“Let’s play a game,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied, thinking Game? What game? I hate games. What’s wrong with him?

“Turner, Hiddleston, Fassbender?”

Oh, I thought, an insecurity game. An ego game. I see where this is headed.

I played along. “Fassbender.”

He looked mildly surprised. Like he thought I’d go Turner.

“Turner’s vapid. Hiddleston’s scrawny. Fassbender’s game.”

He pondered for a moment.

“Fassbender, Clooney, Firth?”

I didn’t have to think. “Firth.”


“Yes.” The finality in my tone stopped him asking any more questions about that choice.

I watched him, and saw the crafty look flicker across his face. Here we go, I thought. Here’s what he’s building up to. The momentous question. I sighed inwardly at his transparency. At least I’d played the second round right. At least he knew I could answer quickly and resolutely.

He smirked as he began the next trio of names.

“Firth, Theroux,”

I stopped him. “Which one?”

He blinked. “What do you mean, which one?”

“Louis, Justin, or Marcel?”

He frowned. Illiterate in the Theroux clan.


“Okay,” I said. “Continue.”

“Firth, Theroux,” he paused, “or me?”

I reached out a hand and gripped his wrist.

“Darling,” I said. “You, of course.”