Stuart comes downstairs cursing a blue streak.
“Fuck sake! Cut myself shaving. I’m going to look a right wally this morning.”
Tom spares half a glance from his newspaper as Stuart continues to moan about the state of his face.
“I only changed that razor blade last week. It’s ridiculous!”
“And here was I reading about Chechnya thinking there isn’t enough real drama in the world.”
“Har har. It’s all right for you. You probably didn’t even have to learn to shave until you were twenty five.”
Tom hides his amusement behind the paper. “Maybe you ought to grow a goatee.”
“Don’t be stupid, I’d look like George Michael.”
This time Tom can’t stifle his laugh at the thought. “Worried that George would be angry at you stealing his look? I wouldn’t worry, just tell him to chuck a couple of million into an account in the Canaries and I’m sure he’d give you the rights to the beard.”
“I can’t grow a beard, I’m a tax lawyer. People don’t trust tax lawyers who look like George Michael.”
“I’m sorry? I thought you just implied that people trust tax lawyers of any sort.”
“Har fucking har. Sometimes I don’t know what I see in you.” He picks up his briefcase and kisses the top of Tom’s head.
“I love you.”
“Pick up razor blades on the way home?”