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Lily doesn't see him coming until he's right-bloody-there, directly in her face, and there's no escaping him after that.
It's Beatrice's birthday, so they're in Beatrice's regular, a place that could be called a dive bar if one were feeling generous, which Lily isn't. More accurately, the pub is trying to be a dive bar and attaining the barest minimum of success. It has everything a person might recognise from the movies: an old-fashioned jukebox, neon light fixtures and various iterations of 'Route 66' on the wall, for that American road trip feel, but this is Islington, not Oklahoma City, and the overall effect is rather ruined by the church garden and the Carluccio's on the other side of the street.
Regardless of the aesthetic of the bar, it can't be blamed for the opportunistic sleaze who has chosen to sidle up to her now. Deviants and perverts frequent every pub in London, and tonight is her turn to catch a mouldy old boot while she's fishing for salmon.
Not that Lily's on the prowl. She's happily single, thank you very much, but if she wants to wear tight jeans and show off her new haircut, why shouldn't she? Can't a girl be fabulous without every reprobate within a fifty-metre radius assuming that she's all dolled up especially for them?
Evidently not.
"Alright, gorgeous," he says, and slaps the bar with an unnecessary amount of force—look at me, I am a MAN —not a modicum of subtlety to his mating cry. He crams his large, muscular body between Lily and the bloke on the next stool over, and already his chest is pressed against her shoulder. "I'm Paul. Fancy a drink?"
"No, thank you," she says, though not unkindly.
"'Course you want one. What are you having?"
"No, thank you," she repeats, and swivels her stool in the other direction. He circles her immediately.
"What are you doing, drinking all by yourself?"
"Waiting for someone."
"Let me buy you another drink."
"I can pay for my own."
"You're not being very nice," he says, yet he's still undeterred. He won't be, of course. Lily can tell by the cut of him, by the way he holds himself, by the offensive slogan on his too-tight shirt and by the obscene amount of cologne he's wearing, or showered in, by the smell of him. Only a tsunami will prevent this clown from thrusting his middle finger directly in the face of courtship. Lily is a self-sufficient woman who needs a man about as much as she needs a knitting needle to the eye, but she's still a romantic at heart. She's seen all the films. She has let out a sigh at Mr. Darcy's rain-soaked proposal and not-so-secretly envied Kat when Patrick Verona serenaded her at school. She has her standards—a salmon, not a mouldy old boot—and men like this are the reason she never waits at bars alone.
She doesn't respond, so he leans closer, one hand on the bar and the other coming to rest on the back of her stool. His thumb brushes against the curve of her bottom.
"Give me a smile," he instructs.
The queue for the ladies' room is really long. Beatrice probably hasn't gotten in yet, and the rest of her guests are in a booth on the other side of the bar. Damn her best friend's unreliable, traitorous bladder.
He starts to stroke her back.
"Right. No, I'm off," says Lily, and slides off her stool. She can buy another drink later, she thinks, or ask Sirius to get one for her if Creepy Paul lurks by the bar, but he blocks her path immediately, as if he was prepared for her to take flight. He's tried this move before, and failed, she surmises. Why he's trying it again is beyond her understanding.
"Where are you going?" he says. She can see the cracks in his jovial demeanour, the slow creep of irritation in his eyes and the downward slant of his mouth. It won't be long before he turns.
"Away."
"Away where?"
"Literally anywhere will do."
"I just want to talk."
"You can talk to yourself," she says, "or to anyone else in this room. I want to leave, please move."
"Don't be a bitch," he says, really turning on the charm now, "and let me buy you a drink."
She rolls her eyes and tries to move past him, but he won't budge, so she circles the stool and tries to go the other way. He blocks her again, bleating an entreaty, and she's seriously considering reaching into her purse and smacking him with her keys when a familiar voice behind him says, "What's going on?"
Her aggressor turns around and Lily, impeded by her less-than-Amazonian height, cranes her neck to see past him.
James Potter is standing a couple of feet away. He's clearly just come through the door because he's wearing his coat, and his black hair is damp and gleaming in the hot pink glow of the overhead lights, though by no means less chaotic than usual. Droplets of rain cling to his shoulders, and his brow is furrowed in evident concern.
If Lily's first thought is thank God, her second is oh God, because what is James Potter doing here and why didn't Beatrice tell her and did he and his perfectly formed jaw step right out of a magazine in that fucking coat or what?
But she must focus, because her new stalker needs to be dealt with as a matter of priority.
"Hey!" cries Creepy Paul, his tone cheerful. Lily can picture the recognition in his eyes, though she can't see it. "I know you! Aren't you that—"
"Are you alright, Lily?" says Potter, outright ignoring Creepy Paul. "Is he bothering you?"
Lily is a quick thinker—she has to be, given her job—and she rarely struggles to spot an opportunity. James Potter has just given her one such opportunity. What is she supposed to do, ignore it?
"Darling!" she sings, her voice twee. With her overzealous admirer distracted, she's able to push past him, and catches Potter's hand in her own. "I've been waiting on my own for ages!"
She hasn't seen Potter in over a year, and he does blink a little confusedly when their hands touch, but that's a momentary lapse, from which he recovers nicely. He laces his fingers through hers and tugs her gently out of reach of Creepy Paul.
"Sweetheart," he says, as adoringly as Lily could have wished, "I'm so sorry I was late. Was this bloke harassing you?"
He's a clever man, that James Potter. A definite salmon. The kind of salmon that needs to be ordered in advance from M&S, the kind that comes with a luxuriant, hand-made dressing and sets you back £40. Lily had a monster crush on him, back when he was a regular teenage idiot who pulled more pranks than he did girls, but she never told him, and they've never been more than friends. Nowadays, he's Britain's golden boy, Prince Charming in a pair of spectacles, so famous that he doesn't need to look at regular women twice because he's got a pool of a far higher level to choose from.
Nowadays, her monster slumbers, but it cracks open an eye and sniffs the air on the rare occasion that she and James meet, or when she sees him on the telly, or on the cover of a magazine, or—okay, maybe during her Google searches, which are more frequent than she'd care to admit. She might have saved a couple of photos. She might have faked a cold to skive off work because she'd stayed up until the wee hours to watch his 200m final, only to end up with a sore throat and some very angry neighbours because she'd screamed so loud when he won.
As crushes go, it's not as all-consuming as it was during her adolescence, but the power of lust can only diminish if it's not satiated for ten years. Holding his hand makes her feel a little topsy-turvy, but that's alright. She can use that to her advantage here.
"You her boyfriend?" says Creepy Paul.
"I'm hardly her fucking father, am I?" says Potter pleasantly.
"Oh, right," says the cretin, his eyes widening. "No disrespect, mate, I didn't know." He chuckles. "You should keep better tabs on her."
Lily's mouth drops open. "Excuse me?"
"She's not a toddler," says Potter. "Maybe you should leave women alone when they ask you to."
Creepy Paul looks Potter up and down, and Lily can see the cogs in his brain working furiously—go back to his seat like a good little boy or pick a fight with an Olympic gold medallist. Potter may be a wiry chap, but he's tall and strong, and one hell of an athlete, and Creepy Paul clearly doesn't fancy his chances. He turns and strides off to join his mates, though not before telling them both to go and fuck themselves.
Lily expels a sigh when he leaves. Now that problem is removed, there's only the issue of Potter, who is here, inexplicably, having appeared out of nowhere to play her knight in shining armour. Or her salmon in a slightly-damp, cashmere coat.
"Thank you for coming to my rescue," she says, with a smile. "Your heroism is much appreciated."
He smiles back at her. "You're welcome, although, er...it's not like you need rescuing," he adds, red spots appearing in his cheeks. "I mean, you definitely don't, but it never hurts to have help."
"Don't worry, I get it," she says. "I didn't know you were coming tonight."
"I didn't either, but I got back from Berlin a day early and Sirius said that you'd be here, so obviously I had to come immediately."
Lily snickers at his joke, though the pesky occupants of her stomach start skittering about, unwanted fiends. She swats his arm with her free hand. "Winning a gold medal makes you a smooth talker, does it?"
"Dunno," he says, and contemplates the prospect for a moment, "I reckon I'm about five percent smoother than I was before."
"Smoother than the bloke who told me I looked like a bear?"
"I was trying to tell you that I liked your hair."
"With chips in your mouth."
"That was the old me. The new me would leave chips out of the equation." He slides a cheeky grin in her direction. "See? At least five percent smoother."
"The new you isn't allowed to eat chips because he's an Olympic medallist, so I wouldn't count that as sufficient proof."
"I can have chips if I want, I'll have you know. My assistant—"
"Your handler."
"Fine, Remus lets me have junk food whenever I hit my targets for the month."
"And your targets are?"
"Depends," says James. "Sometimes it's just training, other times it's 'don't wind me up for a week.' He's drunk on power."
"Trust you to drop Remus in it because he's not here," she accuses. "I'm going to have to disagree with you on the smoothness front. I think you're actually getting worse."
"But you're still holding my hand."
She glances at their entwined fingers. His hand was cold when she grabbed it, but it's warmer now, and quite comforting.
"You're still holding mine."
"I was waiting for you to let go, didn't want to be rude."
"I can't let go, Creepy Paul's still here," she says, and looks up, inclining her head towards the corner where Creepy Paul is sitting with his mates, necking a pint and staring at her. "I'm not letting you out of my sight as long as he's lurking around, Potter, not unless you've got a real girlfriend who might get the wrong idea."
He grins at her. "No girlfriend."
"Then I can be your girlfriend until he leaves, right?" She smiles sweetly up at him. "There's a drink in it for you if you say yes."
"I'm drinking water."
"I'll get them to stick a cocktail umbrella in your glass."
Potter laughs. "Alright, Evans, you can be my bloody girlfriend."
"OH MY GOD!" cries Beatrice, who must have taken lessons in stealth from Creepy Paul, because she's just appeared from out of nowhere. "It's actually happening!"
"Happy Birthday, Booth," says Potter loudly. "I'm pretending to be Lily's boyfriend because she got accosted by an aggressive pervert."
"What's finally happening?" says Lily.
"Oh," is Beatrice's flat reply. She toys with the thin chain that hangs around her neck. "Christmas. It's finally a month away."
For some reason, she throws Lily a rather nasty look, then glares at Potter, her brown eyes narrowed. "So you noticed she was in trouble and came running, did you?"
"Er—" says Potter, raking a hand through his hair. "I'd literally just come in, so she wasn't hard to miss."
"I see." Her eyes flick to their hand-holding, which is ongoing. "Look at you two, holding hands. Cute. You look like a real—who decided on that?"
"I did," says Lily.
"Did you, now?" Beatrice is nodding aggressively, her brown ponytail bobbing up and down. "Did you? Did you? How interesting."
"Bea," Lily begins, frowning, "did someone offer you something while you were in the toilet?"
"Nothing but hope, my darling," says Beatrice sadly. "Nothing but hope."
*
Beatrice takes them back to the booth and they explain their hand-holding to their mates, which makes them the butt of a plethora of jokes that get tiring after a couple of minutes, so James gets up abruptly and moves to another table, tugging Lily along with him. They leave to a chorus of wolf-whistles but Lily doesn't care because she has him all to herself for once—at least, she does at intervals, because a group of giggling girls catch sight of him and keep staggering over to ask for selfies and offer him drinks.
Eventually, he tells them, smiling politely, that he's with his girlfriend, actually, and do they mind giving them some privacy? The girls leave at his request, calling Lily names under their breath, for which James is comically apologetic and Lily is secretly delighted, smug, and a whole host of other self-satisfied feelings.
James doesn't stay for long because he has a schedule to follow in the morning, but he spends his entire evening with her, catching up on bits and pieces. He asks her a lot of questions about her work, and her life, and if she's happy and if everything is working out the way she planned. He has not, despite his claims, gotten any smoother, though success seems to have awoken a modesty he didn't possess as a teenager—he's uncharacteristically shy when she congratulates him for his medals. Neither of them notice when Creepy Paul leaves with his equally creepy mates, and when James gets up to go, Lily plasters a smile over her disappointment and makes some quip about how she probably won't see him until next December.
She doesn't ask him out or get his number, even though she wants to, even though she tells herself during every chance encounter that today will be the day she does it, and lets him go with a quick, friendly hug. Par for the course, really. At least she can be relied upon to be consistent in her cowardice. That doesn't comfort her for the next few days, and she moons a bit, much to the annoyance of Mary, who lives with her, and to the amusement of Beatrice, who moved out six months ago to live with her boyfriend, and tells her it's her own fault.
Granted, not having his number isn't the end of the world. Some of her friends have it and she could just ask them, but that's such an obvious move. She wants to be nonchalant about the whole thing, and while she could carelessly ask him for his number in person because "you're my friend" and "we should hang out more," she's not sure if she can inject the same indifference into "I hunted down your number from a mate because you might be the salmon I've been looking for." She steers clear of appealing to Beatrice or Mary. It's safer that way.
At least, it is until five days later, when her arse is soundly bitten for her carelessness.
It's a cold, wet, perfectly ordinary day at work when Mary calls her. Lily doesn't answer it, because she's preparing to meet with a client. Shortly afterwards, she gets a call from Beatrice, which she also ignores because she's now heading into the meeting. She doesn't check her phone again until after lunch, and finds to her surprise that she has over twenty missed calls from Mary, Beatrice, her sister, Remus Lupin and a couple of unknown numbers, and assumes, like any normal person would, that someone has died.
The phone rings again as she's scrolling through her missed calls. Mary. She answers immediately.
"Is everything okay?" she says in lieu of a greeting, her phone pressed to her ear.
"YOU'RE IN HEAT!" Mary bellows down the phone. "YOU, LILY EVANS, ARE IN HEAT!"
Though relieved that nobody they know is dead, Lily is mildly taken aback. Does Mary think she's a dog? "What?"
"HEAT MAGAZINE! YOU AND JAMES! LOOK AT THEIR WEBSITE!"
She's standing, but she drops into her chair immediately and rests her phone on the desk, setting it to speaker mode. She has no more meetings today, and nobody will disturb her in her chambers without knocking first. She hastily unlocks her computer.
"It's an entire article!" Mary is tittering now. "They have a whole piece on you! Listen to this! 'The petite barrister, 26, has been making Potter's pulse race off the track for several months, but so far they've kept their relationship secret.' They've got pictures of you together!"
Lily doesn't reply because she's busy pulling up the website, where she's immediately greeted with several photographs of her and James from Saturday. Considering they were taken in a bar, at night, and probably on someone's camera phone, they're remarkably clear shots.
They're holding hands in almost every photo. Lily groans.
"'A source close to the couple spoke exclusively to Heat,'" Mary continues, tittering down the line. "'James and Lily have been close friends since secondary school, and they both carried a torch for one another. I knew it was only a matter of time before their friendship would develop into something more. They're completely in love, and we're all so happy for them.' This is hilarious!"
"We're not in love!" Lily squeaks, scrolling further down the page. As far as she's aware, the only torch James Potter has ever carried was the Olympic torch. She knows this because she watched him do it on the news. "What source? What—how did they get pictures of us at school?"
"They don't need a source, they make this shit up." A pause. "You've got nobody to blame but yourself, though."
"What?! Why?"
"Because you held hands with a famous Olympian in public, and you looked bloody convincing. Did you think nobody would notice?"
Scowling, she scrolls through the rest of the article. Aside from the obligatory school shots, every other photo is of the two of them at the bar, smiling slyly at each other over their conjoined hands, so convincing on every front that if she didn't know it was all for a ruse, she'd probably believe that they were together. If these photos were of Potter and another girl, Lily would be angry-chomping her way through a butter croissant right at this minute.
"I didn't know you were considering marriage," Mary is saying. "Name one of your children for me, yeah? I'm the one who told Sirius to invite him."
"Shut up," says Lily. "I need—I need—"
"James Potter's lean, muscled body?"
"I need his number," she finishes. "I need to speak to him. We've got to—I dunno. Do you have his number?"
"Beatrice does. She says he doesn't answer calls from numbers he doesn't know, though. Because he's famous, and all. You may have missed that."
"Tell her to text him. Now. Tell her to text him and tell him to expect my call today, then send me his number."
"Alright," says Mary. "Jesus, Lily. Calm down."
"No, I won't calm down," Lily contests. She feels very hot as she moves her mouse to scroll back up through the offending article. She feels like her carefully hidden feelings have been splashed all over the media, and everyone she knows is going to see it, and it's just so embarrassing. "The only magazine I should be featured in is the New Law Journal, not a gossip rag that holds a ‘Weird Crush' contest every bloody year."
"Mine is David Mitchell," Mary sighs. "Who's yours?"
"I want his number, Mary. Goodbye."
Almost as soon as Lily hangs up, her phone rings again and she answers it automatically, without paying attention to the caller's name.
"So," says Petunia, and immediately her pursed lips and clenched, angular jaw are evident through the phone. "When were you going to tell me that you were in an important relationship?"
Lily rubs an eye with the palm of her hand, unthinkingly smudging her mascara, so now she looks like a racoon on top of everything else.
"Tuney," she says gently. Her sister is fragile (dramatic) and sensitive (takes every-tiny-fucking-thing-personally), so this situation will need handling with kid gloves. "It's not what it looks like."
"I'll tell you what it looks like," says Petunia. "It looks like you're too ashamed of your own family to introduce them to your famous boyfriend. Need I remind you that I know James Potter? We know his family. He used to hang out on our road kicking that stupid football around with his friends. Just because his father invented hair straighteners—"
"Hair gel, Tuney. And he didn't invent—"
"That doesn't mean that we're not good enough for him! I'll remind you that my fiancé is a business-owner and he's only thirty-three! Anyone can win a gold medal, all he does is run around!"
The absurdity of this is too much for Lily, who presses her lips together to suppress a laugh. Unfortunately, Petunia takes her silence as an admission of guilt.
"You'll bring him to dinner."
Her desire to guffaw at her sister's stupidity vanishes like a popped soap bubble. "What?"
"I've spoken to Vernon," Petunia sniffs. "He's changed the reservation, which was difficult, by the way, considering how close to Christmas we are. If James Potter loves you as much as he apparently does, he'll cancel whatever silly plans he has and come with you."
"Petunia no," says Lily, waving a hand in the air, as if that would help. "No. No. No, you don't understand—"
"It's not up for debate," says Petunia coldly. "We'll see you next Friday. Text me and let me know what gift to purchase for James."
She sniffs once again and hangs up, leaving Lily staring blankly at her phone.
*
Potter's number arrives in her inbox promptly, courtesy of Beatrice, but Lily doesn't call him until after she's gotten home. She had actual work to do for the rest of the afternoon after losing time to that sodding gossip rag, but she's also terribly nervous, too nervous, in fact, to revel in finally having his bloody number because the person who sent those photos to Heat magazine—she suspects one of the gaggle of giggling girls—has squashed her hopes of engaging him in a text conversation and being so effortlessly witty that he falls for her over the course of one afternoon.
It's not until after Lily takes a hot bath and consumes a generous glass of wine that she feels ready to call him, wrapped in her dressing gown and perched uncomfortably on the edge of her bed like an anxious cat, waiting to dart away from a source of danger. Mary is expelled, not just from her bedroom, but from the flat, and cheerfully calls her a loon before she leaves for the evening.
Potter answers on the first ring, rudely interrupting her deep, soothing breath. "Alright, Evans?"
"I—hey," she says. "How did you know it was me?"
"Booth gave me your number," he explains. "I would've rang earlier, but she said that you're insanely busy being taken out to dinner by wealthy businessmen."
"That's—" At least one person in this bloody city is working with her, not against her. "She's got quite the imagination."
"Good, I'd be gutted if you were cheating on me."
There goes all her carefully crafted poise. She laughs, to seem disaffected, but she's covering her eyes with her other hand. "This is all my fault, isn't it?"
"'Course not."
"It is, though. I shouldn't have been so careless, it's just—I dunno—I didn't really think? I forget that you're, y'know—"
"Really handsome, I know."
"Not treated to the same level of privacy as the rest of us, but well done on making that leap."
"It's not like I stopped you. I could have stopped you, but I didn't. Not entirely your fault."
"You were defending my honour from Paul the blowjob hunter. Do you think he got one, in the end?"
"What? A blowjob?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Yeah, from his vacuum cleaner," says James dryly, and she laughs again. "Thanks, by the way."
"Thanks for what?"
"For forgetting," he says. "I mean, about the whole fame thing. People can get really fixated on it, and it's weird."
"Oh. Well, I mean, I've known you since we were kids, practically."
"Yeah."
They lapse into silence.
There's a lot that Lily wants to say, now that she's got him on the phone, now that she knows he's not upset because she landed him in a maelstrom of gossip. She's known him for a long time, and watched a lot clips of him on YouTube—usually when she's drunk or had a terrible date, or both—and it's clear that his personal life isn't up for discussion with Joe Public. She should be working out diversion tactics, or whatever famous people are supposed to work out when unfounded gossip hits the press. He probably has a publicist of some sort who deals with this, whereas she has no support at all. She can't ask her people to contact his people because she's her people, so she needs to figure this out with him, or with his publicist, or whatever, but it seems so cold to call him for that reason alone, especially since she'd rather be calling him for any other reason.
It's ridiculous, really. Lily can stride into a court of law wearing a silly wig and dominate the room, but she can't meander her way through a bloody rumour. Never mind that she wishes it were true.
"So," she says, her foot tapping an offbeat rhythm on the floor. "My sister phoned this afternoon and gave me a right telling off."
"Let me guess—Petunia thinks she missed out on free tickets to Brazil, and she's really mad at you for holding out on her."
"Maybe she's afraid that I'll get to ride in the back of a limo before she does."
"Maybe she's always wanted to date someone famous, but instead she's had to settle for—"
"A perpetually enraged walrus who sells drills for a living."
"Really?" He snorts. "Few people get to meet their equals in life. I'm thrilled for her."
That makes them both laugh, and Lily is feeling much calmer because James isn't mad at her, and he's not trying to fend her off with a publicist, and they're okay.
"You wouldn't believe her, though," she tells him, falling backwards on her bed, her damp hair fanning out around her. "First, she accused me of being too ashamed of my family to introduce you. Then she acted like your gold medals were no big deal. Then she ordered me to bring you to this dinner thing we're doing next Friday, and then she hung up on me. It was like I was a naughty child and she was my mum and I'm so grounded when I get home."
There's a beat of silence before James responds. "You're going to dinner with your sister?"
"Yeah, it's like a bi-monthly thing. She insists on it. I hate going, but she drops her guilt bombs and I always end up giving in. It was okay until she met Vernon, but now it's insufferable."
"What's he like?" he says. "I mean, aside from the enormous tusks."
"Oh, he hates me. Doesn't like that I've evolved beyond gender roles of the nineteenth century, and his hate has rubbed off on Petunia. Every time we go to dinner she pretends to worry about how I'm going to be alone forever and how nobody will want to marry me."
"That sounds like shit. Why can't you cancel?"
"Because of the guilt. It used to make my mum happy for us to spend time together, and I guess I don't want to offend her memory." She sighs. "What can you do, though? That's family."
James doesn't respond for several seconds, and for a moment Lily wonders if the call has cut out, but she can still hear his television in the background.
"Er, Potter? Are you—"
"I could go with you."
She sits up again like a wooden puppet being jerked on a string. "Come again?"
"If she's as awful as you say," says James, speaking slowly. "I could go with you. To the dinner. Just to mess with her, nothing serious, but it's not like she'd know that if you didn't get a chance to tell her."
"Oh."
"It's a stupid idea, right? It sounded stupid as soon as I said it."
"No—it's just—we wouldn't be able to straighten things out. With the press, I mean. Right?"
"Er, yeah. No. We wouldn't." He laughs. "Shows you how used to being famous I am. Never mind, it was a stupid—"
"I'm fine with that," she says quickly.
"Are you?"
"Yeah," she says, and her face is flaming, but who cares? He can't see her. "I mean, okay, we could make a statement denying it, but the press and the public are just going to believe whatever they like, and after Saturday…"
"After Saturday?"
"I was just thinking earlier that we don't get to see each other enough-"
"You're right," he says immediately. "We should fix that."
That, of course, makes her feel as topsy-turvy as she felt when she was holding his hand.
"Yeah," she agrees. It's miraculous, really, that she hasn't tripped over her own tongue. "Plus, if we don't confirm or deny anything, all they can do is speculate, and then when you start dating Emilia Clarke or whoever—"
James laughs loudly.
"—they'll all assume that we split and I'll be forgotten about. I can't compete with Emilia Clarke, James. Nobody can compete with Emilia Clarke."
She expects him to make a joke, but he doesn't. "You never call me that."
"Call you what?"
"James," he says. "You've always called me Potter, mostly when you were telling me off."
"Yeah, well, you're my boyfriend, according to the Bauer Media Group, I might as well start using your first name."
"You can't go back on that. We've officially left surnames behind forever, and this call is legal proof."
"It's not legal unless you record it," she counters. "Which you need my permission to do."
"Shut up, Ally McBeal. I can beat you in a race."
"You can beat Usain Bolt in a race; that's hardly a fair comparison."
"That's nowhere near as insulting as you tried to make it sound."
"Yeah? Well, shut up, I'm out of retorts. Come to dinner with me and my crazy sister."
"Since you put it so nicely, I guess I can keep up the ruse until Emilia makes her interest known."
"I wouldn't dare stand in the way of your inevitable celebrity marriage."
"You said it was next Friday, right?"
"Yeah." She glances quickly at the calendar on her wall to double-check, and finds a hastily scrawled angry face under December 9th. "I can text you the restaurant details when Petunia sends them. It's in London somewhere, so it shouldn't be hard to get to."
"Cool. Anything else I should know going in?"
"No, just—actually, yeah. Petunia wants to buy you an obligatory 'sorry you're stuck with my horrid little sister' Christmas gift, which means she'll definitely be expecting one from you, but I'll buy and wrap it and you can hand it to her."
"Okay."
"And—er—just so you know, she thinks you love me."
"I obviously do love you, Evans, since we've been together for months. Do you even read the papers?"
"Firstly, it's Lily. Secondly, shut up. Do you think you can pretend for one evening?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can manage. I'm sure you can recall my amazing performance in the year 8 musical."
"You were a mute stag."
"Antlers suit me, don't be jealous."
*
On the night of their dinner with her sister, James proves his commitment to teaching Petunia a lesson by hiring a flashy town car to take them to the expensive restaurant that Vernon picked at the last minute. It's a change from the original venue which ‘didn't have space', but Lily suspects that this is a lie, and Vernon has picked a fancier place because he's expecting James to pay. The vehicle causes quite a stir when it pulls up outside Lily's building, particularly when James steps out of it, wearing an expensive, well cut suit that makes Lily feel frumpy in her simple grey dress.
Luckily, she watches him arrive from her bedroom window and has time to change into a slinkier, sexier number before she goes downstairs, grinning to herself at the thought of her sister's inevitable disapproval. Petunia is not one for ostentatious displays, but if the whole point of their ruse is to mess with her head, Lily might as well go all out.
"Is this all for my sister's benefit?" she asks him as she steps outside. "Or mine?"
James, who is leaning against the car door with his hands in his pockets, shoots her a crooked grin, ignoring the two boys who have stopped and are valiantly trying to take a photo of him without attracting attention. As tailored as he is, he's made no attempt to tame his unruly locks and he looks sort of, perhaps, completely gorgeous, in an unconventional, devastating kind of way.
And Lily gets to pretend to be his girlfriend for the entire night. Being the subject of outrageously false gossip has its perks.
"This is all for your sister," he says. "Best not to assume that I'm this fancy. I'd much rather be headed to McDonald's in jeans."
"And no town car?"
"I'd keep the car. Imagine hitting the drive-thru in this."
She comes to a standstill in front of him. "As if you're allowed to eat at McDonald's."
"I'm not, but I sometimes press myself up against their windows."
"What a treat for the diners."
"Puts them right off their nuggets."
His tie sits a little crooked, so she reaches out and adjusts it for him. She swears she hears his breath hitch, but she's probably imagining it. She's probably too hopeful. Fake girlfriend, not real. She must remember that it's all for a ruse, because it would be so easy to slip.
"I don't really believe that," she says, and slips immediately. "You look fantastic."
"That's just the suit," he says, though he seems pleased. "And the driver. He's got a peaked cap."
"Nah, it's you. You'd look good out of it," she says, and her tongue glues itself to the roof of her mouth when he raises his eyebrows. "I mean—"
James starts to laugh.
"You know what I meant!"
"That you want to see me naked? Yeah, I got that."
"I do not!"
"I won't object if you do, but it would definitely violate the terms of our fake relationship."
"Which are?"
He opens the car door and stands aside to let her pass. "Hop in and we'll figure that out."
*
James is perfect during dinner.
By Lily's standards, of course, not by Petunia and Vernon's. They certainly get a lot more than they bargained for.
They get to the restaurant early, but James instructs the driver to park around the corner and wait for several minutes, until they're just late enough to irritate Petunia. Later, as James hands Petunia the gift ‘he' bought, he blithely recalls how she once screamed profanities at him when she was trying to sunbathe and his football sailed into the garden, landing with a splash in the paddling pool in which she had been soaking her feet. This embarrasses Petunia, who doesn't want Vernon to know that she'd ever do something so uncouth, and delights Lily, who imagines that Vernon has never given a woman reason to scream in his entire life.
Her sister casts a disapproving eye over her dress, but by some miracle doesn't pass comment. They take their seats and James immediately moves his chair closer to Lily's, the legs screeching against the shining polished floor, and Petunia's nostrils flare angrily. Still, she says nothing.
It's almost like magic. James—or more accurately, the prospect of benefiting from his fame and wealth—works like an invisible gag, and prevents Petunia from acting her usual, critical self.
He doesn't have the same effect on her fiancé, who has all the dignity and breeding of a concrete slab falling from a great height. What Lily knows of Vernon is that he believes all athletes are brainless, bumbling oafs who aren't intelligent enough to get real jobs, and his opinion of people of colour is much the same, so it comes as no shock that he devotes a great deal of time trying to undermine her date.
James can handle him, though, and does, to Lily's immense enjoyment. He also spends a lot of time handling her—in a sense, because they agreed that Petunia and Vernon, who represent the perfect model of white, British, middle-class repression, will be terribly offended by public displays of affection.
"What are you going to do when your athletic career ends?" says Vernon, his bulbous chins wobbling, once they've made it through the starters. "What will you do with your life? How will you support yourself?"
"I'll coast by on my good looks," James replies.
Vernon's beady eyes widen. He has Marie Rose sauce in his moustache. James looks ridiculously handsome and finished next to him. "Pardon?"
"I've got a very marketable face," says James. "I could cut a deal with Calvin Klein and pose for billboards in my underwear, like Beckham. I might need a tattoo, though. Beckham has tattoos."
"You'd look great with a tattoo," says Lily sweetly. Petunia twitches. She and Vernon despise tattoos and all who bear them.
"You think?" says James. "Of course, if it all goes wrong, you can take care of me when we're married."
"What?" says Vernon, his beady little eyes betraying his horror. "Surely it's your job to take care of her?"
"Nah, we've got this all planned. Lily's got her barrister gig, right? While she's trouncing everyone in court with one of those funny wigs on, I'll be at home with the kids, eating bon bons and watching Oprah."
"Oprah's not on telly anymore, darling," says Lily.
"Well, she should be. My human rights are being denied."
"I'll make sure to fight it out in court for you while you're eating bonbons, just don't get fat."
"I'll keep my body in good working order for you, love," James promises, and gives her thigh a squeeze. He grins at Petunia and Vernon. "It's the only thing she sees in me, honestly."
He winks at her and she hides her face behind a napkin, under pretence of wiping her lips, to hide both her amusement and her rapidly reddening cheeks. Meanwhile, Vernon's moustache is twitching. He obviously can't tell if James is joking or not, though Petunia can, and she's chewing furiously on the inside of her mouth.
"How long has this been going on?" she says, loudly, and points from Lily to James and back again, hurling the question at them like a stealth missile. She can't bring herself to attack Lily with a diatribe or, heaven forbid, insult the celebrity, so aggressive questioning is the closest she can get to doing what she really wants to do. At least, until tomorrow, when she'll phone Lily and tell her off for James's rudeness.
"Six months," says Lily promptly.
"Six of the best months of my life," James adds.
"Oh, sweetheart," Lily sighs, and cups his cheek in her hand. They share an adoring look, and Petunia clicks her tongue.
"So, you've been together since before the Olympics?" she presses on, poking about for cracks in their little façade, probably desperate to feel like the superior sister again. "It must have been difficult in Rio, with all those lady athletes around. I imagine they're ever so distracting."
Lady athletes. Lily almost laughs out loud, and would, if she weren't ‘pretending' to be lost in James's eyes.
"I had the most beautiful woman in the world waiting at home for me," says James. "What could possibly distract me? I'm barely paying attention to what you're saying."
"Hold on just a minute!" says Vernon, but they're spared by the arrival of the main courses—salmon for Lily, of course—and Vernon doesn't want to make a fuss in front of the waiters. As soon as they leave, however, he draws himself up in his seat and points a fat, stubby finger at James. Lily can only commend him for his restraint; she's never seen him sit before a plate of food without immediately shoving his face in it.
"Now listen here," he says. "I don't appreciate the way you just spoke to Petunia."
"Petunia shouldn't imply that I'd cheat on my girlfriend," says James easily. He spears a piece of carrot on his knife and points it at Vernon. "What kind of car do you drive?"
"I—er—" Vernon is taken aback by the change in subject, but can never resist an opportunity to discuss his car. Lily has taught James well. "An Audi A4. What car do you drive?"
"None," says James. "I sprint everywhere."
Vernon blinks stupidly. "Everywhere?"
"Yeah, but I can only do it in 200 metre bursts. It took months to get to Rio."
Lily laughs so hard that she splutters wine all over her dinner, and has to excuse herself.
*
"Remus is going to murder me," says James, much later, and leans over to set his glass down on Lily's coffee table. "That's strong stuff—is it strong? I don't even know anymore."
"Wine is wine," says Lily, and shrugs. "I haven't got a clue."
The wine was Mary's, but as she's not home, it belongs to Lily now, and Lily knows nothing about it aside from the colour.
"I can't believe I've become such a lightweight, and that Remus is going to bring about my death," James laments, and drops his head against the back of the sofa—the same sofa that Lily is stretched across. He ceded to her offer of a glass of wine as soon as they got to the flat, though Lily had been expecting him to refuse because he'd only drank water at the restaurant. Not that she's complaining, because he's here, and he's been rubbing her feet for the past ten minutes.
He's the perfect boyfriend, James Potter, or would be, if any of this was real.
Technically, there's no official rule that prohibits James from drinking, aside from the word of Remus Lupin. That should always be treated as law, and it's funny, really, the role-switch they've pulled off. For once, Lily is the one influencing James to break the rules. She was such a goody-two-shoes at school, while he spent more time in detention than he did in class.
"I'll cover for you with Remus," she offers. "He'll never know a thing."
"He will. He's wolfish. He'll smell it off my clothes."
"Tell him you were traumatised by the sight of Vernon licking lemon soufflé out of that ramekin, and I offered you medicinal relief."
"Don't remind me," James groans. "Poor Petunia."
"Eurgh!" Lily nudges his arm with her foot. "I'm taking your wine away if you keep up that kind of talk."
"Try it, and I'll stop," he warns, pressing his thumb against the arch of her foot. Her leg twitches, and she grumbles, but she's enjoying her impromptu foot massage too much to argue with him.
She's also pretty drunk, because unlike James, she had quite a lot of wine with dinner. They're watching a Bond film on Lily's television, having escaped Vernon and Petunia as quickly as possible and jumped in a taxi, where they laughed their arses off on the way to Lily's flat. They hadn't planned on James crashing at her place, and Lily almost hadn't offered, but alcohol is a wonderful, courage-imbibing substance, and now he's spending the night on her sofa.
They fall into a comfortable silence, laughing when Oddjob breaks some power cables with his famous hat, and when James not-so-sneakily pours himself a second glass, she doesn't say a word.
When the end credits finally roll, James yawns, stretching his legs out in front of him.
"Y'know what really annoyed me about your sister?" he says, his voice thick because he's still swallowing the yawn. "That she thought I'd cheat on you."
"Petunia thinks the worst of everyone who isn't her precious walrus, I wouldn't take it too personally."
"I don't care what she thinks about me, I'm surprised she thinks that anyone would want to cheat on you."
Lily's monster, which has maintained a state of near-constant alertness since she ran into James at the bar, hammers against her ribs with its tiny, insistent fists. "You are?"
"Doesn't that bother you?" he says, and twists his torso to face her. "I mean, she's your sister, she should think more highly of you than anyone else you know."
Ah. It's not about her at all, but Petunia, and her failings as a sibling.
"Petunia can think what she wants," she says lightly. "It doesn't bother me."
"I reckon she's jealous, you know," he says. "Because you're clever and beautiful, and everyone likes you."
Her monster springs to life with alarming speed. What is James trying to do, kill her?
"Only an idiot would cheat on you, anyway," James is saying. He looks away from her, his eyes focused on the television. "You're the best fake girlfriend I've ever had."
Thank goodness they're sitting in half darkness, and thank goodness for wine. Lily can use either to excuse her bright red cheeks. "Had a lot of fake girlfriends, then?"
"Only one, but she's pretty brilliant, so I doubt I'll ever need another."
"Thanks," she says, smiling. "If you're ever in need of a fake girlfriend in future, you know where I am."
"Waiting at the end of the phone for my call?"
"Waiting at the end of the Starbucks queue, actually," she counters. "At least twenty percent of the time."
"They always let me skip the queue at Starbucks because I'm a national hero."
"I hate you."
"You love me, Evans," he says. "And if you don't, I'll never rub your feet again."
"That's emotional blackmail."
"I don't see what Sirius has to do with this. I don't think he's ever sent a letter in his life."
It's a stupid joke, but she throws her head back and laughs, which elicits a wide grin from James. He looks even better with his tie off and his shirt rumpled than he did at dinner, which Lily feels is a staggering accomplishment at this point.
"Alright," she agrees. "I might love you a little, but not as much as I love getting my feet rubbed while I watch a Bond film."
"You forgot the wine."
"I clearly didn't, or I wouldn't be lying on my sofa having my feet rubbed by James-sodding-Potter."
"Sixteen year old you would be so ashamed."
"Not if she was this drunk."
"And since I've got you while you're drunk, I've actually got a favour to ask you."
"Oh?" She lifts one eyebrow, a skill she's rather proud of. James has never been able to manage it. "You better not be taking advantage."
"Only of your good nature," he says, and takes a generous mouthful of wine. "I've, er, been nominated for an award."
She reaches for her own glass, slowly, because she's still lying down and needs to be careful, lest she have another accident this evening. Petunia had not been best pleased when Lily decorated her salmon with wine and saliva. "Oh? Which one?"
"Um. Sports Personality of the Year."
She sits bolt upright, wine splashing out of the glass. The carpet is definitely going to bear the brunt of that, but she hardly cares. "Are you serious?"
"No, I'm James."
Lily shifts onto her knees, accidentally kicking him when she moves her feet away. "But that's the most prestigious—and it's—James!" She sets her glass down on the coffee table and dives at him, throwing her arms around his neck. "I have to hug you!"
"That's kind of evident already," he says, shifting his head to get her hair out of his mouth. He's still holding his glass, but he hugs her back anyway. "I won't win, don't get too excited."
"Yes, you will!" She pulls back and grasps his upper arms. "You will, or I'll have them done for murder."
"Who?"
"Them! The award giving people. I'll find them. There are ways – I can't think of any offhand, but I'll do it!"
He smiles at her. "I believe you."
She hugs him again, and even lands a clumsy, drunken kiss on his cheek, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he laughs, and pats her gently on the back.
"Well, before you go framing anyone," he says. "D'you fancy being my fake girlfriend at an award ceremony?"
If she were sober, Lily might wonder if there's any point in keeping up this ruse, and if it's worth her while to fan the flames of her crush into a full-blown forest fire, only to be disappointed when he has to vanish for another year, and ends up married to Emilia Clarke, for whom Lily has fostered an unfounded and passionate loathing over the past few days.
But Lily isn't sober at all.
*
The ceremony is due to take place a few days before Christmas, and James has been allowed some downtime for the month, so they start spending a lot of time together. Just to keep up the ruse.
The two boys who hung outside her flat taking photos of her and James do not, miraculously, share those snaps with the media, but it doesn't stop the vultures from circling. Some paps catch them having lunch and they make the pages of Heat for the second time in two weeks. Beatrice and Mary link Lily to no less than five different articles which claim to profile Potter's Luscious Legal Lady. Buzzfeed names her a style icon, which is a reaching compliment, at best, and someone updates James's Wikipedia page to list her as his fiancée.
"We confirmed our engagement on November 17th of this year," she tells James over the phone. "Aren't I supposed to have a ring by now?"
James laughs himself silly, and presents her with a Haribo ring when they go to the cinema the next day. Lily wears it with pride until halfway through the film, when she runs out of popcorn and bites it off her finger.
At some point, he spends another night on her sofa. She goes with him to view apartments because he's sick of living with his parents when he's in London, and wants her opinion on every place they visit. The estate agent tells them that they're a lovely couple. They do such a good job of blurring the lines that even their friends—who have been in on the ruse from the beginning—start to get confused. Two days before the ceremony, Mary asks Lily if she and James are actually together now. James tells her the next day that Sirius asked him the same thing.
They laugh about it together, because the truth is, they're basically dating, but it's all make-believe, and the strangest thing about it is that it doesn't feel strange at all.
*
The award ceremony itself is an otherworldly experience, a hurricane of flashbulbs and yelling journalists clamouring to talk to James about his chances. He handles himself really well, chatting to the reporters with confidence and making everyone laugh, though his palm is a little sweaty, but that's probably just the lights. James has always been outgoing, and has never had qualms about showing off.
That would be fine in itself, but people keep trying to talk to her, which she really didn't expect because she's not an actress or a model, or a fellow athlete, which seems to be the usual choice of partner, if the other nominees are anything to go by.
"Where's the ring?" one journalist asks her, thrusting a microphone in their faces.
"I swallowed it," she says without thinking, and James bursts out laughing.
He wins the award. Of course he wins. There wasn't a doubt in anyone's mind—except his, perhaps—but Lily suspects that he'll never forget the way the room erupts into raucous applause when they call his name. She hugs him and kisses his cheek, as they had agreed, in the midst of a whirlwind of cheering and stomping feet, before he's whisked onstage to accept it.
"I've got nothing prepared," he says, once the trophy is in his hand and he's standing at the podium, before launching into an unrehearsed, word-perfect speech.
Lily beams at him as he goes through the motions without once fumbling over his words, and with characteristic self-assurance. He throws in a few jokes, just in case she wasn't totally convinced of his uncanny ability to dazzle people off-the-cuff, and doesn't balk once under the scrutiny of a thousand pairs of eyes. She keeps on smiling as thanks his parents, his trainers, his team, his fellow athletes and his closest friends—Sirius lets out a whoop from somewhere further back in the audience when he's mentioned by name.
When he rounds up his speech by thanking her, Lily Evans, not Emilia Clarke or Princess Diana or Helen of Troy, for being the person who inspired him to work hard and aspire to something good when he was younger, she's so shocked that her eyes well up, and it's forever immortalised by the camera that swoops in on her face.
He made her cry on television, she thinks, as Mo Farah's wife hugs her. She'll have to kill him for that later.
But not today, because he's just won an award, and there's an outside chance that he means it, that it's not more fodder to rile up Petunia (who is certainly watching, even if she'll never admit it).
When he gets back to his seat, which takes ages because people keep stopping him to shake his hand or pat him soundly on the back, she stands up and hugs him—prompting an 'aww' from Mo Farah and his wife, who seem really into their fabricated romance.
"Was that true?" she says in his ear.
He nods, his chin colliding with her shoulder. "'Course it was."
"All those lectures I gave you at school," she says, and pulls away, and her eyes are still wet but she's laughing. She's not sure if she wants to kiss him or hit him. "I never bloody thought you were listening!"
"You daft thing, Evans," he says, and grins at her, "as if I could ignore you."
*
"Forgot to tell you, I owe you one," she tells him over the celebratory dinner she's cooked the next day—lean steak and rice with lots of vegetables because James has a very strict meal plan and Lily doesn't want to be the one leading him off course, and Remus may actually strangle her if she does. "You've saved me from a terrible Christmas."
James swallows a mouthful of rice. "How?"
"I normally spend it with Petunia and Vernon, but I ducked out on her, told them I was going to yours."
"Oh," says James, and sets his fork down. "Cool. I'll tell Mum you're coming."
She laughs. "You don't actually have to invite me, I just lied to her."
"I know, but you're already invited, Mum says. She's always liked you."
"Doesn't she know—"
"That we're not really dating? I told her," says James, and starts cutting up his steak. "She doesn't believe me."
"And you think the best way to remedy that is to have me over for Christmas?"
James shrugs. "I'm not letting you spend it alone."
"You don't have to invite me because you feel guilty."
"That's not why."
"I chose to lie to Petunia, and I can just go to Mary's, or Bea's, and I've got lots of work to get done, so..."
"You're not working on Christmas," says James. "And anyway I don't feel guilty. I want you there, yeah?"
"Love me that much, do you?"
"You're all I ever think about," he says dryly, and shoots her a grin that gives her an ache in her chest. "Should I tell Mum you're coming or what?"
"Yeah," she says, and mirrors his smile. "Go on, then."
*
Lily learns to her surprise that Christmas with the Potters means that she's expected to stay for the entire week.
Really, it's fine, because her chambers are closed over the holiday season. Even if she needs to work, James's parents live in Holland Park, which is closer to her workplace than her own flat.
It's strange, though, undeniably strange, spending Christmas with the family of her fake boyfriend, and Sirius Black, who has living parents, but prefers not to see them.
James picks her up from her own flat on Christmas Eve, and takes her to his parents' house on the tube. She's never been to his house before, but she knows his mother, who used to run the drama club, of which Lily was once an enthusiastic member. Euphemia Potter opens her front door and greets Lily with a squeal that could have burst her eardrum.
"Lily Evans!" she cries, whipping her shawl over her shoulder and spraying them with glitter. "Happy Christmas!"
She pulls Lily through the door before she can even respond, and manages to hug her, kiss her, divest her of her case and take her coat off in one moment.
"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Potter," she says. In the hall mirror, she can see a bright red lipstick mark on her cheek. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Oh, please, it's Euphemia, and I would have murdered James if he hadn't convinced you to come."
"Not dramatic at all, Mum," says James, stepping through the door.
"Shut up, you," she says, and thrusts Lily's case at her son with a surprising amount of force for a woman of her age. "Make yourself useful and take this to your room."
The case hits James's foot with a soft thud, and he frowns at his mother. "To my room?"
"Yes, your room. Do you have fluff in your ears?"
"Since when have you let a girl I've brought over sleep in my room?"
"Since you started dating a girl I actually like," says Euphemia, and wraps her arm around Lily's shoulder.
James sighs. "We're not dating, Mum. I've already told you—"
"That it's all a ruse and you're only pretending because somebody's sister took offence and Lily doesn't feel that way about you, blah blah blah," Euphemia interrupts. "Because that's a normal thing for two people to do. Come into the kitchen and warm up, sweetheart. James, take that to your room before I pull your pants down and slap your bottom."
James and Lily share a look, and she shrugs—she's certainly not going to pass up the chance to share a bed with him—so he grabs the handle of her case and lifts it easily, then dashes up the stairs.
"Honestly," says his mother, and steers Lily down the hall. "I went through thirty-seven hours of agony to bring that boy into the world, and he thinks I don't know that he's not a virgin."
Lily's face is as red as her hair. "Er."
"Anyway, darling," says Euphemia. "We've got to settle on what we're eating tonight. Are you partial to salmon?"
*
Euphemia is a brilliant cook, but she's also the kind who assumes you need seconds when you never asked. Dinner that night is more of a feast—a salmon-heavy feast, to Lily's delight—than a meal, and she feels full and tired by the time they reach pudding, a delicious, spiced apple crumble that she's far too polite to pass up. Bountiful are the drinks, too. Euphemia keeps Lily well supplied with her special "Christmas cocktail," the recipe for which, James tells her, is a safely-guarded family secret that his mother refuses to part with. Lily's fool enough to fall for that line until Euphemia tells her later that she nabbed the recipe from Jaime Oliver's website.
The night sneaks up on them rather quickly, and it's not long before she and James find themselves in his bedroom, discussing their sleeping arrangements.
"You can take the bed, and I'll sleep on the floor," says James, though his bed is large enough to house four people.
"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor for a week."
"It's fine, I sleep on planes all the time."
"A hard floor is a lot less comfortable than an airplane seat, and don't pretend they're not flying you around in business class."
"Well, I'm not letting you sleep on the bloody floor."
"I don't want to sleep on your floor. We can share the bed."
"Are you going to be comfortable with that, though?"
"Unless you're planning to murder me in the night, then yes," Lily retorts. "I think I can handle sleeping with you."
His laugh doesn't quite leave his chest, but it's a laugh, all the same. "Could you try saying that without my medals on? I can't take you seriously."
"Oh shit, yeah," she says, and yanks his medals over her head. They get a little tangled in her ponytail, but she manages to get them out. "They're heavy, aren't they?"
"Yup," says James, and holds out his hands for them. "Weight of responsibility, and all that, but it's not like I wear them out and about."
"Imagine wearing that on a first date," says Lily, examining one closely. "It's like those guys who act as if they're the best in the world at football, or whatever, except you are the best in the world at something and you've brought along proof."
"That'd also make me a dick, to be fair."
"True," she agrees, and hands them back. "Plus, it's so much pressure for the girl, dating someone who's the best at something when you feel like you're barely passable most of the time."
"I was the best that we know of, and just for those races," James counters, laying his medals on the table. "It's not a constant, long-term thing, and I had opportunities that got me there. There are plenty of kids in the world who have the potential to be way better than I ever could be, but they won't ever get the chance."
"We can't know that for sure."
"And it's pretty crap that we don't, don't you think?"
"Well, yeah," she says, and sits down on the edge of his bed. "But hey, you can do something about that when you stop competing—or now, if you like. It's not like there's anything holding you back."
He leans backwards against his dresser. "D'you think?"
"Yeah," she enthuses. "Absolutely, why not?"
"Because I've got a lot of ideas, actually," he says, and his eyes become animated. "There are a lot of countries that don't have facilities like ours, yeah? And sport is so important for kids, not just for their health, but for confidence, and to teach them how to be part of a team, and—"
He carries on talking about his ideas, and they're great, really. A little idealistic, but idealism is the driving force behind good intentions, and it's not like he can't afford to dream big, and she certainly can't fault his enthusiasm. He's got more fire in his belly for this than he has for his own bloody career.
He's adorable, really. Passionate. He's got such a big heart. A salmon through and through.
He's just not her salmon. He's half-hers. Pretend hers, and there's a time limit on that title. Like sand slipping through an hourglass, time will continue to tick away until it gets too painful for her to keep up, or until he realises that they're doing nothing more than wasting each other's time.
He's got the Emilia Clarkes of the world waiting for him, and she's got—well—someone who isn't him.
"I'd like to do something here as well, though," he's saying. "Not just abroad, because this is my home, yeah? I just haven't figured out how—"
"Refugees," says Lily.
Cut off mid-sentence, he blinks at her. "What?"
"There are a lot of people who come here from places like Syria without seeking asylum, right?" she says, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Some of those people are athletes. They want to train here, where they've got the facilities and the coaches and, you know, the ability to train without fearing for their lives every bloody day. One of the other—a colleague of mine worked with one bloke last year, a swimmer. He was going to be extradited to South Sudan for theft, or something, and—it's what I want to do, you know, once I'm good enough."
"Really?" he says. "You said at the pub—"
"Oh, I was just being—I know criminal law is sexier, or whatever," she says. "I don't really like talking about it because everyone says they want to help people, but nobody ever does, and what if it doesn't work out and I look like a liar, you know?" Her face feels very hot, but it feels good, saying this out loud, verbalising something she's held tightly to her chest for such a long time. "I do want to help, though, and you could. You could campaign for those people. For everyone, really. You'd be more help than you know."
He smiles at her. "I'm a prat from west London who's had everything handed to him, Evans, hardly the voice of the people."
"You're not a prat," she says impatiently. "You're brilliant, and lovely, and the whole country adores you and you worked bloody hard for those medals. You didn't stroll out onto the track and—perseverance, that's what you've got. Perseverance and a thick skin, and they're important, especially when you want to help people because you'll always run into dickheads who want to shut you up."
He doesn't speak for a moment, then, "Didn't know you thought so highly of me."
"Well, I do, you daft idiot," she says, and gestures toward him with one hand. "And when you, y'know, shake off your fake girlfriend and marry Emilia Clarke—"
But James laughs, a quick, sharp burst that escapes his chest without warning, as if she's just told the best joke he's ever heard. "Are you really that blind, Evans?"
She frowns up at him, her fingers gripping the edge of his mattress. "What?"
"Fuck Emilia Clarke," he says, his voice low, and he hasn't moved away from the dresser but she feels like the room is shrinking. "I've only ever wanted you."
Lily's heart seems to stops in its tracks, and then it's pounding.
"Me?" she says.
"You," he repeats, looking at his feet.
"I didn't know—"
"I know."
"How did you—"
"Because I told you I'd only gone to Booth's party because you were there, among other planet-sized hints," he says. "And you laughed."
"I thought you were joking."
"I thought you were letting me down easy."
"I wasn't," she says quickly, and his eyes flick up to her face, albeit briefly.
"I didn't plan on telling you this," he says. "But I didn't—I couldn't sleep next to you for a week and not find that too—I mean, not want to touch you, or kiss you, or—stuff you should know before you climb into bed with someone because I can't be that creep, but then I thought, nah, it's alright, as long as I'm not acting on it, but then you come out with that speech and I just—you're amazing," he finishes, and runs a hand through his hair. "You're smart and you're caring and you make me laugh, and you're beautiful—you always have been."
She doesn't realise that she's holding her breath until she lets it out, and the sound of it is audible enough to get his attention.
"So, yeah, now you know," he says lamely. "I really didn't mean to tell you."
"Were you ever going to?"
"Oh, I've told you a thousand times, in my head," he says, with a humourless imitation of a laugh. "I'm a lot more eloquent in my head."
She mimics his laugh, though there's nothing funny about it. "I don't know how to follow that up."
"Not slapping me on your way out would be nice."
"No," she says, her brow creased. "I mean, that was the most romantic thing I've ever heard in my life, and I don't know how to match it."
His eyes widen, and it's a look she's seen before, but she finally recognises it for what it is—hope. "Why would you need to match it?"
"Because," she says. "I'm bloody mad about you, alright?"
He bolts away from the dresser as if—well, as if he's starting a race. "What?"
"Well, yes. I mean, fake girlfriend? What is that?"
"It was my idea," he says.
"And I jumped at it immediately," she reminds him. "Because as I said, I'm mad about you, and repeating myself, and you need to come here and kiss me because I can't—" She indicates to her knees, which feel like jelly. "I think you've actually swept me off—"
She doesn't get any further, because he cuts her off. With his lips, which are on hers in an instant.
*
"So," she says, some time later, while James is pressing lazy, delectable kisses to the hollow of her throat, and smiles against her skin when she shivers. "About this fake dating thing."
"Stopped being fake a while ago," he murmurs.
"Right around the moment we banged?"
He stops what he's doing to laugh. "Who uses the word 'bang' nowadays?"
"I do. Kindly deal with it."
"I'll deal with anything," he promises, and pushes himself up on his forearms, only to lean down and kiss her nose. "As long as I can bang you again."
She raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you tired?"
"I'm an Olympic medallist, Evans," he says, with a grin that would have left her willing if she wasn't already there. "Stamina's kind of my thing."
"I'm hardly going to complain about that," she replies. "Boyfriend."
"Girlfriend," says James, swooping down to catch her lips again. "For real, this time."
Euphemia is going to be so smug in the morning.
So will Mary, and Beatrice, and probably James's mates, not to mention the paparazzi, who'll plague them and hound them and turn on them when they seem too happy. She's sure that there'll be rumours to contend with, and more bullshit 'sources' citing make believe arguments and affairs that never happen.
Petunia will believe them all, and she'll be vocal about it, but Lily doesn't care. Not about Petunia's opinion, and certainly not about the gossip rags.
The press may have forced their hand, however inadvertently, but what she feels for James is real, and was real, long before her picture was splashed across the front pages. It will be real long after she's faded into memory, when the next scandal of the hour hits the shelves. Rumours merely got them started, but they're not going to end them.
Emilia will have to search elsewhere, Lily thinks. There are plenty of fish in the sea, but she's keeping the one she's caught.