"Sorry I'm late, Dyl."
"All is well, you're here now."
Gemma kisses him on both cheeks. Or rather she would be kissing his cheeks if it weren't for that silly beard he insists on sporting, as if he were some kind of hipster instead of a perfectly sensible hedge-fund manager.
The years have been kind to Dylan, who has only grown a little rounder and a lot richer. And since he couldn't have got any sillier, he's precisely as silly as ever. Outwardly Gemma is much the same too, perhaps only a little thinner in the cheeks and hips, which in her opinion can only be a good thing.
"Agnes coming?" he asks.
"I did ask, but she's helping Adrienne with her yoga workshop."
"Shame. Hari?"
"She's outside, making a call."
"Too bad."
"Dylan!"
"Martin's at the bar, shall I introduce you?"
"That would be wonderful."
Gemma wonders which of the men lining the bar might be Dylan's latest and favourite hire. She's looking for a quant, or quantitative analyst, i.e. a nerd, possibly a bit of a whizzkid as well. The thing is, those are much harder to spot than they used to be ten years ago, when Dylan first introduced her to his tribe. Since then geeks have become unaccountably cool, so whilst Gemma can rule out the half a dozen characters at the bar wearing good business suits, that still leaves at least four likely candidates. She rather hopes Martin might be the one with the tortoiseshell glasses and the tousled blonde hair. Or failing that, the one with the expertly crumpled blue linen shirt and matching suede designer trainers.
"Gemma, this is Martin," Dylan says.
Oh. Well. Martin is a genuine vintage geek then, not one of the new cool ones. His striped shirt is too shiny and too formal for his chinos, and too big at the collar. His facial hair is neither a beard nor a stubble, neither full on ginger, nor yet mousy. His handshake is wet and his skin pale. His trainers: knackered and very much non-designer. And his smile, his smile is touchingly, painfully forced and awkward. Poor Martin. Gemma smiles back the smallest, softest of her many smiles, and steps back so as not to scare him any worse.
"How do you do, Martin? It's so lovely to meet you at last."
He mutters something unintelligible in reply and Dylan steps in:
"Soda and lime wedge for you, Gem?"
"Yes, please."
"What'll Hari have?"
"Gin and T, please."
The boys turn to deal with the barmaid and, in Martin's case, to regain their composure. He must be frightfully clever but good God, was Dylan ever this frumpy? Granted, Gemma's improved him immensely over the years. Apart from the beard there's almost nothing she could fault him with anymore. Take his sweater, for instance. Eight years ago it wouldn't even have been some cheap cashmere thing from M&S, it would probably have been a fleece. And now look at him!
Hari joins them just as the boys are turning back from the bar holding two glasses each. Hari's handbag collides with Dylan's right elbow and both he and the bag end up doused in real ale. Thankfully the bag is a beautiful dark red patent leather so the spill drips right off it.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry!" Hari says, and narrowly misses Dylan's elbow again as she reaches inside her bag for a pack of tissues. To look at him you would think it was a gun she was holding out to him, not a Kleenex: Dylan scowls at her, holds his two pint glasses up clear of her head and shrinks back against the bar.
"Put that away," he says.
She does, and carries on apologising.
"Martin, give her her drink,"
Martin does. He mumbles something to Hari.
"And Gem's,"
Gemma receives her drink together with another terrified smile from poor Martin.
"Hold,"
Martin grabs what's left of the two pints Dylan had been carrying. Still scowling, Dylan turns back to the bar for some paper towels and starts patting himself dry. Gemma hopes he'll be less grumpy once he's finished.
"Are you OK, Dylan? I'm so sorry…" Hari is saying.
"Fine."
"Hari, this is Martin," Gemma says.
"Hello," says Hari.
"Hello," Martin says in a growly squeak, and blushes. But unlike Gemma Hari doesn't stop smiling at him, because she can't help it. Hers is the sort of face that hardly ever can stop smiling. Like her namesake, Harinakshi has long-lashed brown eyes, together with full wide lips and round dimpled cheeks. She suits a smile. But people like Martin, Gemma knows, are not used to being smiled at so they should be accustomed to it gently.
"Right, foosball, come on," says Dylan, and they walk towards the table and put down their drinks, thereby staking their claim to the next game. Gemma sees both Hari and Martin take a few greedy gulps and she feels bad for them. It's their first time at the Dog and Fishbone, Martin's first time meeting either of them, it's only the fourth time Hari's met Dylan and she was scared enough of him the first three. The least Gemma can do is explain to them why they've schlepped all this way from Mayfair:
"Dylan and I were graduate trainees around the corner from here. And Kirsty and Scott, who sadly can't join us because of their new baby. We used to come here and we caught a bit of a foosball habit. So even though Scott's the only one who still works in Canary Wharf we all still meet here once a month. Makes us feel younger, I suppose," she says with a gracious nod at Martin and Hari. Tis true the two of them do make her feel old.
"It's a cool place," Hari says, beaming her big bright brown eyes at the brick walls and red-banquetted alcoves. Now would be a good time for Dylan to drop the scowl, Gemma thinks. He doesn't.
"Is that…?"
Everyone turns: Martin's voice, when not all-but-extinguished by shyness, is very deep and loud. He stops because their combined stares have made him blush again behind his gingery stubble.
"Yes?" Hari says. Martin's staring at her handbag, which everyone starts checking for previously overlooked signs of beer damage.
"Is that an Eeyore zip-pull?" Martin manages to say without his voice breaking.
Hari's eyes widen, as does her smile. Gemma, who has by now been reading Winnie the Pooh to three more nephews besides Quentin, thinks she'd know an Eeyore zip pull if one were dangling from Hari's handbag. There simply isn't an Eeyore zip pull dangling from Hari's handbag. There is indeed a zip-pull besides the original Balenciaga one, but it is most certainly not an Eeyore one.
"Oh my God!" Hari cries, which she does when she gets excited, and is only one of the many reasons Dylan dislikes her, "Oh my God, you're into Eeyore?"
Gemma catches Dylan's eye. She wishes she could explain Hari to him - something which, on reflection, she often has to do, not just with Dylan. Right now, however, Gemma is just as dumbfounded as Dylan is. On the plus side, Hari's bag's zip-pull, whatever it is, has made Martin very happy and, at long last, conversationally more effusive.
"Have you ever seen her live?"
Eeyore? Her?
"HyperJapan, last year."
What?
"ananana-nana nananana-nana!" Hari starts singing in a nasal, high-pitched voice.
Or something along those lines. Also she's shaking her head from side to side and waving half closed fists about her face. Martin is doing something similar. And Dylan? Dylan, what do you know: Dylan is smiling.
"The youth of today, hey, Gem?"
"I swear I have no idea..."
"It's J-Pop!" Hari offers by way of an explanation. Which Martin unhelpfully complements with:
"She's a vocaloid."
"A what?"
"A vocaloid!" Hari says, "A computer generated singer, from Japan."
"Why is she called Eeyore?" Dylan asks, as if this were the thing that didn't make sense.
"I-A, eee-ya, she's called IA, not Eyeore,"
Martin and Hari laugh together for a good long while, then Hari pauses for breath and asks Martin:
"Oh my God, so you're into anime as well?"
"Yeah!" Martin says.
As in: hell yeah!
"You cosplay?"
He nods a proud, vigorous nod.
"Oh my God! Who do you cosplay at?"
"Ichigo"
"Bleach Ichigo?"
He nods.
"Oh my God! I cosplay as Momomiya Ichigo!"
Oh my God, thinks Gemma, if she says Oh my God one more time I think Dylan's head might explode.
"Oh my God!" Dylan says to Gemma, throwing his big hands into the air in a mincing imitation of Hari, "She gusplays as Mama Mia Ichiban!" Then, dropping his hands and the silly voice: "Whatever the fuck that means."
"I have no idea either, but there's no need to eff and blind over it."
Hari is showing Martin a picture on her phone, of her wearing a very short pink dress with a corseted bodice and a matching pink bob wig with a fringe, out of which poke two large pink cat ears.
"Fucking told you she was bonkers," Dylan whispers to Gemma.
"Shh!" Gemma says, then, "Hhrrumphh…" as she tries not to laugh. It's very difficult, because on his phone screen Martin is wearing some sort of flowing superhero coat, black and shiny and tied at his less-than-slim waist with a wide white satin kimono belt. He's also wearing a wig, of a brighter and considerably shinier shade of ginger than his own hair. He's carrying a sword almost bigger than he is and looking very, very silly indeed.
"Martin, what the fuck!"
"Dylan!"
She pulls him away from Hari and Martin, who tut at them and move on to discussing wig-care. As their voices trail away Hari is explaining that she swears by keeping hers in the freezer.
"Is that where she keeps her brains as well?" Dylan says to Gemma.
"What, whereas Martin looks sooo clever as Ichiban?"
"I think you'll find that's a beer."
"Whatever. It's utterly ridiculous. He's utterly ridiculous."
"And she's not?"
"How can you even begin to compare them? She's cute in that cat thing! Whereas men can't…"
"Hang on, are you telling me what men can and can't do?"
"Do be sensible, Dyl, what woman in their right mind would…"
"What woman in her right mind would tell a man what men can and can't wear?"
"If you would let me finish, what I was going to say was: that no woman in their right mind would fall for a man the wrong side of slim and dressed like such a buffoon."
"Not if the woman, despite proclaiming herself a feminist, is in fact a closet fattist and sexist of the worst order. You're quite right she would never."
"You know, there is actually a difference between being a feminist and being a slob – or an idiot. Case in point: if Martin carries on in that silly cape-dress-thing I'm afraid no sane woman will ever fall for him! However big that sword he lugs around."
"Ka-waaiii!" Hari is crying, and waving her little fists about again. Gemma and Dylan both turn to look at her.
"Ah, but," Dylan says, "What about Hari? Could she be considered sane of mind?"
"Why won't you lay off her: she's such a nice person!"
"Martin's a very nice person too – but unlike her he has brains. Niceness and brains: they're not actually incompatible. You've been known to show both."
"You just have such a narrow definition of intelligence. Just because I'm good with spreadsheets and Martin with a computer…"
"I see, so what is Hari good with, then? It can't be carrying drinks."
"Maybe it's being nice with people, Dylan, and listening to them – you wouldn't understand."
"Certainly wouldn't," Dylan shrugs. The foosball table has just become free: he calls Hari and Martin to join them.
x
"Newbies vs. oldies," Dylan says, "or Hedgies vs. Queen Bees?"
"What's a Hedgie?" Hari asks.
"A hedge fund manager," Gemma explains, with much the same effect on Hari as Ian's explanation of a vocaloid had on herself earlier.
"Oh," says Hari, "but you guys don't look like what I thought…"
"Don't we?" Dylan asks.
Hari has, yet again, spoken before thinking. Dylan knows full well that she's mortified, so he's making it worse by pretending to be offended. That's just not very nice:
"They're not your garden variety of hedge fund managers, Hari," Gemma explains. "They're quants, they use computers to crunch through lots of big data, so the computers decide what to buy and sell all day. Dylan just makes sure they're always net zero overnight, in case he doesn't fancy showing up for work the next day, and meanwhile he plays online chess until the markets close. Or ultimate frisbee outside, if the weather's good."
"That's about it," Dylan says proudly. The truth is, he's been known to pull all-nighters in the office when he's working on a new investment idea or when a data provider goes on the blink. But such is not the point Gemma is trying to make right now:
"He does somehow find time to text me with the real time profit and loss," she adds, "Except when he's losing money. Any time I don't get a text for two days I know for a fact been he's losing money, so I text him instead."
"You are very good like that," Dylan nods.
"Which I did this very morning, didn't I? How much were you down?"
"Bah, two-fifty, but we closed almost flat."
"That's two hundred fifty thousand pounds, Hari, roughly our earnings after tax last quarter: peanuts."
Hari smiles. See, Gemma tells Dylan with her eyes, she's got it, she's not that dumb. With her voice she says:
"Anyhow. Let's not do that silly boys vs. girls things. Why don't you, Dylan, play with Hari? And I'll play with you, Martin, it'll give me a chance to get to know you better!"
Gemma says this as if she were indeed looking forward to knowing Martin better. Which she is, she is greatly looking forward to taming his shyness out of him, and to making him so at ease with her so that he will wake up tomorrow morning thinking himself a little cooler, and walk a little taller than the day before. Maybe he'll even lose a little weight – one lives and hopes.
Dylan clearly is not loving this plan but tough: Gemma has teamed him up with Hari precisely so he will be forced to work with her, instead of slagging her off for a change. There is only one problem: both she and Dylan have grabbed the five-man and three-man rods in attack, meaning that she is facing Hari and Dylan is playing against Martin. Two beginners stacked up against eight years each of solid foosball practice: this is not going to work. Either she or Dylan have to relinquish the attack position and swap places with their team-mate. Only one of them is gracious enough to do so unprompted:
"Martin, why don't you let me defend? Seeing as I've played Dylan before."
"Hasn't she just…" Dylan stage whispers, while she and Martin swap places.
By way of reply Gemma gives a curtsy, then releases the ball. Martin hits it towards the enemy keeper at a speed so slow, it stops by itself two inches short of the goal. Not before Hari has twice tried, and failed, to intercept it. Though the ball is now stationary, Hari struggles to re-arrange her players so one of them might hit it back into the opposite direction. There is an angry vertical line between Dylan's eyebrows. For a second Gemma fears Hari's going to score an own goal but, thank goodness, she doesn't. Martin does however intercept her shot on his first attempt, and this time he whacks it about four inches to the right of the goal, where it bounces and, finally, lands between Dylan and Gemma's players.
Play suddenly gets a lot faster. There is occasional swearing (by Dylan), some hard thuds, one two three, which he makes when he immobilises the ball before whacking it, and the lovely ricochet sounds of Gemma blocking his shots over and over again. Twice the ball escapes back to the slow side of the table, twice Martin and Hari take an age to send it back their way, then Gemma blocks one more of Dylan's shots and sends it all the way through Hari's goal:
"Jammy," Dylan says, dejected.
Gemma curtsies again:
"One-nil."
By three-two, Hari and Martin are beginning to spend a little bit more time hitting the ball and a little less time swivelling their men round through thin air.
"Ka-waii!" Martin shouts when Hari scores her first goal, from the back line.
"Fuck yeah, whatever that means!" Dylan says. It's so nice seeing him be nice to Hari, finally. Well worth losing a one-point advantage, in fact.
"It means cute," Martin says. Gemma rather thinks he's blushing, but he has the sort of uneven, hypersensitive complexion that makes it hard to tell.
"Thank you!" Hari cries, who has no such issues. Her skin is nutty brown and effortlessly radiant.
Gemma wasn't focusing when Hari's last shot went between her men, but she now considers letting the next shot through on purpose, just to keep the good cheer going. Instead Martin suddenly gets redder, and he starts to fluff so many shots that, far from letting Hari and Dylan win, Gemma has to work hard to keep her team in the game. They lose by one point in the end, but it's worth it just for the high five Dylan gives Hari. They each swap places with their teammates and in the second game, with Gemma in attack and Dylan in defence, the scores are reversed. Gemma can't wait for the decider, but:
"Why don't we let them play it out," Dylan says with a nod at Hari and Martin. Martin's colour, having abated for a while, suddenly rises again. "They could do with some practice."
That is certainly true.
Dylan and Gemma gravitate towards that booth closest to the foosball table which, over a decade, they've come to consider theirs.
"And they could probably do with some time together too," Dylan adds once they're out of earshot.
"Hmm, I'm really not sure I want to encourage this," Gemma replies. Play between Martin and Hari is slower than ever now that they have four rods each to manage, and a lot to discuss.
"Truth is, I'm really not sure I want to encourage it either," says Dylan, "However last time I checked they were both consenting adults, so if he wants to dumb down…"
"Hari is not dumb!"
Dylan purses his lips.
"Honestly, you're such a snob sometimes, Dyl."
"Oh you're right, Gem, I'm so sorry. I should be a snob all the time, like you."
She shakes her head and, at first, does not dignify him with an answer. She is used to such prejudice. In fact she takes it as a compliment.
"It's fine for you to have a go at me, Dyl, really, absolutely fine. But at Hari? If I don't stick up for Hari then who will?"
Dylan leaves one of his are-you-done-yet pauses.
"Gemma."
"Dylan," she replies in the exact same tone.
"Gemma: Hari's mother and father are both gynaecologists sharing a private practice in Gloucester. She told me so last week. She went to a boarding school almost as posh as yours. She's not exactly one of your African Queens, Gem, she doesn't need rescuing from the post-colonial white patriarchy or anything. If she were as clever and determined as you are then she'd have your job, that's all there is to it. But she's dumb and lazy so she's your assistant, and you fawn over her because she's small and pretty. And above all brown."
Dylan is being so unfair, Gemma doesn't even know where to start.
"But now I can see why you don't make her get the coffees," he says, patting at the beer-damp leg of his jeans.
"I don't make her do anything," Gemma says. "Hari is one of our UK Queens now. She works in a supportive environment, where we all expect her to develop and grow."
"Aha, yep, good luck with that."
Gemma takes a sip of sparkling water and, looking at Hari and Martin again, she shakes her head.
"… and that beard, seriously, what is it with you people?"
"Us people?"
"You're quants! You're nerds, geeks! You and Martin are not hipsters, never will be. What is Martin trying to achieve? Why won't you both just shave it off?"
"To annoy you?" Dylan suggests with the smile which, still, so many years on, does spell trouble. "I mean, be honest, Gem: it works a treat."
"Objectively you just looked a lot better without, that's all."
"Fat lot of good that did me, where you're concerned."
Gemma looks him straight in the eye, and shrugs. There's really nothing to be coy about: many years ago Dylan kissed her and she over reacted somewhat and was, in hindsight, really quite rude. Quite out of character, too. He's never going to let her live it down and that's fair enough. It's healthy they can banter about it, really. She takes another sip of water: the ice-cubes have begun to melt and it's now exactly as cool and bubbly as she likes it.
"Besides," Dylan says, "that beard might keep me warm if I move to Switzerland."
"Move to Switzerland? Why would you move to Switzerland?" Gemma says. The screen of her phone has just lit up at the bottom of her handbag and she's wondering whether it could be anything important. Could it be from Nicky Lam? It would be rude to check, of course…
"You see," Dyl says, "I had lunch with this fund-of-fund guy today. They'd like me to join them and move the fund to Geneva."
Gemma snaps back, horror-struck:
"Why on earth would you do that, Dylan?"
"Better tax rate. For the fund and for us - well for me. And skiing. And Mum's got two brothers and some good mates in Bavaria, so in a way I'd be closer to family too."
He cannot be serious.
"So I'm thinking, what with the climate and stuff, perhaps they'd be less beardist over there."
"I am not beardist," Gemma says. "Objectively it just doesn't suit you, that's all."
"You are the Taliban."
"In reverse, yes. I am an anti-beard fundamentalist. Where you're concerned anyway."
"Oh so you have special rules for me? Praise be, I feel special, I really do."
She shrugs again and he smiles. If it weren't for that stupid beard she'd see his mouth and cheeks smile as well as his eyes but yes, here it comes. That's the smile that still spells trouble. Sure enough:
"So anyhow, what's that Adrienne tells me about a meeting with Nicky Lam?"
Five years ago, Dylan made friends with his yoga teacher, Adrienne. One day Agnes tagged along to a class, then took Adrienne for dinner, and the two of them have been an item ever since. A very gossipy item, who between them always manage to keep Dylan - and, presumably, the rest of the clientele of Adrienne's yoga studio – abreast of everything that goes on at Queen Bees. Gemma rarely resents it, but the meeting with Nicky is the greatest piece of news she's had in ages, and she was rather hoping to break it to Dylan herself. Still:
"It's so exciting, isn't it? It's on Monday, can you believe it?"
"Can I believe you blagged your way onto the agenda of someone as high profile as Nicky Lam? Yes, Gemma Woodhouse, I can just about picture you having a go. My worry is what you're planning to ask her."
"Your worry?"
"You're not going to ask her to invest, are you?"
"Wh… why else do you think I want to meet her?"
"'Cos you've got a big fat wet crush on her?"
"Oh, come on, who wouldn't?"
"Sorry, Gem, not my type. Doesn't strike me as much of a laugh."
"Probably not but pray, why shouldn't she invest in Queen Bees?"
"Oh, Gem, we've been over it: you need Venture Capital like a hole in the head. All VCs do is bring in a tiny amount of actual capital, load your business up with expensive debt, pay themselves a load of dividends with it and laugh all the way to the bank."
"Some VCs. OK, a lot of VCs do that, but not Nicky, she's not like that and that's another reason I've got a bit fat crush on her."
"And I'm sure she's going to love you, Gem. But she's not going to love your margins - all your charm and considerable persuasive powers notwithstanding."
Yes, and all of Dylan's considerable charm notwithstanding, this argument of theirs is as old at Queen Bees itself. It got tedious seven and a half years ago:
"Oh don't you start, Dylan, if I had a penny for every time I've explained to you that…"
"If you had a penny then your margins would double overnight, which would be awesome."
"Ha ha! Well excuse me if I'm not running a bl… , that is I'm not running a jolly hedge fund, Dylan. I'm trying to be a socially responsible entrepreneuse and I think I'm doing that pretty well, thank you very much. Responsible investing is all the rage nowadays, so I do expect that Nicky will love us."
"Oh I'm sure she will," Dylan says, "and nice necklace by the way."
It's still the same, in fact the only necklace he's ever seen her wear. She sighs and lets it drop, and with her eyes wipes that look off his face.
"I don't understand," he says, "You're the one always telling me that I'm lazy."
"Aha," Gemma says, because it's true. It's true that he's lazy and it's also true that she's been known to point that out to him. As in:
"Remind me which one of us spent half of 2015 throwing frisbees around during office hours?"
"Ultimate frisbees."
"And who then dropped out of the European quarter-finals to go fly a kite?"
"The wind was perfect, and the fund still returned cash plus nine percent that year. I have zero regrets."
"Good for you, then."
"But I'm starting to think you're the lazy one around here, Gem, and nice necklace."
She's just about ready to throttle him with it:
"Excuse me?"
"I think you're getting lazy."
"Seriously? Coming from you, Dyl, that's a bit rich, isn't it?"
"So sorry, I thought you liked rich."
She shakes her head, and drops her necklace before he tells her to with his mouth. His eyes got there a while back.
"Hey, look," he says, "I'm sorry. But the whole time I've known you you've always worked so bloody hard, I can't understand why you won't just make your money, your business's money, work a little bit harder, and pay to expand into France all by yourself, that's all."
"Is it? Is that all? Just money? Money's never just money, Dylan. Maybe it is for you, all just equations and models and computer screens, but to me money is people. If I want Queen Bees' money to work harder then Hari will have to work even harder, and Agnes, and all our suppliers will have to make their employees work harder, and that's not why Agnes and I started this business. We started it to give people livelihoods, and independence, and dignity. Not to squeeze the last percent out of our profit margins. Hopefully Nicky Lam will understand this, and help up grow and give even more people dignified livelihoods."
"OK, well, best case scenario: Nicky will invest, in exchange for a majority stake, then start telling you how to run Queen Bees. I.e. she'll tell you what I've been telling you for years: to start making some bloody profit out of it. Except that I've always told you for free but she'll take half your hard earned divvies. Why would I want her to do that to you, Gem? And more importantly, why would you let her do that to Queen Bees? Why?"
This is a rhetorical question, hence she's going to stare it out rather than grace it with an answer. But Dylan won't even let her win the staring contest, he shakes his head and says:
"Baah, what am I worrying about: most likely Nicky won't be touching your business with a barge pole. You'll be fine."
That look on his face: it's as if he utterly despairs of her! Well sometimes she despairs of him too, what with the unwanted, misplaced and, frankly, patronising advice, and the obsession with profit and that stupid, stupid beard!
Oh, wait a minute…
"I bet your beard I'm right, Dylan: Nicky will invest."
"Gem. Don't do this. I swear I'd be proud to lose that beard any day, for the good of Queen Bees, but you don't want to lose this bet as well."
"Seriously, Dylan, thanks for the support and everything. Remind me what your motto is, again?"
"All is well?"
"That's right, Dylan. All is well, and I am going to win this."
"You're not. Don't do this, Gem. Please."
"What, the big bad hedge fund trader is scared of losing a bet to a girl?"
"Evidently not, you know I always lose."
That's right. Though usually it's coffees she makes him bet, not his beard. There's no counting how many decaf double oat macchiatos he's had to buy her over the years, which is rather nice when they bump into each other in Mayfair. Although the computers do all the trading for him these days, Dylan is still a trader at heart. That is, he still finds that putting a stake on things makes them more interesting. She can't believe it's taken her this long to think of making him stake his beard but: better late than never. Golly, she really is on a winning streak today!
"And… you'd still be betting the usual?" Dylan checks with a mix of dread, despair and disbelief on his face. Gemma finds it as unattractive as it is unfamiliar. Seriously, what a stupid question:
"Of course I do! Who cares? I never lose."
He looks down, shakes his head, sighs, then looks back up looking much more like his normal, trouble-spelling self:
"OK, Gem. Remember you're the one who asked for this."
Copyright Mel Liffragh 2021, all rights reserved.
Updated weekly on Fridays, cross posted on AO3