category would have been Eilidh O’Dea. He wasn’t sure who was the most predictable of the two.

“It was only a suggestion, mijo.” Camilo counters Thomas’ exasperation with no small amount of amusement. “You just seem a little distracted lately. I thought I’d extend the offer again, as a reminder.” Abandoning the rest of the ice-cream in favour of a substantially warmer and better tasting coffee, he offers a half-smile across the table. He’s come to expect Thomas’ reluctance towards stepping foot back inside a church and doesn’t take it personally. “We are. And you know I’m always happy to have these kind of conversations with you, here or anywhere else.”

Lifting the mug for a sip, Camilo allows a brief glance towards the window directly behind Thomas. He only vaguely recognises the man who’d started following him the moment he’d left St. Albans, and who’s now lingering listlessly on the corner of the street across from the cafe. He’s definitely one of Theodore’s men, which begs the question as to why the Jabberwocks feel the need to have Camilo followed. He’s paid everything owed this month already — but with the continued uncertainty surrounding Malachi’s disappearance, things have remained tense, and he doesn’t appreciate being hounded.

Refocusing his attention on Thomas, Camilo returns the mug to the table. “As if I’d waste holy water on you.” Outside the cafe, his stalker lights a cigarette. “Heaven’s doing well, thank you for asking. How are things going at work? Have you finally decided to upgrade? We both know you can do so much better than the Sun, Thomas.”

Dialogues in Spanish

“If it makes you feel better, I still remember the songs from Sunday church,” impossible to get those out of his head. His parents had dragged him there every weekend, and Thomas, who couldn’t sit still, had to find ways to not lose his mind, or end up fighting his mother’s slippers when back home. “I’m more than grateful. We wouldn’t be talking still if you only ever tried to convince me to go back to Church or whatever guilt tripping preachers sometimes do.” But not Camilo .No, Camilo was the sort of person you could never detest, and Thomas found he acted normal enough, for someone who could preach about a big dude in the sky.

Catching the other’s gaze, Thomas looked over his shoulder to get a look at whatever happened to be more interesting than their conversation. Even on treatment, he still found it hard to focus on one thing at a time. Mmmh. What was it the other looked at? A bird, or someone in particular, in the street? “Everything alright,” he inquired, nearly innocently.

Then, leaning onto his elbow, he sighed, as the conversation founds its natural way back to what nearly everyone he knew preferred to ask him about : when the fuck was he leaving the Sun ?

“I’m bus-” As predicted, Thomas doesn’t give Emilio enough time to come up with an excuse nor shut the door before he’s pushed his way inside, swinging around the bag of food like it justifies the unwanted intrusion. Exasperated, Emilio closes the door again before following Thomas into the small living room. “Estamos muy molestos, pendejo. If you show up like this again I’m moving out.” An empty threat, as in the end, the temptation of warm food proves too hard to resist.

After finally kicking off his boots, Emilio steps past Thomas and the kitchen area to make his way towards the bedroom, unzipping his jacket while he walks. “I’m going to shower. Leave the cat alone and don’t touch my shit. I’ll know if anything’s missing.”

“Doing what? Watching paint dry?” What could possibly be more important, more entertaining than him, and food? Thomas laughed at the switch to Spanish. “Vete a la mierda, molesto por qué?” He laughed, one of those rare, genuine, sonorous snort. “Ah, so you’ve finally considered my offer to take the spare room Isabella and I have? I’m glad.” With a snicker, he sat down on the couch and began his ritual that consisted in petting the cat until they began trying to rip the skin off his hand.

“It’s a tragedy, but I do understand their reasoning…” Isabella offered him a grin - the feeling of his lips on her hand all together familiar and comforting. “I mean, I can still get hand massages, but I suppose this is what I signed up for, and as much as I like manicures, I’m much happier getting to do medicine than I’d be if I was just lounging around all day.”

She giggled at his remark. “Yes, this again.” It made her smile - both thinking about how everything had begun, as well as the fact that from the moment they’d met, Thomas had proven himself to be someone who was always looking out for others - always looking out for her, and how was she supposed to be anything other than entirely charmed by that? He’d even had to be the one to remind her of the importance of their marrying in a church, given that both of their parents would have been nothing less than furious if it had gone any other way. “Will you do that raised eyebrow thing at me if I once again ask for us to become parents as a birthday present?” Isabella offered him a bright smile. “No self-depreciation ever.” She grabbed another bite of her food.

“Too true. It’s important to take time for one’s self.” She made a face. “Goodness knows I hope we’ll never turn into them. If it’s really something you’re into, I can always act like a stuck up rich woman, but I’d prefer not to actually really become one.” Isabella grinned. “Please do, and let me know what she says.” She offered him a shrug, “fine, fine, I will. You doing things for me is always wildly appreciated. So I will.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “Are they paying you double for that?” Another bite of food, her foot resting against her husband’s leg. “I just feel like you could be doing most anything else and it’d be more productive, but at least if you’ve got to follow her around town, you get to spend time outside, which is a sort of win?” Her posture straightened at his next remark. “I’d love to see it once you’re done.” She adjusted her position and pressed another kiss against his lips. “Whoops, I just happen to be feeling awfully greedy tonight.”

“Oh so you think nail technicians only lounge around all day,” he gave her a broad smile. Typical. He liked to tease her with Sun worthy comments such as those. Mastering the art of the sophism was literally child’s play, and Thomas was well aware of that. This was the only reason he’d allow himself to tease her with that. He could have argued with examples and actual facts, but that was something he saved for people he didn’t like. As far as he was concerned, he was fine with letting her win every fight they’d ever have, as few as they came.

“As a birthday present? Is that your subtle way to let me know you wanna get laid on your birthday?” His tone still one of teasing, his mouth formed a comically shocked O while his brows furrowed with faux-surprise. “Isabella Solana Morales, who raised you!” His laughter soon filled the room while he reached out to put his hand over her cheek. “I’ll make sure to double wrap it up, but message understood.” Alright, now he was being a dick. With another amused smile, he picked up a bit of food with his finger and brought it to his mouth.

“We’ll have kids, just... you know, we have time. You’ve got to finish your residency, and you know, I’m still working on...” he had trouble calling it a book, and manuscript felt too posh for someone who could act smug all day all to unveil hidden insecurity to those who truly knew him. “Sooner than later now. We won’t wait another ten years,” and the look he gave her then felt like a promise made with blood.

“And I can be the man of your dream,” she knew that he had an aversion for lies (how terribly ironic), but only when they were said to him, and so, he had no desire for his wife to pretend to be anyone else. “I’m betting she’ll say it’s £5 a banana,” he finished his food and reached out to grab the apple he’d picked up for dessert.

“Ah, not the correct kind of people for their demographic. You can’t argue with the fact they know their niche.” Was all she responded with, a none committee shrug of her shoulders, refusing to be ruffled by someone who made their living ripping apart her personal life. “Humbled? I’m surprised you know that word. It’s not one that’s ever associated with The Sun let alone the leeches that write for it. Nice try though.” Questionable taste, Zadie had anything but, her taste was impeccable. Especially in fashion but that was hardly what this conversation was about - even though she’d managed to make a name for herself at something she was genuinely good at. The model wasn’t entirely sure the same could be said for Thomas. 

Breaking out into peals of cackling laughter at his hilarious attempt at a joke, shaking her head a little. Jesus this man really had some bloody cheek that was for sure, thinking she’d ever allow him into her personal life close enough to have access to her dating life, hysterical. “I doubt you know the perfect person, in fact I doubt your ability to find the perfect person for my grandmother in your circle of friends. As much as I’d love to date a shit shoveler from your little publication I think I’ll take a pass.” He might think he had a point, but the years Zadie had spent in the media industry meant she knew loopholes that allowed journalists (yes she was being very generous using this term yet again) to write lies like the back of her hand, sadly. One of them being the magic word. Alleged. It was the bane of her existence. 

“No one said beautiful, simply different from the truth.” Then his little slip of information was caught by Zadie, eyebrows popping up slightly, well well well what a turn of events. “I’m sorry, did you just let slip that you’re working on a book? Wow, I wouldn’t have imagined someone who knew the value of keeping things private would be much better at it than that. I can’t wait to read it, is it a kids book? I’m just assuming that’s what it is considering you’re writing ability. Or a toilet book I guess is another option, since people usually read your publication on the loo anyway.” 

  “That is such a controversial yet absolutely stupid thing to say.” Their niche. Using French words to make something awful look acceptable? No hay manera, Thomas bitterly thought. These people really thought themselves to be above the mass, didn’t they? Thomas knew that if he were ever to pay for what he had done, what he was doing, the mass wouldn’t cry over the murder of awful people. The elite had one use, and it was to feed rats and worms. Otherwise, they just kept on living a meaningless parasitical existence, gorging themselves with other people’s sweat and effort. “Wait til I start saying you suffer from cognitive dissonance, because that’s a load of bullshit. You’ve read my articles, you know that they’re good,” you didn’t only read them because the editor’s headline drew you in, you read them from the first to the last word, because he knew what the hell he was doing.

“Your grandmother should stay with her husband,” call him old fashioned, but marriage was too important to be treated like a piece of paper. “Besides, we’re only able to shovel shit because you people are gigantic turds. I wouldn’t boast about it, sweet pea,” he shoved his hands in his pockets, his smug smile returning once again to his face. Truth was, he liked this back and forth, this eternal banter, because it always ended in the same way. The predictability was comforting, and for all  he liked to appear as unstable, he loved his stability.

This would be why her putting one and one together was met with a step back on his end.

Joder.

“It might be a more applicable place to pull on financial status considering it’s a private members club but if you want to take my example and twist it as a personal jab at you then sure - go for it. We all know that’s your MO.” What else was she expecting from him? He was a reported for The Sun after all, it was hardly the times. They had invented Page Three for gods sake. 

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t have a wife, as you very well know. There isn’t much about my life you don’t know at this point, right? Rooting through someone’s bins will keep you informed like that.” Her smile was sweet as pie, quite literally fluttering her eyelashes at him, covering that her single status was actually something that wasn’t Zadie’s favourite thing. She was a social creature after all, and too much time alone allowed her to delve into her own mind until it became detrimental. Hence the alcohol and drugs right? They allowed her blissful mental silence. Even when she was alone in her apartment she’d indulge, it had become her default coping strategy. Thomas didn’t need to know that, she hoped he didn’t know that, but there was no way Zadie could be entirely sure. “Ah, but let’s think about this for a second shall we?” Putting one finger up to stop him talking, head tilting to one side a fraction in a performative way. “Your camera and pen say a lot of things, but most of them are lies, aren’t they Thomas? Especially when it comes to your pen. Embellishment is what you’re hired for, which isa polite way of lying at the end of the day. You know, I’ve always wondered why you bother with ‘reporting’. Everyone knows you’re full of shit baby.” Air quotes sarcastic around his profession. “You should write fictional books instead, at least then you wouldn’t be pretending to have integrity.”  

.

“A private club which makes sure to keep the people out the door,” he raised his eyebrows. £100 a month, plus a £550 fee. Well, call him insane, but he was pretty damn sure most people didn’t have a quarter, or even a fifth of a salary to slap into that sort of bullshit. Oh he could afford it, with his extras but he was not interested. If Isabella had told him this was something she’d like, maybe he’d have given in, but there wasn’t much else that would have pushed him to spend his money on some sense of privilege. “Am I supposed to feel humbled by.... honestly I don’t even know what the argument was here, but it sucked. Badly.” Even by The Sun standards. Or maybe he’d absolutely eluded the point by shoving it back into her face. Oh no, not again.

“And a questionable taste, although I’ve noticed that’s common, and not just among the rich and famous,” what. He didn’t get it. JLo and Ben Affleck? What happened here? Absolutely not. Then, he’d seen non famous friends of his make some interesting choices as well but this was him straying away from topic : annoying her, but also keeping her close. “Now if we’re being honest, you should trust me to be your wingman. I’ll find you the perfect person,” ha! Well that was promising. He didn’t trust many people, he didn’t like many people either, but he was chatty, and people tended to talk around him.

Emilio can count on one hand how many people know his address. Protective of his privacy to a fault, keeping the flat a secret from all but three people serves both as a security measure and to discourage any spontaneous visits. Small though it may be, the four walls are the only thing in the world that well and truly belong to Emilio. To the boy who’d grown everywhere except a home, the independence afforded to him by lock and key is invaluable.

With Thomas however, the message seems to have gotten somewhat lost in translation. Emilio hasn’t had the chance to change out of the gear he’d worn on his last job when the doorbell starts ringing — and doesn’t stop. Keenly aware that neither ignoring nor yelling will get Thomas to fuck off, Emilio reluctantly retraces his footsteps to the front door before opening it.

“Usually when someone doesn’t answer the door it’s because they’d rather be left alone. What do you want? You’re annoying the cat.”

Thomas is well aware he’s lucky to even know where Emilio lives, but not at a single point does that prevent him from acting like an idiot. And with an idiotic grin, he lets himself in, bag of food shielding him from the other’s justified annoyance. “That’s no way to welcome your dear, dear friend. I come bearing gifts.” A pause. “Me, of course, but also some food. You’re welcome.”

who: @thomas-reyes​ where: a cafe nearby st. albans church

“You know you don’t have to believe in God to attend church,” Camilo muses, poking at his rapidly melting ice-cream with a spoon. He’s never been one for sweets, but always one to indulge Thomas’ cravings. “You can come by even if you just want to talk, or if you need some peace and quiet.” An untraditional practice perhaps, but he’s always been a firm believer in the communal part of religion. The church had been a place of safety and refuge for him all throughout his childhood and teenage years — a haven that helped him cope with growing up in a foreign country after having been adopted into a society and culture he never quite fit into.

He sees some of that same unrest in Thomas from time to time. To offer a helping hand is instinctive. “I know you think you’ll spontaneously combust if you cross the threshold. I can wait nearby with a bucket of water if you want.”

“Not this. Not again,” he groans, tilting his head back in despair. Sure enough, Isabella and he got married in a church, but it was mainly because their parents would have unleashed hell’s fury on them both, and because he found those places dramatic. “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” He wasn’t sure why he stopped going. Superstition? Maybe. One thing was sure, he preferred to see Camilo outside of his workplace now.

It’d been a long day, same as every other, but the day wasn’t over yet. A few groceries that needed picking up now that couldn’t wait till the big shop lead to Liz stumbling half asleep around Tesco, basket weighing her down and not even realising she’d made eye contact with someone until they approached her. Oh here we go again. But she was immediately put at ease by his reassurance. Someone had taught him well evidently; either his mother or some girlfriend by Lizzie’s guess.

“Oh um sure!” She smiles, taking a second to think just how best to offer assistance. “We could share the basket? I’m not grabbing much and I don’t think either of us really wants to do the walk of shame back to the door to grab another?”

“Oh nah, I don’t think anyone would want to do that,” he snorts, and using all the agility he can muster, goes on to grab what’s on top his pile, to set it down, piece by piece, by the bananas and the pears. “Again, not to be that guy, but your face kinda looks familiar. You don’t work at...” Well no, if she worked at the Sun, she’d know him, which meant she might have been working with his wife. “You don’t know of a Doctor Morales, do you?” A pause. If she did, she did, if not, he was probably starting to look an awful lot like someone doing small talk in all the worst ways.